Slag in the Water

The Four Men Brave of Amigos Lake (Part 2)

This is Part II of my novella, “The Four Men Brave of Amigos Lake” — the tale of four simple backwoodsmen, their tribe, their horses, and the rise and fall of their domain over the Alaskan bush. You can read Part I here!

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“Skookum? Why’d you pick him? We have better pack horses.”

“Phil, What are you doing?” It was their Boss who had walked into the shop with a pristine red flannel tucked into a pair of blue jeans that had never been knelt in. He seemed to be nursing a bit of a hangover, “It’s your day off, why are you working? And where is everyone else?”

Phil sat up from his stool and looked to the Boss, resting his rasp on the lap as he began to talk, “You know me, I just can’t help it sometimes. I walk by this 4-Wheeler rusting in the grass every day, and think about how easily I could fix it… All I had to do was replace the spark plug and clean the carb and now the thing fires right up. Then I noticed all the rust on the underbody, and now I’m just working to clean it… it’ll look brand new by the end of the day.” The red dust stained his fingers, and buckets full of it surrounded him. As he smiled to his Boss, the crimson gathered in the creases of his grin, like an old blood that had dried to his face and beard.

“Oh- I see. Phil, you are always too good of a worker. You need to get some time to yourself.”

“It doesn’t bother me, and you know, I enjoy it.”

“Ok, then… I’m going to look off for the others. Take care of yourself in here-” Just as he turned to leave, he stopped, blocking the sunlight in the doorway. “And if you feel in the mood for working, I just noticed a crack in the base of my toilet. There’s a replacement in the shed- I’d appreciate it if you could get that done today.”

“I can do that when I reach a stopping point.” Phil chimed pleasantly.

“Good, good. Thank you for everything, Phil!”

“My pleasure.”

If the Boss had been more observant, perhaps he would’ve noticed the bullet casings all lined up on the counter, drained of their powder, the fertilizer bags from his wife’s garden hucked up in the corner, the stack of pipes pulled out from under the old plumbing shed, the full diesel cans, the aluminum rims, and the fact his junk 4-Wheeler never had an engine to begin with. Phil turned back to his work- the craft of bomb-making. A red sneer smeared his face as he stripped the rotors of their rust. He has no idea… Around him sat all the ingredients he needed.

The others often referred to Phil as “Hippy” or “the Hippy”, whether it was for his proclivity to walk around barefoot or for his rearing in the hills of Mendocino County- picking weed and/or living as a grifter in the Redwoods forest- it seemed to have stuck. But after spraining his ankle during that fateful volleyball game, Jack found a new name to be amusing. Hephaistos, he began calling him- the crippled smith god who toiled away at his forge, creating weapons for the heroes. And for the very moment, it was oh-so fitting. His eyes were burning. His bentover back was aching. And yet for his toils, he’d never see the fires he’d create. He’d be well asleep by the time the others rode off with his creations- by the time they’d follow his instructions and wreak the due havoc he planned. But he grinned still, with his head shoved in the dark space between a running-board and an axle, knowing his work laid the ground for a blast to define the century.

He scraped away, the rust falling between the lip of a bucket and the toe of his boot…

The others had slept in that morning, past noon. The kitchen gals were quite mad at them for missing both breakfast and lunch, but in due time it would be forgiven. Even through dinner, their Boss never caught up with them that day, for he sat locked away in his cabin on the phone rebooking clients. The remainder of the day they cleaned their guns and fed their ponies. The weather was checked once more and the map was scoured for the old horse trails to reach that side of the valley, before Zach alone went to scout the path ahead.

13 miles he trotted deep into the southerly woods. The fair horse Colonel held him high above the undergrowth. The trunks of gargantuan, yet long-dead standing trees he slunk between, and dodged the fleeting arms of ash and willow- unfriendly to any rider tracing that path (for the trail had been long forgotten and reclaimed by the woods). Zachariah came to many dead ends where the brush was simply too thick to pass. Colonel faithfully bore him around these spots and together they broke new trail, crossing mountains cricks and hillside swamps until they finally arrived to a high ridge that overlooked the river valley.

He brought his binoculars to his eyes and glassed towards the river, where a pale treeless patch was growing among the forest. Bushhogs and bulldozers toiled away to make up the needed work before the rains would force them to cease; all while DOT men in orange suits buzzed around them like ants, building with a flag and a gesture, mounds of gravel and hills of mulch. A court of idling work trucks sat to the wayside in the shade, ensuring the work was done with utmost efficiency. The long summer hours had allowed for overtime galore, and as result, their progress was astounding. Fifty miles had been made from Skwenta to there in only two months, despite the acres of marsh and seven river crossings more than half a mile wide. The swamps had been drained and gravelled, the braids of the lower Tsaoochenney (cha’-oo-chen-ney)¹ bypassed, and so now cut clean from the old forest wound that oily snake of a road. All their efforts came to a head here at this fateful bridge, beyond which, the engineers would be set free to roll across the country.

Seeing what he had needed to see, he rode back, breaking the branches of the way he came. By 7:34 after eight hours of hard riding, he and Colonel presented back through the gates drenched in sweat. He found Mackenzie and Jack by the hitching rails, ready with their own horses and a swap out for Zach’s. In addition, they had put a packsaddle on Skookum, a tall draught-mix (some 18 hands in height) who was the sturdiest of all of the horses. Piled high on his back, concealed in plain horsefeed sacks, were nearly 200 pounds of Phil’s homemade explosives.

He sat on his horse for a second, to catch his breath and interject, “Skookum? Why’d you pick him? We have better pack horses.”

Jack shrugged, “He’s always been trusty to me!”

Phil was just then hobbling up to help with the last preparations, “Don’t you remember he tried drowning you in a river? Or how about when he ran away on a packout with half a moose, and we didn’t see him until three days later?… He clomps around. What if he falls? If the load ignites you won’t even have a second left to blink-”

“Fair, fair-”

Mackenzie snapped, “Do you want to unpack him then?”

“Oh, It’s not that big of deal I reckon.” Zachariah jumped down from his horse as he settled the matter, “We don’t have time to argue. The trail is in good condition- well... for our standards. Four hours if we trot. No major river crossings, we’ll have to walk our horses across a bog or two… How are we looking on everything though?”

They went around then and packed the last remainder of the load. They made sure the saddles were balanced, cinches tightened, before bridles were set into the mouths of all the horses.

Phil’s instructions were rather simple, around 25 pounds, (or one horsefeed sack) each of his formula was to be placed at the feet of six integral truss towers that lined the bridge. The ignition of which would be accomplished with a few hundred feet of coated wire connected to a pull-cord assembly and alternator, stolen from a chainsaw and the Boss’ favorite lawn mower respectively. And included were a handful of thermite charges packed into old coffee cans, to be set off in the engine blocks of any vehicles present. “...And I’ve written everything down in case you forget.”

Storm clouds were circling in the distance. A light drizzle had begun to fall upon their heads. Zach, Mac and Jack gallantly mounted their saddles, holding back their ponies from taking off in a sprint. “Tonight, we ride!” Even without alcohol, the excitement of the moment was just as intoxicating, as if last night’s buzz had never worn off. They hooped and hollered, howling like wolves, restraining themselves only from shooting guns in the air, (knowing that would for certain alert the Boss somewhere off on his high hill.) Jack took the lead rope in his hand and pulled the head of Skookum along, before swiftly taking up the rear behind Zachariah and Mackenzie. Phil opened the gate and leaned off his bad leg onto a post. “Keep Safe!” were his simple words to them, as we waved them down the trail. He’d get some well-needed rest and also clean up the Kaczynski-esque mess left in the shop...

The kind of joy found in the saddle is something few understand. In the mastery of another beast and its four legs, you suddenly find a powerful extension of yourself, one that pounds against the earth and gives all freedom to lord over the foot bound. If you watched those three men trotting down that muddy trail, you would understood perfectly why they had chosen their course in life. Every horse clop, every muscle stride, every post and act of balance was means for rejoicing in their youth, power, and will- it made up the kind of fire in them, that even running into the pissing rain could not temper.

That trail which Zach had marked soon dropped from the flats and broke through into the depths of a forest, which was all the more treacherous in the rain. He led the pack and drove them through barrages of whipping willow branches that ripped their clothes and filled their boots with just the water that dripped off the leaves. At the swamp before the ridge, they were forced to lead their horses on foot, with black mud that rose up to their zippers. Skookum was the last to cross, and as he did he sunk to his belly and began to thrash. The bog was eating him alive and that poor dumb beast threatened to roll over. Jack pulled on his head with all his might, and in a moment the horse got just enough sense to try and lift his two front feet out of the mud and to find the right footing, before pulling the rest of himself out.

They paused for a second, just long enough to keep from shivering, and continued on over the ridge. The other side dropped down a particularly steep and now slick bank that once again forced them to dismount. Now driving their heels into the hillside, they set aside their worst fears that a horse might slip, slide, and trample them on the way down. Safely, though they reached the bottom and plunged into another green hell, but after less than three-quarters a mile or so of hard bushwhacking, they finally made it to the worksite.

All was still. Machines sat derelict under tarps. The ground had grown into a sea of puddles, soft and mucky, unfortified by gravel. The storm had slowed back to a drizzle during the course of their travel, and now a soft purple glow could be seen through the clouds from the Midnight Sun- it was the only light around. Guessing the area to be unmonitored, they continued straight into the clearing and up to their target. Hooves clopped against the asphalt, as they rode up the ramp, and through the first set of steel arches standing proud above them. They rode over to the edge, and craning from over their horses’ necks they peered into the sweeping waters, breaking violently against the bridge’s pillars. “We have no need to hurry. They’re probably all camped over that ways some miles- doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to be quick, though.”

“Do you still have Phil’s instructions, Jack?” Zachariah asked.

“Yes- they’re unreadable I’m afraid,” the soaking wet paper crumbled as he took it out of his pocket, “But I read them beforehand. I think I can do it by memory.”

“You think?” Mackenzie, who was the most disgruntled by their recent adventure in the rain, spared no time in letting him know how he felt, “You think you can rig a bomb? Never done it before… you’ll give it your best shot.”

Zachariah turned on his horse and decisively said, “I trust you then. I’ll leave you to dealing with the explosives.”

“We should have someone on patrol, in case someone is wandering about.”

“We should. I’ll go ride the perimeter for a bit. Stay here with Jack. Don’t set anything off without me.”

Jack dismounted his horse, and hesitantly after watching Zach ride away down the ramp, Mac followed suit. The two stood there with their bomb-laden horse, analyzing the bridge and its structure. Steel pillars laced with cables ran down for nearly two miles to the other side, almost disappearing in the late-night fog that had begun to roll in.

“These are the six pillars he designated.”

“How do you know that for sure?” Mac questioned.

“He wrote the third, the ninth, and the fifteenth rows. Those, for whatever reason are the most structurally integral overall.”

“But I’m only counting fourteen rows?”

“Maybe the math is wrong, but it just looks the most right.”

“We came all this way, risking our lives, and we’re going to fuck it up and leave the bridge standing because we let a teenager be the pyrotechnic!” To Jack, it was hard to decipher what was genuine frustration, and what was simply the usual teasing.

He calmly replied, “Whelp, it was my idea. It is only right that I get to fuck it up.” He sloughed two horsefeed sacks from Skookum’s back and stacked them on the asphalt. Phil’s formula was further wrapped in clear plastic bags to keep them dry; it was some kind of crystalline grayish powder. Pulling out the spool, Jack inspected the “detonation cord” which Phil had packed, and discovered it was merely split Romex cable from the electrical shed. He squatted on his heels and puzzled at the stuff; it was so simple he questioned is this going to actually work?

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing! I’m just thinking it all through…”

“Isn’t this that same cable from the electrical shed, the Boss just ordered?” Mackenzie had let go of Skookum’s lead rope to inspect it himself. The horse seemed rather content, and would’ve had to run four hours back to get to anywhere it called home, and so he gave him no second thought.

“Yes. It’s Romex-”

“How is that even supposed to work- this is stupid. What did Phil give us?”

It was at that moment when unexpectedly, a black shape slunk from out of the fog behind them. The horses raised their heads and snorted and stared at the intruder. It was nothing more than a young black bear snooping around. And Reader, if you are not familiar with the North Country you should know that black bears wander all throughout, unceasingly, seemingly possessed by a purpose no one shall know. They are skiddish and petty, lurking at the wayside, and among bears they don’t warrant fear like the grizzlies. And just as would be expected of him, he fled before either Mac or Jack detected him. Their horse Skookum, however; began to tremble. Now bear is bear to a horse, no matter the color; that stinking odor of unwashed blood on the fur, it crept up his nostrils and awakened his deepest instincts. Skookum spooked, and began to trot down the bridge.

“Skookum! Skookum!” They began to shout, expecting him to slow down and return like a loyal dog (horses are not dogs by the way…) Their bomb with legs continued to clop steadily away towards the opposite bank, and towards the workers’ camp without any sign of slowing down. Mackenzie raced to mount his own horse, and extravagantly threw himself in the saddle; with a “YIHP!” and a kick, he flew down that bridge in pursuit. Skookum only pounded harder and faster- his lopsided load slapping his left side and sending him into a further fright.

Mackenzie had come far in this wild country, considering his humble origins in the Innercity of Detroit. His aspirations at the noble age of 17, drove him into the arms of the U.S. military, where a life at 100 miles per hour was promised for him— one that would test his worth and will. Though after four grinding years, he left with only his body abused and a peaceful service to his name. His soul yearned for more still. Upon discovering Alaska, all of his prospects changed. Like a student of John Muir, he fell in love with the wide-open timbers that spread to the sky, the terrible mountains, slick grand glaciers, the springs, and the fountains. He saw it as his own to explore- that land of adventure his friends back home would never dream to comprehend.

He dropped (most of) his pretensions and traded the standard issue for a pair of jeans, a funny felt hat, and a lever-action like that of the Marlboro-smoking cowboys he had come to idealize. From the point he stepped off the plane at Amigos Lake, however, he soon found that he would need to change more than just his clothes if he was to survive in this strange world. Most frankly, his intensity is what upset people. He was headstrong and always willing to fight- as evident by the Guide Shack Brawl of 23’, when the Boss nearly called the State Troopers on him, for beating up Zachariah over a bunk.

He’s gotten better though. Just like a green horse, a cold winter or two will humble a man. But if you are frizzled by his temperament, take it in good jest; it’s merely his character— so much so that even as Jack was calling from down the bridge, “Stop chasing him! Stop chasing him!” he couldn’t have cared less. Mac had his own story to write.

On the other bank, Mac from his horse veered from off the asphalt onto a muddy trail slopped with running hoofprints. They were not far behind Skookum when a canvas wall tent zoomed by in his periphery; a little village of them came into view, where all the workers presumably were sleeping soundly. Skookum almost seemed on course to run through the middle of one when he suddenly veered off at the last second, gave off a bray like a broken slide whistle, and ran a loop back towards the bridge. A single lantern was flicked on. Mac hastily turned around; his horse churned the mud in the middle of the settlement, before they rode hard back the way they came.

They made it back to the bridge where Skookum still outpaced them on the asphalt. He gave little beating kicks to his horse’s sides, but the beast remained weary to run any harder. On the other side, though Mackenzie was too far to hear him, Jack had begun shouting, “I’ll catch him! I’ll catch him!” as Skookum was running right towards him- In a split moment that unfortunate horse clopped right down on his dirty lead rope, which had been dragging behind him the whole way. It jerked his head. He tripped on his front foot, and in a single stride he toppled onto his laden side-

A dusty explosion racked the air. From the sudden crack, Mackenzie was swiftly thrown off of his horse, and he lay there, bruised and hobbled. The two of them from opposite sides of the bridge suddenly held their ears, ringing and bleeding as a rumbling rang out through their feet. Steel and concrete cracked and twisted; boulders could be heard splashing into the river below. In what seemed like a millennia of pain and mockery, soon stilled back into the rhythm of the night, and in the immediate aftermath it was only the slow sizzle that rose up of slag in the water.

Mac groaned, put his weary palms ‘gainst the ground, and heaved himself up like a soldier, immediately turning to see where his horse had gone. Thankfully, his old nag Ember hadn’t run more than one hundred yards behind him, but he did notice the acute absence of Skookum. Where that dumb beast had stood before disappearing into air, a mere twenty-foot section of bridge had fallen in.

Across the way, Jack was rising the same; the world spun around him as he stood. Zach rode up behind him swearing not too soon after. Half his face was smeared in mud from the tumble he took off his steed following the blast, “What the hell, Jack! What happened to letting me know?… Where is Mac?”

“They were running- he tripped...” He picked up his hand and pointed it far off down the bridge; a small black figure was shaking asphalt crumbs off himself.

“Let’s meet him. You’re going to want this.” Zach passed off the lead rope of Jack’s own run-away horse. He mounted and they trotted down to meet Mac standing just before the gap.

Mac stood nursing a roughed shoulder, “Well-earned congratulations, soldiers! Look at the devastation we’ve wrought!”

“I can tell Phil’s plan went out the window-”

“I don’t think it all was going to work anyway. We didn’t have enough detonation cord and it seems we wouldn’t actually have had enough to blow the pillars anyway.”

“No one’s being blamed, Jack. We did the best with what we got… I take it that Skookum’s gone?… Mackenzie, how are you going to get across?”

“You tell me that!” Black rapids swept below them, breaking against a mess of broken scrap in the water.

“Good luck, jumping that. You might scrape your knee on this side but you’re not sticking the landing. Ember will most likely refuse to cross the river like this and you can’t leave her on that side- they’ll find her with a saddle and immediately trace everything to us. You’re going to have to push her off and let her swim back on her own, and then follow suit and pray that everything goes well.”

“That will kill her!”

“But it also might not. You only have to avoid the rocks. You’re a good swimmer.”

Mac went to grab his loyal nag and bring her to the edge. More pain began to swell in his joints.

“Take it slow!” shouted Zachariah, “They can sense intent!”

“You want me to just push her?” Mackenzie questioned.

“Yes! Have you ever tipped a cow?”

He approached slowly and treated her as if nothing had changed, “we’re going to get a drink of water” he told her, while petting her nose and tenderly rubbing her side. Despite his care, she locked up three or four feet from the sharp edge. “She’s stopped!”

“Push her! Pull her! You’ll just have to shoot her otherwise!”

Mac wrapped the lead rope around his fists and yanked her towards him, staring into her rolled-back eyes and starting in circles. It felt as if his shoulder had begun to rip out of the socket.

“Do you hear that?” Jack suddenly spoke up, training his ears towards the end of the bridge, “It’s a 4-Wheeler!” The engine revved. Soon two headlights cut through the darkness, and proved to be heading straight for them. “Just shoot her!” Jack became hasty.

“I’m almost there! I’ll kill a man before I put a bullet in this horse-” Mac lost his footing one second, and found himself on the ground another with a thud. His hip landed over the edge; his nice wool shirt snagged and ripped on jutting rebar on his way down. The gnarly rope slipped and skinned his knuckles, though he remained holding on tight even as the sudden weight pulled down Ember’s head and sent the both of them tumbling into treacherous waters.

“Mac!” Zach didn’t spare a second to watch and panic, “Follow me!” Resolutely, he kicked his horse into a fast gallop headlong down the bridge. Jack picked up behind him, stopping only to briefly grab the remaining explosives and to buck the sacks into the river.

“Do you see him, Jack?”

Though there was the littlest light, nothing could be seen thrashing in the water. “No- what are we going to do? Do you think he can swim that?”

“If he didn’t bash his head, or impale himself, sure. You’ve seen how he trains. He’s probably the only one among us that could.”

“What if I could?”

“Jack, please don’t put another body in the water-”

He was a compulsive kid, and especially in such a manner as saving his friend, Zachariah should’ve expected this out of him. He took off from his horse, mumbled a prayer, and threw himself trustingly off the bridge. A loud and painful smack could be heard when he hit the river 20 feet down.

“Dear God-” muttered Zachariah.

It was a miracle that Jack hadn’t passed out. His chest burned with a numb tingling, but he pushed through it and while bobbing at the surface began to shout “Mac! Mac!”. He thrashed downstream, and felt the cold creep of the river water snag his boots like a spectre from below. The bridge passed overhead. On the other side a concerned Zach gawked back at him: “Are you okay!”. He couldn’t hear over the rushing water.

He has to be around here somewhere? Was that a horse-head I saw, or a wave? Silt got in his eyes. The river swathed deep below him, without a rock or trunk to catch and keep him from floating further downstream. Side to side, to one bank or another and especially upstream- to move at all was fruitless. The current dragged him along where it pleased. He held back out of pride the urge to cry help until the very last second, when an arm reached around his back—

Think fingers racked themselves around his collar. He saw a quick flash of black hair and screamed only one thing, “Bear! Bear!” He coiled and thrashed and struck it in the face. Very surprisingly to him— a fist hit right back.

“What was that for?” It dragged him with the grip of a single hand, upstream back towards the bridge. Soon enough he kicked and felt his toes dragging through the muddy bottom, before his ass was plopped right back on shore. Mackenzie stood over him, backlit by the shadows of the sun; this hulking man dripping and shivering was ripped open from calf to chest like a screw. He wheezed and spat up some water, “Again, why did you do that?” Jack said not a word in response.

Zachariah rode up to them not long after, calmly “It’s good to see you’re in one piece, pard.”

He coughed and cleared his voice, “It was nothing, saved Jack while I was at it- another day’s work… rebar got me good on the way down. Have you seen my horse?”

“Haven’t seen her. And yours, Jack, after you took off from the bridge, he ran off- I wasn’t able to catch him this time. He’s heading back to the lodge though… Jack, where are your boots?”

He didn’t respond and rather sat there knelt in the cold mud, “Mac,” after a second of reflection, Jack inexplicably had tears in his eyes, “I’m sorry-”

“There is nothing to be sorry about!” Mackenzie broke him off with a chuckle, “If seriously no one had jumped in to save me, I would’ve had to kill one of you.”

“The bridge though-”

“You’re always crying.”

“I don’t know what you have to cry about. No one’s to blame, Jack. We all did the best with what we had and well— we’ll have a bit of a story to tell.”

It could’ve been a moment of great celebration and victorious rejoice, but they were tired and weary and bracing themselves for the return. And very soon after it was understood between all of them that it was time to leave, as Zachariah ceded his mount to Sober Mackenzie and together the three started the long walk back the way they came. There was no glorious explosion to walk away from, nor even the needed horses to gallivant away from battle with. Rather none spoke, for each focused on the mere waking thoughts of warmth and grinding forward down the trail. The rains soon dumped again just as they planned, washing away any trace of their venture. Six hours of silent attrition followed. Jack especially felt his failure- broken and dismayed as his cold socks slopped in the mud.

“Jack, get on this horse.”

He looked up at Mackenzie with wet hair over his eyes, “No, I don’t deserve to ride. And you’re injured- I’m not taking it from you.”

“You don’t have boots, boy.”

Again he was silent. It was a matter of honor to him to continue on his two feet. Mac simply stopped the line, swung his leg to the ground and held back a groan, “I’m getting cold. Saddle’s free when you want it.” He led the horse the rest of the way on foot, through flooded bogs and slick trails, across dawn-stricken meadows and wind-swept tundra, until they at last made it back to the gate they started from. It was not 5:00 when they arrived, without a welcoming party to greet them except the dawning sun sweeping from behind the clouds. They simply stripped off their wet clothes and slumped right into bed, not even unsaddling their remaining horse and instead leaving it for Phil to find a few hours later. They ached and groaned, though peacefully dozed away in their Guide Shack; dreams of fire and future filled their sleep...

“Phil,” The Boss started upon walking into the dining room the next morning and finding him as his only employee awake, “Where is everyone? Their day off was yesterday. They can’t be sleeping in two days in a row like this… Why is there a horse tied up and saddled by the hitching rail? Who forgot to close the gate last night?… Could you please go and get them up here and say I have a word for them?”

Phil was in the middle of a hearty spoonful of oatmeal with blueberry jam. He smirked with it just before his lip, “Certainly. They did go at it hard last night, if you didn’t hear. I’m not sure if they’ll be in working order today.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll deal with them. Thank you, Phil, for everything. You’re a superb worker. If you need anything, I’ll be up on the hill making phone calls. Send them up there when you can.”

“Thank you… will do… I try my hardest.” He slurped off his spoon as the Boss took off across the yard, not stirring from his lonely seat on the bench. He sat there until his bowl was finished, where he took his dishes to the sink, went to the restroom, brushed his teeth, and carried on with the rest of his day. It must have been glorious, he thought.

Zach, Mac, and Jack slept like rocks for another nine hours, briefly rising around supper time just to be scolded by the Boss, and unanimously threatened with an unceremonious plane ride back to town. Mackenzie threatened to claim workers comp for his chest injury, citing that the barbwire in the horse corral was to be blamed. Zachariah fell asleep in his chair. Nothing of consequence came from the meeting and it was concluded they got too drunk last night, misplaced a horse or two, and the week simply carried on just the same. (And worry not—Ember returned safely four days later. Mackenzie’s saddle was wholly missing.)

In the coming days, their little stunt would hit the news: “WEST-DAMON ROAD CONSTRUCTION HALTED BY EXPLOSION.” Pointing fingers were flung around in the aftermath throughout the Alaskan media. As suspects, the lodge workers barely appeared as even a footnote. The State Troopers stopped by the lodge once or twice for interviews, where the crew’s alibi spotlessly was them getting blackout drunk that night and falling off their horses. “We barely even remember what happened…” They concluded nothing from the simple bushmen.

In the end, an anonymous eco-terrorist group out of Canada claimed responsibility for the attack. The same group had supposedly instigated an attack on the oil pipeline back in 2008, but despite their ascribed credentials, the media and law enforcement were still left with a massive question mark on how they could’ve done it. How or why exactly would they have ventured out 101 miles from anything resembling civilization and then choose to pitifully leave a hole in the most remote crossing of several while not destroying any other assets?

The secret was only kept loosely between the four, and soon it became the subject of inside jokes, haphazardly and teasingly told in front of their Boss. The kitchen gals soon became privy to it, before all the staff (excluding the Boss) knew and marked upon the day, that the Four Men Brave blew up the bridge at the Damon crossing. Once Mac had healed enough, and with Zach and Jack, caught up on sleep, it was only natural they celebrated in their young fashion.

A bonfire was lit under another crisp Alaskan Summer night. The first stars of the season could be seen growing in the sky, as the time of the solstice was passing, the year was dying, and Hunting Season drew near. The whiskey, just as in times prior, made the men pondering and reflective, looking upon the mountainsides for answers as their tops grew colder everyday.

“We were on the brink of something.” started Jack.

“And what do you mean by that?”

“They’ll repair what we did in two weeks or less, isn’t that right, Phil?”

Phil nodded and took a burning sip.

“Yeah, and we could’ve done more with just a bit of forethought- we could’ve set them back a year of progress and locked them up for another just cleaning out a frozen river. Still we achieved what only a special forces group could’ve done, with only crap from a gardening shed. What if we organized ourselves? Studied some strategy? Became ready to kill men?”

“I’m going to stop you right there, Whiskey Jack.” Mac straightened himself in his chair.

“Just let me finish! We have some power now of self-determination. Damn! If we trained and put all on the table, we could do it again, and stop them forever. We could leave this land for us. We could take the lodge for ourselves is what I’m saying.”

They paused for a second. Even after several stout drinks, Jack still spoke so coherently- that little genius.

“Do you get what I mean?… What do horsemen do? Zachariah, what did the Comanche do?”

He loved this bit of history, “Ride hard, strike quick, and not look back, them’ Lord of the Plains!”

“Lord of the Tundra, mind you! (Could be) Ride hard, strike quick, and disappear into the wilderness. We did it once, did we not?” Jack had once more started a frenzy, not dissimilar to the one which plotted the destruction of that ill-fated bridge.

“...How far is McGrath? How far is McGrath?”

“Some 120 miles-”

“We could get there in four days, take them by surprise, steal their liquor (and gold if they have it) and raze it all to the ground!”

“Ha! ‘Tonight we ride! dum-da-dum-da-dum… Tonight we ride! We’ll rob the Jaurez liquor store for the Reposado Gold!’ Jack, get your guitar- ‘If we drink ourselves to death, ain’t that the cowboy way to go!”²

“‘If our bones bleach on the desert- or tundra, we’ll consider we are blessed!’”

“‘Tonight we ride…’” Mac sat back with a smirk and looked upon his friends; the good times they had shared together raced through his head all at once, of midnight rides and lively poker games, care-free bantering ‘round the fire too. He didn’t need to drink a sip to feel their contagion. He simply couldn’t restrain himself from singing with, “‘Tonight we ride!’”

Together— This will be a good hunting season, they thought, as they cackled into the night, until the fire burned to coals and the bottle finally found its bottom.

To Be Continued in “Horse-Skin Coat”…

Danke,

ABSURDISMUS

Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

1. From the indigenous Ahtna name for the river.

2. From Tom Russels’ classic track— Tonight We Ride