Neil McMahon - Lone Creek

When I'd moved up there nine years ago, I'd thought at first that my stay was going to be temporary while I figured out what to do next. But eventually I'd realized that I wasn't going anywhere soon, and started making improvements.

The cabin was sound structurally, but drafty and crude-just a wooden box for cooking and sleeping. I'd re-chinked and insulated until it was tight and comfortable, paid Montana Power an arm and leg to bring in electricity, trenched the cold-water intake eight feet deep to protect against freezing, and installed a propane system for hot showers. I'd finally even broken down and gotten a phone.

Everything was dandy now except for the size. The outside walls were barely seven feet high and only a few strides apart. A couple months of winter put teeth in the term stir crazy, especially when you felt the need to pace but snow was blowing horizontally outside the windows. I'd been dying to add more space and I'd spent a lot of time sketching plans; but extra money came slow, and more pressing priorities were always cropping up.

When we'd started tearing those fine old floor joists out of the Pettyjohn mansion and I realized they were just going to be tossed away to rot, it was like manna falling from heaven.

That had jump-started me from fantasy to reality. Framing lumber was the big-ticket item that had been holding me back-my cash supply wasn't much, but it would get me a good start on other materials, and there was plenty of lodgepole pine on the land for log walls. The two-by-twelves would carry the floor and make perfect rafters for this country's heavy snow loads, and there'd probably be enough left to mill out for cabinets and trim. I could build the addition high-ceilinged and tie into the existing cabin with a valley roof. After a few years of weathering, the new part would seem like it had always been there. Of course I was looking at a long haul-working mostly alone, on the days I could spare-but I enjoyed that kind of thing, and I wasn't much involved in other forms of recreation.

But now those plans had plummeted back down to fantasy-in fact, quite a ways farther. Easy come, easy go.

I was just finishing my second beer when I reached the spur road to my place. It narrowed to a single lane, through thick forest that darkened the last of the evening to night.

But as soon as I made the turn, I caught a glimpse of something bright up ahead that seemed to be dancing around. The first notion that flashed through my mind was that some bizarre combination of the steep road and windshield refraction was giving me a view of the northern lights. Then the truth followed just as fast.

Flames.

I stomped on the gas pedal and tore the last few hundred yards, jolting and fishtailing. The pipe-metal gate to my property was hanging open. I had never put a lock on it, but I never left it like that. I drove on through and jumped out of the truck with it still rolling.

In those blurry few seconds, I assumed that there must have been a propane leak or electrical short and the cabin was burning. But its silhouette was the same as ever, dark and untouched. Instead, the flames were spouting from thirty yards away.

Right where I'd stacked the lumber that I'd hauled here from the ranch.

I sprinted toward it. The blaze was steady and strong, the heat intense enough to make the air shimmer. I got as close as I could and stared, forcing myself to believe what I saw.

That truckload of clear fir two-by-twelves, thigh high, four feet wide, and twenty feet long, had become a bonfire.

I started running again, making a wide circle through the surrounding forest in case drifting sparks had started other fires. Mercifully, the night was calm, and there didn't seem to be any. I went on to the pump shed and hooked up another blessing my father had left, an industrial firehose he'd acquired from some job or barter. He'd seen his share of emergencies and was prudent about being ready for them, but he'd never had to use that hose. Neither had I until now.

The blaze sizzled and smoked like a son of a bitch when the water hit, but within a couple of minutes, it died down to flickers. I soaked the nearby area thoroughly, then piled up some rocks and wedged the hose nozzle in them to keep the stream on the fire. I raked the surrounding pine duff and twigs inward to leave a wide circle of bare earth. When the heat was down to where it didn't sear my face, I started chunking at the embers with a shovel. As they broke up and spread out, the water doused the last of the flames. I scraped up loose dirt and threw it on top until nothing was left glowing. For insurance, I left the hose running.

Then I went into the cabin, got my old man's.45 service automatic, and strode back out to go looking for Wesley Balcomb.

My truck door was still hanging open. I tossed the pistol onto the seat and started to climb in. But after a long thirty seconds, I swung the door shut again and sagged against the fender. I was soaked with sweat, coated with ashes on top of the day's other grime, and so pumped up with adrenaline and rage that my teeth were clicking. I had no doubt that I could look Balcomb in the eyes and not hesitate a second to blast him to hell. In fact, it would be a lot easier than taking down an elk or a stately buck deer. Their only sin was that you could eat them.

But that brief moment of satisfaction would destroy my life for keeps.

I walked out into the night-bound woods, trying to calm down. A grumpy yowl and a rustling in the brush told me I had company, a half-feral, torn-eared black tomcat with a kink in the end of his tail, who would come inside only in the coldest weather. I put out food for him every day, and he was always happy to share a beer. But he did a lot of foraging on his own, and he liked to leave me presents of pack rat guts and such to let me know he was on the job. No doubt he was real unhappy about the fire.

A hundred yards farther along, in a brushy little swale, a pair of badgers had denned up and were raising a family. Mom and pop were the size of beagles, fierce and fearless. More than once, I'd encountered one of their white-striped backs stalking down the middle of the road at night, refusing to give ground to my truck. They were known to take on bears. I swung wide of the den as I walked by. They didn't like anybody coming close, and they might also be riled by the fire. But they were good neighbors, quiet, private, and death on varmints.

There was a hoot owl living out here who kept me company late at night when I couldn't sleep. Mule deer were as common as squirrels, and an elk herd that lived in the Belts browsed through often at night, dark silhouettes of huge animals moving quietly as ghosts. Occasionally, I'd glimpse a black bear, and once in a great while, I'd find cougar tracks.

This peaceable little kingdom had its harsh side, for sure. Predators killed prey and the weak died quickly. But it was all within the bounds of what nature ordained. Everybody knew the rules and nobody caused trouble except for the sensible and honest reasons of survival.

Something warm rubbed against my ankle. I caught just a glimpse of the cat's green eyes, flickering in the moonlight, before he disappeared to have it out with a rival or take down a critter.

I started walking back.

I paused at the smoking heap and tried to figure how long ago the fire had been lit. It would have gone up fast-an accelerant had probably been used, and I'd stacked the lumber with the layers separated by one-by-two stickers, so there'd been airflow to create a powerful draw. But it had burned clear to the bottom, toward the center as well as the outsides. The boards had been tight together edgewise, so getting accelerant into the middle would have required something like a spray rig. The odds of an arsonist that sophisticated, around here, were tiny-this was almost certainly the work of an amateur who'd just splashed on gas or kerosene and thrown a match. Balancing all those factors off, I guessed it had been set an hour or more before I'd gotten here.