Hellbender (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 2) by Jason Jack Miller Page B
Authors: Jason Jack Miller
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“You okay? Alex?” I ran to her. “It’s fine. We can go now.”
She held a hand over her mouth. With the other she pointed into the Jeep. Another bluebird landed in the passenger seat. She shook her head. “No, no… Henry, no…”
She screamed again and backed all the way to the edge of the road.
“Hey,” I grabbed her wrist. But there wasn’t a thing I could say. She was shaking, and so was I.
Just then, another bluebird tumbled to the ground next to the back tire. She cried; tears fell down her cheeks.
I pulled Alex to me to shield her from the sight of another one dropping from the sky. It hit the soft mud in front of us with nary a thud.
We followed a long row of Lewis Lumber pin flags out of the canyon. “Who the fuck is Charlie Lewis to mark this as his territory? Like a dog. I spent a hundred Saturdays and Sundays down here. It’s not his canyon.”
I killed the engine.
“Are we stopping?” Alex said.
“I want to show you something.” I walked around the back of the Jeep, stopping only to pluck a pair of pin flags from the rocky soil.
“I just want to get out of here,” Alex said, her little words could barely find my ears.
“We’re good, I promise. It’d take them an hour to get here, at least. Only place to cross is down in Albright.” I put my arm around her, but my intent was more brotherly than romantic.
She rested her head on my shoulder. “Okay.”
I led her to the canyon rim through a Lewis Lumber staging area. Charlie had a pair of temporary trailers and a bunch of heavy equipment near a cliff edge that protruded into the void over the Cheat River.
I said, “So what did your mom say, exactly, about this situation?”
She put her hands into her back pockets and bit her lower lip. “My grandma said they were fit to be tied. Anybody—like you guys—who’s able to get them so riled up must have some power over them, otherwise the Lewises would just dominate them. Business rivals, property owners. How do you think they’re able to get timber rights so cheap? Grandma says you all have a history, and if the fighting’s still going on, then you all must be a pretty even match.”
The breeze carried turkey vultures and Cooper’s hawks thousands of feet over the riverbed. The view was a hundred square miles large. The river shrank beneath the canyon walls. In the background, the rest of the Appalachian Plateau waited, flattop ridges standing back-to-back like an army of box turtles. Humble mountains that hid more secrets than the Rockies’ jagged peaks and the Sierras’ thrusting heights combined. The Appalachians were, after all, the product of a hundred million years of erosion.
“Charlie Lewis is fixing to take all this.” I threw one of his pin flags into the canyon and knelt next to a trailer with a log loader in the bed.
I took my Leatherman’s Tool from my pocket and flipped out the long knife blade. I eyeballed the tires and hydraulic cables and brake lines and fuel lines I had easy access to. I jumped onto the bed, grabbed the pair of hydraulic cables that lead to the loader’s mechanical arm. I couldn’t cut his throat, but I could cut a lifeline.
The drive to Davis took us east on US Route 50, up from the Cheat River at Rowlesburg. But before we even got there, I took 7 through Kingwood and got a sudden urge for buckwheats. We dropped along Deckers Creek back down to Morgantown and went down 79 all the way to Elkins where we stopped for cherry-glazed chocolate donuts at a Sheetz, then finally 119 up to 50. It was a long day, but I didn’t know of any other way to lose Charlie Lewis and his guys. The bleached windmills dotting Backbone Mountain like antlers on a rutting buck let me know I was home. The white eyesores were like a picket fence around my front yard.
My very spacious front yard.
Alex said, “The other side of the windmills.” “What’s that mean?” I said, mildly offended.
“Nothing.” She smiled.
“You okay? Alex?” I ran to her. “It’s fine. We can go now.”
She held a hand over her mouth. With the other she pointed into the Jeep. Another bluebird landed in the passenger seat. She shook her head. “No, no… Henry, no…”
She screamed again and backed all the way to the edge of the road.
“Hey,” I grabbed her wrist. But there wasn’t a thing I could say. She was shaking, and so was I.
Just then, another bluebird tumbled to the ground next to the back tire. She cried; tears fell down her cheeks.
I pulled Alex to me to shield her from the sight of another one dropping from the sky. It hit the soft mud in front of us with nary a thud.
We followed a long row of Lewis Lumber pin flags out of the canyon. “Who the fuck is Charlie Lewis to mark this as his territory? Like a dog. I spent a hundred Saturdays and Sundays down here. It’s not his canyon.”
I killed the engine.
“Are we stopping?” Alex said.
“I want to show you something.” I walked around the back of the Jeep, stopping only to pluck a pair of pin flags from the rocky soil.
“I just want to get out of here,” Alex said, her little words could barely find my ears.
“We’re good, I promise. It’d take them an hour to get here, at least. Only place to cross is down in Albright.” I put my arm around her, but my intent was more brotherly than romantic.
She rested her head on my shoulder. “Okay.”
I led her to the canyon rim through a Lewis Lumber staging area. Charlie had a pair of temporary trailers and a bunch of heavy equipment near a cliff edge that protruded into the void over the Cheat River.
I said, “So what did your mom say, exactly, about this situation?”
She put her hands into her back pockets and bit her lower lip. “My grandma said they were fit to be tied. Anybody—like you guys—who’s able to get them so riled up must have some power over them, otherwise the Lewises would just dominate them. Business rivals, property owners. How do you think they’re able to get timber rights so cheap? Grandma says you all have a history, and if the fighting’s still going on, then you all must be a pretty even match.”
The breeze carried turkey vultures and Cooper’s hawks thousands of feet over the riverbed. The view was a hundred square miles large. The river shrank beneath the canyon walls. In the background, the rest of the Appalachian Plateau waited, flattop ridges standing back-to-back like an army of box turtles. Humble mountains that hid more secrets than the Rockies’ jagged peaks and the Sierras’ thrusting heights combined. The Appalachians were, after all, the product of a hundred million years of erosion.
“Charlie Lewis is fixing to take all this.” I threw one of his pin flags into the canyon and knelt next to a trailer with a log loader in the bed.
I took my Leatherman’s Tool from my pocket and flipped out the long knife blade. I eyeballed the tires and hydraulic cables and brake lines and fuel lines I had easy access to. I jumped onto the bed, grabbed the pair of hydraulic cables that lead to the loader’s mechanical arm. I couldn’t cut his throat, but I could cut a lifeline.
The drive to Davis took us east on US Route 50, up from the Cheat River at Rowlesburg. But before we even got there, I took 7 through Kingwood and got a sudden urge for buckwheats. We dropped along Deckers Creek back down to Morgantown and went down 79 all the way to Elkins where we stopped for cherry-glazed chocolate donuts at a Sheetz, then finally 119 up to 50. It was a long day, but I didn’t know of any other way to lose Charlie Lewis and his guys. The bleached windmills dotting Backbone Mountain like antlers on a rutting buck let me know I was home. The white eyesores were like a picket fence around my front yard.
My very spacious front yard.
Alex said, “The other side of the windmills.” “What’s that mean?” I said, mildly offended.
“Nothing.” She smiled.
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