The Totem Read online

  He looked at her a moment longer and then stood to get his bag.

  THREE

  The old man's house was on the edge of town, the side that faced the western mountains. He got in the car and backed out of the driveway, aiming toward the setting sun. It was almost down behind the mountains now. Its topmost swollen rim was barely showing.

  Rocky Mountains. Tall and jagged, capped with snow although June was oddly warm. In August, some would be rock bare, but most would be snow-covered all year round. That was one nice thing about this kind of country: the difference in the weather. In the valley, it might be one hundred, but five hours drive up there and you could dig snow caves and wear a jacket. Plus, the sun did strange things with its color. It might be white with heat from nine to five, but after that, as it came closer to the mountains, dipping down behind them, the sun changed first to red and then to orange, bathing everything in alpen-glow, a rich warm golden tone that made the countryside seem magical. It was like that now, everything the same calm soothing color. Even trees were tinted by it, the green of leaves now more like yellow, the range grass all around reminding him of grain and honey.

  The old man drove down the road past fence posts stretching off as far as he could see, past ranch homes nestled in their hollows, cattle feeding, windmills turning in the evening breeze. The supper had been very good. He had eaten more than was his custom. Indeed he felt much better now, his breath more easy, his legs more steady. That was why he drove the kind of car he did: to help him with his legs. The effort of a clutch had lately been too much for him, and he had traded to an automatic, which was bad for hills and snow, but he was forced to pace himself. In little ways he had to compensate. He sat back in the seat, his foot relaxed on the pedal, his hand light on the steering wheel, and glanced at all the country as he passed, the isolated trees, the sweep of rangeland stretching off, the fences, and the cattle, and he thought of Sam Bodine. No, of Bodine's father. At one time, the old man had been just about his closest friend, although they hadn't been old back then, thirty, forty years ago, hunting, fishing, working. No, not just about his closest friend. His only friend. They had been like brothers. He had loved the man, and still he missed him dearly. After twenty years, he marveled at how constant was his grief. He had seen the son grow to a man and seen him marry and have children. He had helped him every bit as much as he was able. But the son was not the father. He had different interests and concerns, and things were never quite the same.

  Now he drove out toward the ranch as he had done so many times before. He passed the tree that he had seen grow from a seedling to a giant and then start to crumble. He passed the ditches he had helped to dig, the fences he had helped to set. He came around the curve that led down toward the entrance, slowing, turning left to rattle across the grate that lay over a gully and that kept the cattle off the highway, its metal gaps so wide that cattle couldn't walk across them. Next he was on gravel, gaining speed again, spinning up a swirl of dust behind him as he drove on toward the house and barn, their structures now in dusk, the alpenglow abruptly gone, the sun behind the mountains.

  Then he saw him standing by the gravel parking space beside the house, big and tall, dressed in denim shirt and jeans, cowman's hat and boots, hands gripped on his thighs. His face was strong and solid, leathered, at the same time almost chiseled. He was walking forward even as the old man pulled in on the gravel.

  "Thanks for coming."

  The old man nodded. "What's the trouble?"

  "I don't want to say. I'd rather have you look."

  The old man glanced at him a moment and then got out with his bag. In all his years he'd never heard a rancher talk that way. They almost always had a thought of what the problem was and told him right away. Whatever was the matter out here surely wasn't ordinary.

  Bodine was already walking. "How you feeling?"

  "Pretty good," the old man said.

  "We're going to be a while." Bodine said that with his head turned as he walked, angling toward the big garage.

  "It isn't in the barn?"

  Bodine shook his head and pointed. "Out there on the edge of the foothills. My boy's there watching now. We'd best take the truck."

  And that was that. Bodine was already climbing into the truck to start the engine.

  The old man climbed in the other side and set his bag between his legs. "But what's the mystery?"

  "I don't want to say. A thing like this, if I tell you, you'll get preconceptions. Have a look, then you tell me."

  And they were driving out the open doorway, turning west beside the barn, and heading off across the range.

  FOUR

  They headed toward the spot of light. The darkness was all around them now, the truck's lights on, and they were jouncing across the open bumpy ground, the old man with his hands braced on the dashboard. Bodine glanced at him and then ahead. The spot of light was flickering. A fire, and Bodine had to smile. He hadn't thought to tell his boy to build one, but then he had talked to him when it was day, and clearly they would need a thing to aim for.

  Bodine saw a patch of smooth ground up ahead and gathered speed, but then he hit a bump he hadn't seen that jounced the old man very hard, and had to slow. The headlights showed the rangeland stretching off beneath them. Up ahead, a rabbit was paralyzed by them. Bodine veered to miss it. Then he picked up speed again.

  The light was now distinctly flames, growing as he neared. He saw his boy stand up and walk in front of the fire, his body silhouetted by it. He saw the motorcycle parked beside the fire. The fire was very close before him as he pulled up and he stopped.

  He kept the lights on, then stepped down onto the ground. The old man was already out.

  The boy walked toward them.

  "Anything?" Bodine asked.

  The boy just shook his head.

  "No animals? No tearing at the carcass?"

  "It's been pretty quiet."

  "Well, that's something anyhow. You stayed up here the way I told you? You didn't go down, messing any tracks?"

  The boy just shook his head again.

  "Okay, then. Doc, it's down there in the gully. Careful of the slope."

  The old man walked across the glare of the headlights, standing at the edge of the gully. "I can't see much without more light."

  Bodine reached beneath the seat to get a high-powered flashlight. He held it, long and heavy, walking toward the old man as he flicked the switch. The light shot out across the range. He dipped it toward the gully, sweeping back and forth until he found the carcass.

  "There."

  Its back was toward them, just the way it had been when Bodine had come upon it. As much as he could tell, it looked the same.

  The old man started down, and Bodine stopped him.

  "I don't know. I think the way to do this is to walk up here a ways, then cut across and come down looking on the other side. I want to keep from messing any tracks."

  The old man hesitated, looked at him, and nodded. They went where the gully was more narrow, climbing down, the old man needing help to get up on the other side. The ground was hard and rocky. The old man's breath was forced as he got up and straightened.

  "You all right?"

  "It's nothing. I'm not used to this."

  "You sure?"

  "I said I'll be all right."

  "Okay then."

  And they waited. Then the old man had his breath back, and they walked along the top until they stood across from where the headlights and the fire were. Bodine aimed the flashlight into the ditch. The old man didn't speak.

  He didn't speak for quite a while.

  "All right, now tell me what the hell it was that did that," Bodine said.

  "I don't know." The old man cleared his throat. "Right now I couldn't say."

  It wasn't that the sight was shocking. He'd seen worse too many times. But the thing just didn't make much sense. Whatever had disemboweled this steer had done so from below and ravaged at the guts. But nothing se
emed to have been eaten. The guts were mashed together, chewed and mangled, but the point was they were here. Whatever did this hadn't eaten at the flesh, had only chewed at organs and then left them. He had never seen this-he had never heard about a thing like this before.

  The old man saw the flies that crawled upon the guts, smelled the stench that was coming from the gully, shook his head, and turned away. "I just don't get it."

  "You're the expert," Bodine said. "Take a guess."

  "Well, process of elimination. What would prey upon a steer?"

  "I already thought of that. Bobcats. But they don't come down here. Wolves, the same. Coyotes maybe. I even thought it was a cougar. They don't single out the guts, though. Not when they've got flesh to eat."

  "And one thing more. It doesn't look like anything's been eaten," the old man said. "What about those tracks you mentioned? Were they any help?"

  "I never found them. If they were around, I didn't want them messed before somebody good came out to have a look."

  The old man turned, again toward the gully, and he pointed. "Well, I don't know if I'd mess the tracks, but I should go down and have a look."

  "You're the expert."

  So the old man slowly worked his way down into the gully, Bodine close behind. But there was nothing he could tell.

  "The only thing I notice is the blood."

  "Or lack of it."

  "That's what I mean. A thing like this, there should be lots of blood." The old man thought a moment. "Could be something spooked whatever did this, and it didn't get a chance to eat. It just licked all the blood."

  "Could be. I don't know."

  The old man looked around. "Well, I can't tell out here. I'd like to get this into town where I can have it on a table and dissect it. If there's a way for us to move it. What about your herd? There's nothing strange about it?"

  "You were out two weeks ago. You said that it was fine."

  "Well, something might have happened in the meantime. What I'm getting at is if this steer was sick, whatever tried to eat it might have felt the taste was off and left it."

  "Maybe. But I hardly think it's likely," Bodine said.

  "I don't think so, either. What about the truck? Can we get this in there?" the old man asked.

  "That's no problem. We'll rig a line."

  So they climbed up from the ditch, the old man breathing hard, and Bodine got a rope and tied it around the head of the carcass and hitched the rope to the truck and used the truck to drag the steer up onto the level. Then he opened the back and pulled out a ramp and this time hitched the rope around the motorcycle. His boy was working with the bike while Bodine pulled and guided on the rope, and slowly, motorcycle revving hard, the steer was dragged up onto the ramp and then pulled into the back. They stood and frowned at the carcass.

  "Well, the guts stayed pretty much the same," the old man said, and Bodine flashed the light around to see if any had been left behind.

  The old man walked back toward the gully. "Nothing down there either. But the swath the steer made sure played hell on any tracks."

  Bodine turned and studied the old man. "There's one other thing I'd like to show you." He walked toward the woods, the flashlight in his hand, its wide beam sweeping through the trees.

  They came to where the stream flowed through the trees, and found a narrow spot to step across and walked up onto the gametrail. Bodine led the way about a hundred yards, then stopped to let the old man come up close to him. He shone the flashlight in among the trees.

  The carcass of a deer.

  "All right. So what's the point?" the old man asked.

  "Well, I saw a lot of these when I came through here just before I saw the steer. I figured, what the hell, the winter was a bad one. Then I didn't know. I came back up and checked on this one." Bodine poked with a stick where he had pushed the carcass from between the trees. "There. See where all the stomach skin's been eaten. Otherwise it isn't touched."

  "But it's been dead for several months. Hell, anything could have caused that. Maybe insects."

  "Even so."

  The old man looked at Bodine and wondered what he must be thinking.

  FIVE

  The old man drove while Bodine followed in the truck. The boy stayed back at home. They raided across the grate and then turned right and headed toward town. It was after midnight, the car and truck the only traffic on the road. All around, the countryside was dark, no lights on in ranches, the stars clear, a few clouds across the moon. Isolated trees were black against the murky gray of night. The old man heard a coyote howling in the hills.

  He was tired. This was late for him, and he was worn out from climbing into the ditch, then walking through the woods. He was feeling sick again as well, the good meal he had eaten now gone bad on him and rising in his stomach. He could taste the undigested pork. What did he expect? He knew he shouldn't eat so large a meal and one that was so heavy. But then he had been hungrier than was common for him, and besides his wife had gone to so much trouble that he couldn't very well refuse.

  Now he paid. He squirmed in his seat, wishing he would throw up and be done with it. His foot was heavy on the pedal, not because he wanted to get quickly into town, but he was so tired now that he could hardly move his feet. They were like a separate part of him. He felt that they were swollen. Water filling up, he thought. He'd have to take another pill for that.

  He suffered, glancing at the darkened country as the car sped down the road. One curve, then another, and he almost missed the third. Better take things easy, better get control, he told himself, and gripped the wheel more tightly, tensing muscles in his leg to get life in his foot. He glanced at Bodine's headlights in his rearview mirror. He looked ahead and saw a car approach him, its headlights growing larger as it neared. He glanced away as it flashed past, the headlights hurting his eyes, and then the car was gone, and he was staring at his own lights and the dark. Up ahead the carcass of a badger had been flattened on the road. At least he thought it was a badger. He had only one quick look before he was upon it and had passed. He thought about it and then had to concentrate on going around another curve. He shook his head to clear it and then squinted down the headlight-flooded road.

  Twenty miles. In terms of effort, they felt more like eighty. He was thinking he was getting closer, thinking of his bed. He blinked his eyes to clear them now, staring down the road. And then he saw the first light in a house, another one closeby, and he was at the outskirts, coming around another bend and starting down the hill, and there the town was spread out wide before him, its streetlights sending up a glow that in the cool of night was like a yellow mist. Traffic lights and lights on in some houses, lights on in the diner and the first bar that he passed and then the all-night service station. After staying up so late, climbing in that ditch, walking through those woods, after this long drive, tired as he was, the warmth of all these lights, he felt that he was home.

  The town was Potter's Field, so-called not because of any graveyard that was near it, although there were a lot of those from the old days. Farmers passing through. Trappers, ranchers, sheepmen, range wars. And the miners. At one time the hills around had all been rich with gold. But that was ninety years ago, and the gold had soon been gone. There had been two towns back then, one high in the hills that they'd called Motherlode, the other down here where the miners came from work to get supplies and drink and rest and often die. Like the farmers, trappers, ranchers, and the sheepmen. All passed on and laid to rest in graveyards that were like a page from history.

  The town up there had long since gone to ruin, but the one down here had grown and prospered, twenty thousand people in it now and growing bigger, better, all the time. There were rumors about oil, ski resorts, and breweries, but the main trade here was cattle, and a lot of people didn't want those other things. The town was in a rich wide valley, mountains all around it, and the first man who'd come through here, back in 1850, was named Potter. He had been a farmer, and he'd liked t
he country so much that he'd tried to work it. But the soil was wrong for farming, and at last he'd given up, staying on nonetheless, hunting, fishing, living out his days here just because he liked the place. His shack had been rebuilt several times since then, set apart beside the courthouse with a plaque explaining who Potter had been and telling all about his field.

  The field was where he'd tried to farm, about the size of what was now the city limits. The town was built exactly where he'd lived. It was the property he'd still retained after all the farmers and the cattlemen had come through here and bought up any land he'd sell them. At first he didn't want to sell, but Potter had anticipated what was coming, and he didn't see much point in holding out. Either he would sell or else they'd take it, and so he'd sold and seen the farmers leave, the ranchers stay, had seen the cattle business grow around him. Then he had a store, and then a bar, a hotel and a restaurant, and soon the town was on its way.

  Still Potter had tried a bit of farming, marking off a plot of ground beside his shack which he refused to leave and where he died, growing corn and lettuce and potatoes. The ranchers thought him funny, but he prospered, and he still was going out to plant his corn the day he died that spring in 1890. So the field was both the city limits and that plot of ground he tended, the latter set aside behind the shack, a little park and flower garden.

  Potter's field. a place where you can grow. So the sign said as the old man passed it, heading down the hill and driving farther into town. Below him, he could see the main street cutting through from right to left, one long row of double-story buildings, feed stores, hardware stores, bars and shops and restaurants, a movie theater, the police station, and the courthouse. The last two were beside each other, surrounded by great elms, sent in from the east donated by a rancher. Indeed the other trees through town were all sent in from other places too, maple, ash and oak, a dozen others, the color of their leaves in autumn stark against the fir green of the mountains.