Dennis Yates - Red Mountain

Face it. You’re just getting too old for this crap...

“Horses,” Logan half-whispered.

Underwood shaded his eyes and squinted. He saw four palominos grazing on a patch of grass near a trickle spring. On their backs sat empty saddles.

Where were the riders?

It was virtually flat for miles in any given direction. Unless the party had fallen into a hole, they should have seen them by now, and Underwood hadn’t heard of any abandoned gold mines out in this area.

As soon as they reached the horses, Underwood dismounted and walked slowly up to them, talking softly and trying to keep them from getting spooked. They were relatively cool to his touch, and didn’t appear to be terribly nervous. He examined the saddles and recognized the initials of some of the vigilantes engraved on them.

You stupid sons a bitches. What kind of trouble have you gotten yourselves in?

CHAPTER 7

Several yards in front of him Logan was hunched over with the scorching sunlight behind him, staring at something. He slowly raised his head and motioned the sheriff over. Underwood thought he looked like a man who’d just stared death in the face. A swarm of black flies smudged an aura around Logan’s body as he stood waiting, his face cast in blue shadow.

A stiff breeze kicked past, and Underwood found himself being assaulted by the stench of soured meat spiced with juniper, the perfect buzzard aphrodisiac. The smell of death…

He covered his nose and forced himself to move forward on resisting legs.

The body was lying face down. Logan moved aside while Underwood carefully rolled it over and gasped. Grinning up at him was Hemmel’s enormous white skull. All the flesh had been stripped away, leaving behind only the thick black hair on his head and his long peppery beard. Ants dribbled from his empty eye sockets.

Underwood fell back a few steps. His intestines were roiling like an angry nest of snakes. Before he could think of doing anything else, he had to find a place to relieve himself. He raised his hand silently before turning and heading for a bit of privacy. Logan bit off a plug of tobacco and waited.

By late afternoon they found the others spread out across the high desert plain. The hardest part for Underwood was seeing Stu hadn’t been spared.

“Who in God’s name would do this to a boy?” he asked.

“Horn,” Logan said without hesitation.

Underwood turned to his partner. Logan’s soldier-worn eyes betrayed no emotion, not even for the faceless boy, a boy who should have never been out tagging along with a group of troublemakers.

Buzzards screeched above the mutilated bodies still lying where they’d found them. Underwood looked away from the deputy and stared into the distance, wishing at that moment he was with less stoic company. Suddenly he let out a sharp groan, as if he’d been sucker punched in the stomach.

Glimmering behind the wall of a heat mirage, Jared Horn’s farmhouse loomed before them. It was a trick the desert sometimes played. Waves of heat acted like mirrors, bouncing things around—even sometimes projecting the fading images of the dead or dying. And it always took you by surprise when it happened.

Underwood rubbed his eyes, looked again and the image was gone. He knew the Horn ranch was still at least an hour’s ride away. If Logan hadn’t been with him, Underwood might have been tempted to turn away, go back to his house and weep in the dark and drink his whiskey. Anything to shed the horrific images that now stuck in his mind and would undoubtedly scar.

CHAPTER 8

Robert had never wanted to take over the family business, but that’s precisely what had happened.

Once he’d finished high school, he left Portland for a small liberal arts college in upstate New York on a scholarship, to the surprise of everyone. The relatively short period far from home provided some of the most pleasurable moments he’d ever had away on his own. Although his father failed to see any practical use for the pursuit of art and literature, Robert had finally felt free to explore without feeling like someone was constantly looking over his shoulder.

Not long after he’d started attending classes, he began to imagine himself as a beggar who’d accidentally found an opened door to a gigantic banquet. Dizzy with a real hunger for knowledge, he began filling his pockets and devouring as much as he could. The fear that it wouldn’t last was always lurking in the back of his mind. Instead of spending his evenings handing his father tools in a cold garage after school, he found himself nestled next to a fireplace at the student union, engaged in exciting conversations.

Life seemed so ripe with possibilities, eager to let him pass through its great doors.

And then everything changed…

One night during his second fall semester, after he’d kissed a pretty girl on the library steps and made a date to see her again, his mother called, hysterical. Father was in the hospital. He’d had a stroke. The family desperately needed him to come home and manage the garage. Only Robert understood the way things had to be done.

Unlike some of the snobby rich kids who never had to worry about issues like money, Robert knew he had no choice but to drop out and return home. He’d felt humiliated, suicidal. On the plane home he flashed some fake i.d. at the stewardess and proceeded to drink heavily while staring vacantly at the landscape below. In a hopeful haze he convinced himself he’d return as soon as possible. He even made a promise to himself, that every spare moment he had alone he’d do something to keep his mind alive.

One or two years won’t matter, he’d convinced himself. You’re still young. You’ll show them all you can beat this crappy luck.

Fast-forward twenty years.

Still waiting to show them, pal?

To Robert, those two years back in New York seemed more like something he’d dreamed up one day while putting in long hours at the garage. By the time his father returned to work, the idea of going back to college had become one of many dead fantasies still clinging to the margins of his mind. He’d changed so much by then…

****

Nugget was still curled up asleep when Robert slowed down and pulled into the parking lot of Crain’s Body Repair. He was surprised, since she usually got excited when he took her to the shop, for there was always a dependable supply of Milk Bones in his office. A dog always remembers these things, if she remembers anything at all.

Ben, who was hunched over a badly crunched Honda, glanced up and waved at Robert as he rolled into his usual spot. Ben had worked for the Crain family since before Robert was born, and he lived in a small trailer behind the garage. Both of his parents had died in a tragic car crash on Christmas Eve. A teenager at the time, Ben had been riding in the back seat and had suffered some brain damage due to a severe head injury. He’d been working part time for the garage for almost a year when the accident had occurred. Regardless of the many painful months it took for him to regain his skills, Robert’s father stood behind him, for Ben had shown great talent for resurrecting damaged car bodies.

It was probably the one act Robert’s father was most proud of. Keeping Ben got him a lot of mileage in the community. But on the day that tank went dry, Frank Crain’s house of cards finally began to collapse piece by illusory piece, until he no longer resembled the man he wanted everyone to believe he was.

Nugget snapped awake and was now panting anxiously to be let out of the cab, her eyes darting in every direction.

“Hey Ben,” Robert said as he and Nugget climbed out of the truck. Ben stared at him for a moment, and Robert could tell he sensed something deeper was wrong, that it didn’t have anything to do with his recent car accident. Ben might have been slow at many things, but very little ever escaped his gaze when it came to damaged cars or hidden emotions.