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Overview
The American West has long inspired intrigue and violence-everything from gunfights at the OK Corral to modern-day murders, scandals, and botched investigations that dominate the nation's headlines. With many of them based on actual events, this collection of short stories takes on the West in all of its treacherous guises: from the Old West, where Joaquim Murietta, the real-life inspiration for Zorro, battles California Rangers who are out for his head, to modern-day Montana, where one man's wealth takes him into the dark corners of the illegal artifacts trade and where another sees murder as a viable way to take over his neighbor's life.
Bizarre, fascinating, and eminently imaginative, this veteran writer of America's last wild and secluded places shows us the West in all of its grim splendor, with just enough disguise to protect the guilty.
"With his usual adroit storytelling, Murray communicates his love for the West while championing the victims of its early expansion and condemning the villains of today. " - Publishers Weekly
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780765388377 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 10/20/2015 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 368 |
| File size: | 443 KB |
About the Author
Earl Murray once worked in botany and natural resource management. He is the author of thirty-five novels and nonfiction books that deal with the American West. His novel, Song of Wovoka, was a finalist for the 1992 Western Writers of America Spur Award for historical fiction. Murray passed away in 2003.
Read an Excerpt
On Treacherous Ground
Secret Stories of the West
By Earl Murray
Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2002 by Earl MurrayAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7653-8837-7
CHAPTER 1
HIGH ON WINDY WATER
The day began with a stream of gray that swam down off the peaks and lodged over the valley. This meant certain showers in the afternoon. Good for the grass, a very precious commodity in these parts.
Dan Miller trailed a strong chestnut gelding behind him laden with salt blocks, loaded into crate boxes on each side of the horse's back. The cattle ranged way up to the base of the peaks this time of year and there was no easy way to salt the high country. Not even a four-wheeler could get within miles of this area. This method worked as well as any.
Dan had grown up in the mountains. He knew the high country in these parts better than any other living soul.
A group of men rode behind him, led by a young real estate agent named Ken Watson, a whippersnapper with tight-fitting designer jeans and the latest in hair oil. With Watson were three executives from Wild at Heart, a company within a company that provided scenic retreats and summer excursions for discriminating clients.
Dan rode Jasper, a horse that thought like a mule. The others had been mounted on stock dude horses from the main ranch, handpicked by Dan so that they would make fairly good time, but with no surprises. No one wanted a rodeo.
Dan had also seen to it that they each had a slicker against thunderstorms and a collection of sandwiches and candy bars.
"We all really appreciate this, Dan," Watson had said back at the ranch. "You'll be happy to know that should the deal come through, there'll be no changes here. You'll always be doing what you've done. Promise."
Dan told Watson he wasn't worried about losing his job. He was glad for the company, others to share his thoughts with and to enjoy this wild land where change was creeping up the slopes like snakes on their way to den.
Marks and Preston and Gillman, all senior executives from Wild at Heart's corporate location in Phoenix, had come to tour the best of the best, the most scenic of the scenic that huge money could buy. All agreed that all business aside, the ride was going to be something worth remembering.
Gillman had brought his girlfriend, Jackie, sweet and friendly, but with few questions or comments.
As they rode, the three ranch dogs broke ahead. One of them, little more than a pup, kept pace easily. They zigzagged up and along the hills, sniffing and poking like small furry detectives through the grass and shrubs and flowers. Their breed was mixed but the Blue Heeler stood out in all of them. Cow dogs with a flair for the mountains and the adventure that abounded in every draw. They brought strays and stubborn heifers from brushy draws and steep ravines. In cow country there was no substitute for a good dog.
They hurried on ahead and lost themselves for a time, somewhere in the vastness that lay in every direction.
It was early yet and from somewhere in the haze the sun broke through and spilled gold on the tops of the lodgepole pines. Normally, Dan would be concentrating on just dropping the salt. Today, he would be giving a tour and some of the history of the ranch and the area. The places they wanted to see the most hadn't changed in three millennia. So today, with the guests along, the going would be more deliberate and geared toward a good time. The executives wanted to see the best parts of the ranch and its vast array of contrasting terrain: thick-timbered flats interspersed with grassy parks, and slopes that rolled with sweeping forest and rocky gorges that would carry an echo forever.
A hard day's ride wouldn't bring twenty percent of this spread into view. But today would be enough to allow for a good feel of the place — enough for a lot of money to change hands.
Dan felt sure these guys were already sold. This was just a lark, a good way to get out and call it last-minute bargaining.
As they neared the first salt lick, the trees along the cliffs darkened to a soft, deep green from the early sunlight. Overhead, four ravens winged their way lazily across the sky, croaking in gravelly voices. The grass swayed in the breath of a sudden breeze, and a Franklin's grouse hopped onto a log and stared at them with one eye.
"What a funny-looking chicken," Jackie commented.
"Is it hunting season?" Gillman asked.
"No," Dan replied.
"Why isn't it scared?" Marks asked. He ranked as the senior executive of the three men.
The bird jumped from the log and wandered through the grass and flowers, in absolutely no rush.
Dan swung his leg down from the saddle. "That's their nature," he said. "Not a care in the world."
He ambled to the pack horse. While his guests watched he took the salt blocks from the crate boxes on either side of the horse and let them drop to the ground. One came to rest near a low rosebush whose scarlet blossoms were nestled against the black and stony earth.
Dan placed the block in a worn wooden trough. He needed to even the load on the horse and grooved the second block with a double-bit ax. He cursed when he slammed the blade into it and got two uneven halves.
"Damned if I didn't botch that one," he commented while placing a half into each box. He didn't want to be accused of having a bad way with salt blocks; he usually cracked them down the middle.
The dogs arrived, almost on cue, to sniff the salt blocks and look up at Dan accusingly.
"Damn you dogs," he said. "Don't you laugh at me."
A short ways farther, the group stopped to stretch their legs. The guests had each ridden, but on rare occasion, so they ad some cramps to look forward to. Ahead, the trails they would follow curved past high lakes where cutthroat trout skimmed for flies, along the base of jagged peaks tipped with old snow.
Dan thought of the times he would have stayed back up in this country and likely never come out, had he not been married and expected back home at the end of the day. It was good to come out into the valley and talk with folks hereabouts, but there was something special about the silence of the back country, something that left a man with a special kind of peace.
Watson approached him. "We'll see some elk, won't we?" "Maybe," Dan replied. "Can't promise it, though."
"It would be worth a lot. They could see the game in real life. It would maybe sweeten the deal."
* * *
Dan turned the column of riders toward a grassy pass between two towering cliffs. The timber on top was lanky and close. Twisted and uneven tops and branches spoke of harsh winter blasts that stripped new growth in the bud.
The gray sage meadows were vast and splashed with the blue of lupine and the gold of balsamroot. Whitebark pine had seen fit to take up residence wherever they pleased, their big, twisted trunks bent away from the weather.
The sun was now a round ball of light bringing a clear line between the sky and the peaks just behind. Near the tops of the mountains, the north slopes held patches of stubborn snow and the white banks gleamed like heavy pearl. A few of the riders brought their cameras out while Dan removed his dusty dark hat and rolled a forearm across his brow.
"Ever see a bear up here?" Watson asked. "A grizzly?" Dan grunted. "Believe me, we don't want to see a grizzly."
"You hear that?" Watson shouted to the others. "We might see a grizzly."
They rode up and looked in all directions.
"Where's the bear?" Marks asked.
"He went over the hill," Watson said, pointing. Might as well make a game of it, if nothing was really going to show.
"What hill?" Marks asked.
"Maybe we'll see him later," Watson said.
Dan stared at him. "Let's hope we don't see him again. He'll eat the horses first and then every one of you."
They all laughed nervously, except Watson.
"Take a joke. Would you lighten up?" Dan said. He reached over and slammed a fist into Watson's shoulder. Again, everyone laughed but Watson.
The trail went over the pass and on through a maze of trees and grass. At one salt drop Dan plugged one crate on the pack horse's back with a rock to balance the weight with the last block of salt on the other side.
A camera went off and Dan growled. "Hey, don't take that picture. I don't want people wondering why I put rocks in my pack."
He led them ever deeper into the backcountry, through a maze of heavy timber. Finally, the trees broke into a grassy park. At the edge of the trees was a canvas tent, complete with cast-iron stove and cots and a patterned rug, old and worn clear down to the stitching — a dusty remnant of civilization meant to give the tenant's feet the impression of a bedroom.
Like all line camps, it served its purpose as home away from home, and afforded some shelter against the high country wind and darkness.
"This old tent has quite a history," Dan told them as they dismounted. "See that zigzag sew pattern along the side? That's what a hungry grizzly can do."
The men studied the tent while the dogs scrounged for lost scraps of food. Jackie dropped to one knee and the youngest dog rushed over for affection.
Watson pulled Dan aside.
"Aren't you overdoing the bear thing?" "You're the one who started it, cowboy."
Watson frowned. "You don't understand, do you?" "You're damned straight I do."
He walked over to where the executives had taken to snooping inside the tent. Inside, he pulled a holstered .357 Magnum from a duffel bag.
"What's that for?" Marks asked.
"I don't know yet," Dan replied. "I hope nothing."
Not far from the tent were the remains of what used to be the preferred line quarters. At the edge of the meadow lay charred logs and melted metal, once a cabin used by anyone needing shelter for the night.
Dan had used the cabin for many years and had never worried about who borrowed it. Then one morning, while eating breakfast down below, he had seen smoke. After calling the Forest Service, he had rushed down to discover the remains of an old drugstore cowboy from town, faceup in the ashes.
"Snuffed out with a match and a batch of gasoline," Dan told them now.
The mystery was who and why. Dan continued with the story, suggesting that a group of antisocial woodsmen might be the culprits.
"Those kind are hard to deal with," he said. "They can think what they want, but they had no business doing that to an old man."
For a moment the group was silent. Then Preston spoke up.
"What about the law? Sheriffs and deputies?"
"Too far back here to do much good," Dan replied, shrugging. "Things happen."
"So, no one was brought to justice for this?" Gillman put in.
"Not so far," Dan told him. "I've got my own ideas, though, and someday I'm going to spend some time down in the Jack Creek Saloon and learn just who it was that did this. Then I'm going to look them up and tell them just how much I hate living up here in a tent."
* * *
Lunch was a leisurely half hour under the pines where a stock corral had been built by a grazing association. The heat had built up throughout the morning and the flies had found the horses. As the group prepared to mount up once again, Dan noticed his horse was throwing its head in frustration. There was a big fly biting hard somewhere.
"Where's he at?" Dan asked the horse. "Show me where he's at."
The horse cocked its head as if trying to reach under its chest and Dan brushed and slapped until things with the fly were settled. Then he was once again in the saddle and ready to lead the guests.
The dogs returned after having gone ahead. They appeared, cocking their heads to say, "What's holding you all up?" A short ways along, Watson called to Dan.
"We turning back soon?"
"We'll wind around," Dan replied. "We're a ways yet from the prettiest part of the ranch."
It was past midday, and the heat had grown intense. The flies were a nightmare: deerflies and horseflies that swarmed in masses and lay wicked striped wings to rest along the backs of the horses. And along the soft belly parts where tails and ooves and thrashing noses couldn't reach.
They stopped more frequently to stretch cramped muscles. Thunderheads rolled across the valley, shedding streaks of heavy water. They untied their slickers and nestled them over their backs and across their saddles, waiting for the storm to hit.
Soon spatters of moisture popped on their slickers. They rode through a mixture of sunlight and water, the light dancing in the trees while droplets of rain sifted through the branches. They eased through deadfall timber and crossed open parklands where elk had bedded the night before, leaving the grass in smooth hummocks.
"We should have been here earlier," Dan said.
The main storm rushed across the valley to circle around and come down off the peaks at their backs. Soon the sun was gone, smothered by the boiling clouds overhead. But still the forest wasn't dark. Instead it took on a deep green glow that seemed to radiate through the misty air. The flies had disappeared, causing the horses to rejoice. Each snort from their nostrils was a small blast of steam, and the rain and sweat from their backs rose into the shadows of the lodgepoles like fine smoke.
They were in the open when the storm struck with full force: loud claps of thunder and a blinding rush of water. A crack overhead froze the horses momentarily and two of them crow-hopped, tossing Marks and Gillman into the wet grass.
Dan frowned down at them from his saddle. "You two okay?" Marks got up and wiped his muddy hands. "So much for a peaceful ride."
Gillman still lay on his back, allowing the rain to stream into his face. Jackie moaned and leaned over him.
"Bob, you okay?"
Marks pushed her aside.
"Bob, you need to get up. You hear me?"
Dan dismounted. So did Preston.
"Give him some room," Dan commanded.
Gillman rose up to his elbow and shook his head.
"What happened?"
"Take your time," Dan said.
Jackie held his head against her breast. "Thank God."
Marks leaned down into his face.
"We still have the prettiest part of the ranch to see, Bob," he said. "Ready to go?"
* * *
Dan led them down a steep trail and into a rocky creek where three deer bounded into the aspens. Cameras clicked, flashing the deer in their haste to escape, their creamy tan back ends with their white flag tails flying.
Dan hurried them on. They had little time to enjoy the view. The rain had turned into a downpour and the trail was quickly deteriorating.
The rocks and black soil quickly churned mud under the shod hooves of the horses. What Dan called the Stepladder, a steep trail with no mercy, was rapidly becoming impassible. Had the group of riders been any larger, it would have been difficult for those toward the back even to get themselves out — let alone their horses.
Finally the end of the storm passed in a rush of cool air and birdsong. The trees seemed to come alive: leaves bursting with green produced a steady drip of moisture. The sun was again warm, and the clouds drifted apart, leaving only the wet on the grass to prove that the storms had come and gone.
The three dogs were gone again, and Jackie said she heard barking in the distance. Dan told her they had likely found something to yap at, and would be along shortly.
At the edge of a clearing, Dan pointed out a weathered corral once used by horse thieves. High up and secluded, this location made it easy for them to bring in stolen stock and herd by the light of the moon.
"They say there was a shootout up here," Dan went on. "They say there's graves around here, but I don't know."
Just past the corrals they came to a hidden park surrounded by aspens and rock. Dan suggested candy bars and everyone dismounted.
The dogs were there, sniffing the area with a lot of energy.
"It looks to me like you had yourself a party up here, Dan," Gillman suggested. He lifted an aluminum beer can out of the trampled grass.
"That's not my brand," Dan said. "Let me see it." He studied the can with a frown. "Damn."
Jackie, who was playing with the pup, let out a shriek. Everyone hurried to where she pointed down into the grass. In separate pieces lay sections of an automatic rifle.
"What's this all about, Dan?" Marks asked.
Dan turned a circle, looking around the area.
"Dan," Watson said, "can you answer Mr. Marks?"
"No, I can't," Dan replied. "Not to his liking, anyway."
"Nor to mine, either, I suppose," Watson said.
Dan grunted. "Probably not."
"Is this some kind of camp where killers live?" Jackie asked.
"Why would they be up here?"
"Let's just leave everything in place," Dan said. "I'll get ahold of someone when we get back to the ranch."
* * *
The trail finally wound out into the open once again, and Dan led the riders in the last descent toward the foothills and the ranch below. He could feel Watson's eyes boring into his back.
The others were talking about the day and looking back over their shoulders toward the peaks that rose up behind. But they weren't discussing the pristine beauty.
As they crossed an alfalfa field on the last stretch to the ranch buildings, Dan wondered if it would ever get dry enough to cut it and put it up. Haying was a catch-22 proposition: you had to get it put up at the right time to have good hay, but you had to have water to make it in the first place.
Marks and Preston and Gillman, along with Jackie, told Dan thanks in clipped voices. They wouldn't be staying for the barbecue that Watson had suggested, so the caterers went home.
Dan put the horses up and talked to them. They buried their noses in oats while he commended them for their day's work and warned them there was more to come in the next few days. Stray cattle had to be located and moved to pasture. Business as usual, no matter what.
Watson walked into the barn stiffly.
"No worries about losing your job now, huh?"
"Wasn't worried before. I told you that."
"Dan, did you set all that up? The beer cans and the gun?"
"I'm going to tell you this just once, Mr. Watson. I don't leave my weapons out in the rain."
"Then who did?"
"Go back up and maybe you'll learn."
Watson turned and left. His SUV spun gravel on its way out of the yard.
Dan hauled the saddles and bridles to the tack shed. He had put in half a lifetime on horseback in this country and it would be good to grow old in the saddle. He hoped this country wouldn't get too far away from what had made it so great in the first place.
A lot was going on, though, and times were changing. There were men with automatic rifles ranging the country now, back in the hills. Maybe these who had left their calling card behind had just been passing through. No way to tell yet.
He hoped so. Just let the world go by at its own pace and leave things as they are high on Windy Water.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from On Treacherous Ground by Earl Murray. Copyright © 2002 by Earl Murray. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
TITLE PAGE,COPYRIGHT NOTICE,
DEDICATION,
HIGH ON WINDY WATER,
UNTOLD HONOR,
SACRED STONE,
A STRANGER IN MADIO'S,
AFTERMATH,
TALL GRASS MONDAY,
GULLS IN THE SNOW,
THE RED SKULL ROOM,
HANGTOWN,
ON TREACHEROUS GROUND,
TEASER,
ABOUT THE AUTHOR,
BY EARL MURRAY FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES,
PRAISE,
COPYRIGHT,