Sowing on the Mountain

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The road was a mess. There were tracks where scofflaws had driven through the woods and then tried to follow the road, with some deadfalls chainsawed and tossed to the side. But none had made it farther than a half-mile or so, where a little creek had flooded and washed a gulley across the road. It took just under an hour to reach the abandoned mine. The old buildings were unpainted and weathered all shades of gray and rust: picturesque— it would make a good set for a movie, she thought. She shot a few pictures. There were a few big machines, also rusty. She looked for a tunnel or shaft, but didn't see one.

The remnant of a road ascended the west slope of Schiestler Peak in big zags. She and Gris climbed up to the end, at a saddle that looked west over the Opening. She could see the meadows and lakes and rocky woods laid out, like patches on a quilt. She got out her lunch, Gris crowding close, and ate as the wind ruffled the foil that wrapped her sandwich. When she was done, she stood up and chucked the apple core out into space, watching as it tumbled and hit far down the incline. Then she started down.

Looking at the map, she'd thought about sidehilling over to Dutch Joe Creek and following that down, but it came out pretty far south, so she returned the way she'd gone up, stopping to step off the intervals between big trees where more cable would block the detours around the barrier, and writing the distances in her notebook. I need to get another little pocket notebook, she thought, for my thoughts. She was always coming up with lyrics, then forgetting them by the time she got back to camp.

By midafternoon, she was back at the Shack, so she decided to hike around the Opening to look for messy camps on the edge of the woods. She filled a trashbag with beer cans, egg cartons, and such before she got to the Lodge.

Zack was digging over by the horse barn. Arlene answered the door, her face streaked with tears. "Zack's dog died," she said, mopping her face with a kerchief. "Tucker. He wandered off someplace and came back really sick, crying and biting at his side. Then he started howling and twitching and throwing up. His back legs were" — she made a paddling motion with her hands. "Then he kept twisting around and then he was gone. God, it was awful."

"Sounds like poison. The ranchers used to spread strychnine all over to kill coyotes, but they made that illegal quite a while back. Gris. Gris. Here, Boy." She snapped the leash on his collar. "If you've got any other dogs, tie them up."

She looped the leash around a faucet stem and went over toward Zack. She could see he'd been crying, too. By the hole was a still shape covered with an old blanket. "Hey, Zack."

"Hey." That was all he could manage.

"I'm so sorry." He looked away and she put a hand on his shoulder. They stood there for what seemed a long time. "This is going to sound pretty awful," Mary said, "but could we get a tissue sample from your dog?"

"What?"

"I think he got into some poison. It'd help to know exactly what it was."

"Yeah, it was definitely poison." He sniffed. "What do we need to do?"

"I think the stomach would be best."

"Stomach?" He looked as if she'd asked him to cut out his heart.

"I'll do it if. . ."

"No. He was my dog." He unsnapped a sheath at his belt and pulled out a folding knife. "I'd sooner you didn't watch," he said.

She borrowed a small ice chest from Arlene and some blue gel packs, and took a plastic bag to Zack. He did the rest. There were no words she could say, except "thanks."

"Just nail the bastard who did this," he said, nearly choking on the words.