Track of the Beast: A Brock Stone Adventure

17- The Woodsman’s Complaint

The Woodsman’s Complaint was even worse than Alex had expected. The tables and chairs were mismatched and the wooden floor needed sweeping, not to mention a good mopping. He crinkled his nose as he caught a whiff of stale beer and urine. He felt immediately out of place, but it was all the town of Rockmire had to offer.

“I regret I can’t take you somewhere nicer for our first date.” He immediately felt his cheeks grow hot and he forced a laugh.

“You can make it up to me when we return to civilization. And by that, I mean D.C., not Seattle.” She patted his cheek sweetly. “Besides, we are here for information, not to soak up the atmosphere.”

“True enough. I suppose we’ll have to drink something. I doubt the glasses are clean.”

A rough-hewn bar ran along the wall to the right. Behind it, a sagging bookcase held an assortment of liquor. A sallow-faced bartender scowled at Alex and Constance as they approached. The man was burly with silver-speckled black hair and pale skin.

“Can I get you something?” the man grunted.

“I don’t suppose you have red wine?” Constance asked.

The bartender smirked, then reached below the bar and pulled out a bottle with no label. “We don’t get much call for this around here, but it’s good stuff. Straight from Napa Valley.”

“We’ll take the bottle.” Alex grossly overpaid and winced when the bartender handed them a pair of chipped mugs.

The bartender quirked an eyebrow. “Sorry, we broke all the wine glasses in the last brawl.”

“No worries.” Alex chose a table in the middle of the room and waited while Constance poured.

“The wine is not going to breathe properly in this.” She cast a baleful stare at her mug.

“It’s all about surface area,” Alex said. “Just keep swirling it. It amounts to the same.”

Constance’s brow furrowed and she gave her drink a tentative swirl. “I feel foolish.”

“It’s not foolish, it’s science.” Alex laughed. “We’re sitting in a lumberjack bar drinking red wine. We already appear foolish.”

Constance laughed and raised her cup of wine. “To your very good health.”

They clinked mugs and Alex grinned. Constance was a lovely lady, but an enigma. She’d kept her distance during their cross-country trip, quiet and circumspect. He wanted to get past the small talk and really get to know her. Perhaps a few drinks would put her at ease.

He raised the mug to his nostrils, inhaling the scents of dark cherry, spice, and vanilla. He took a sip and held the wine in his mouth for a few seconds, savoring the dark, fruity flavor.

“I taste licorice,” Constance said. “Perhaps a touch of black pepper?”

“You know your wines.”

Constance gave a small shrug and looked around. “Not a fan of decor, are they?” she observed.

Alex looked around. The walls were largely bare, save for a missing person poster hung near the door. It showed a smiling young woman with dark eyes and hair. For a moment, he thought the person on the poster was Trinity but quickly realized the resemblance was only passing.

Constance turned and followed the direction of his stare. She blanched. “That’s frightening.”

Alex nodded. He took another sip of his wine and inspected the room. Gathering information would not be an easy task. Neither he nor Constance fitted in.

“We should have ordered beer,” he muttered.

Constance nodded. “At least we’re getting lots of attention. I only hope it’s the right sort.”

Several men stared in their direction. Alex assumed they were ogling Constance. He let his right hand drift casually down to the lump in his pocket where he carried his Remington Model 95 Double Derringer. The pocket pistol, with its three-inch double barrel, was easy to conceal but not very accurate. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

A bear of a man, beady eyes peeking out from shaggy auburn hair and full beard and mustache, stood and swaggered over to the table. Alex forced a pleasant smile, ready to draw his weapon in an instant.

“I don’t mean to be rude.” The man’s breath stank of whiskey. “But I’ve never seen anybody with a hook for a hand. How the hell did you manage that?”

Alex relaxed. “Believe it or not, my hand was bitten off. I was in the jungle with a friend of mine, and things went wrong. I don’t think I’ve ever moved my getaway sticks so fast.” He glanced down at his long legs.

“You an explorer?” the man asked.

“We’re writers,” Constance said, using the story they had concocted.

“What are you writing about out here?”

“Missing women,” Alex said. “Any idea what happened to the woman in the poster?”

“No.” The man grimaced. “I haven’t been here long. My name’s Bart. I’m an Okie.”

Alex nodded. Okies were migrant workers from Oklahoma who had come west looking for better opportunities.

“Lumberjack work?”

“That’s all I could find,” Bart said. “I’d never cut down a tree before I came here, but I’m learning.”

Alex nodded. “Is it dangerous?”

“It can be. The only bad accident I’ve seen was a fellow who started drinking the hooch early in the morning. I don’t know what exactly happened, but he was gone that day.”

“Fired?”

Bart shrugged. “I suppose. He must not have liked it too much because he just left all his stuff behind and took off.”

“Interesting.” Alex remembered the newspaper man’s tale of rumors that lumber camp employees had been killed and their deaths covered up. But if an employer wanted to create the illusion that someone had walked off the job, why not dispose of the man’s possessions?

“I’ve heard some odd stories since we arrived,” Constance said. “About…” Her eyes darted back and forth, then she leaned forward and whispered. “…ape men.”

The man frowned, but then he threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t let that frighten you. Seems like everyone around here has a monster story to tell. Foolishness, if you ask me. Something to pass the time.”

“So, you’ve never seen a hairy ape man?” Constance’s eyes were wide, as if she were afraid, but Alex could tell it was a ruse.

“Not a one. But if it’s stories you’re after, old Milton could tell you one or two… or thirty.” He nodded in the direction of a gray-haired man who sat alone in the corner, nursing a drink and frowning in the general direction of the other bar patrons.

“He doesn’t look too friendly,” Constance said.

“He’s just in a bad mood because he lost all his money in a poker game about an hour ago. He’s been nursing that beer ever since. Buy him a couple of rounds and he’ll be your best friend. At least until his glass is empty.”

They thanked the man, who took one long, last look at Alex’s hook, and a longer look at Constance, before returning to his drinking mates. They decided that Constance would be the first to approach Milton. She headed to the bar, bought two beers, and made her way over to the old man, who grinned at her like Christmas had come early. After a brief exchange, she beckoned for Alex to join them.

“This is my friend, Alex,” she said. “Alex, this is Milton.”

Alex shook hands with Milton. The old man’s grip was strong, his hand calloused. “A pleasure.”

“Thanks for the drink.” Milton raised his glass in mock salute, then took a long pull. “Ah, that takes the edge off. I didn’t have the luckiest night with the cards.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Alex said.

Milton waved the words away. “It’s nothing. I get paid again in two days. I’ll just be short on drinking money until then.”

“Perhaps we could help you out,” Constance said. “We’re writers, and we understand you have stories to tell. We’d be happy to buy a few more rounds in exchange for your knowledge of certain local legends.”

“As a matter of fact, I can tell you a few stories about the ape men.” Milton drained his beer, set the glass on the table, and gave Alex a meaningful look.

“Let me buy you another round,” Alex said. He headed to the bar and returned with two, anticipating Milton would want sufficient lubrication for his storytelling engine.

The old man thanked him and launched into his tale.

“The Indians around here have stories about ape men going back as far as they can remember. They have different names for them, but most of us call them Bigfoot or Sasquatch.”

“That sounds Indian,” Constance said.

Milton scratched his head. “Depends on who you listen to. I’ve heard it’s an Indian word, and I’ve also heard that a white man made it up. The way the story goes, he was a teacher who collected the natives’ stories about the ape men, and supposedly Sasquatch is a name that’s sort of a blend of the various names for the creature.”

“What do these stories tell us about this big-footed creature?” Constance asked.

“For the most part, the Indians talk about Bigfoot as if he’s just another type of human, maybe a primitive ancestor. They say he catches fish, eats berries and nuts, prefers to be left alone.”

“Sounds like my grandpa,” Alex said.

Milton laughed. “There’s worse sorts of people out there. Anyhow, the Indians kept their distance from the Sasquatch, who they said made for dangerous enemies if you angered them.”

Alex nodded, keeping his silence and permitting the old man to continue.

“Luckily, they don’t seem to anger too easily. They shy away from you. Most people don’t even see them. Maybe hear them moving away in the forest, or catch a whiff of them.” He grimaced and fanned his nose.

“But either of those things could be explained by other animals, couldn’t they?” Constance asked. “Plenty of creatures have a foul odor or make noises in the woods.”

Milton raised his chin, looked at the woman through slitted eyes. For a moment Alex feared the man would declare their conversation at an end, but finally, he made a thoughtful nod.

“True, but other creatures don’t leave giant, almost human-looking footprints, do they?”

“Have you seen any of the footprints?” Alex asked.

“A few.” Milton took a drink.

Constance nodded. “How big are these creatures?”

“Nine feet tall,” Milton said. “At least, the biggest ones are. Some are smaller, but those might be the female of the species.”

“What’s your theory about them?” Alex asked. “What do you think they are?”

Milton shrugged. “Some sort of close relative to humans, I’d say.”

“Not an ape?” Alex pressed.

“No. Otherwise they’d have no need to take the women.” Milton’s eyes suddenly went wide. His cheeks turned scarlet.

“What was that?” Constance asked.

“Nothing. Just the drink talking.” Milton took a long swig of beer.

“Please,” Constance pressed. “My friend is missing. We need to find out what happened to her, and we’ll consider every possibility.”

An anticipatory silence hung between them as Milton stared at the table, slowly shaking his head. Finally, he let out a huff of breath, shoulders sagging.

“It’s just folk tales, but supposedly the Bigfoot kidnap human women from time to time. I don’t buy into it, but whenever a woman up and disappears anywhere in the Pacific Northwest, outside of the big city, that is, somebody will blame it on the creatures.”

“Have many women disappeared?” Alex asked.

“Not really. But there have been two in this area recently. Three, counting your friend. It’s strange. Neither one of them was the sort to run around or take off.”

Alex leaned in close, lowered his voice. “Do you think the lumber camps could have had anything to do with it?”

Milton tensed and his eyes shot toward a table in the corner where two large men in flannel shirts sat. The pair were staring in their direction. “Best not to talk like that in public. Even quietly. But maybe. I don’t know.”

Alex nodded. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything at all?”

“No.” Milton shook his head. The mention of the lumber camps had flipped his personality on its head. “That’s all I can tell you.”

“Please! Did Trinity speak with you?” Constance asked plaintively.

Milton nodded.

“What did you tell her?” Constance laid a hand on Milton’s arm. “She could be in danger.”

Milton’s shoulders sagged.

“She was interested in stories about the Lewis and Clark expedition. Nothing factual, mind you. She wanted legends and conspiracy theories.”

Alex nodded. Growing up in the D.C. area, he’d heard a few tall tales surrounding the expedition. “What did you tell her?” he asked.

Milton took a drink, thought for a moment, then launched into his story.

“Thomas Jefferson had big dreams for the West. He expected Lewis and Clark to find everything from gold mines to woolly mammoths. But the craziest thing he wanted them to find was a lost civilization of white men.” He paused to enjoy the looks of surprise on their faces.

“That’s a story I want to hear,” Constance said.

“It’s a strange tale. In 1170, a Welsh prince Madoc set sail for North America on a voyage of discovery.”

“Did you say Murdock?” Alex asked.

“I think he said Maddock,” Constance said.

“Anyhow, Madoc,” Milton said loudly, emphasizing the long A, “returned years later with glowing reports of his discoveries. Among the things he brought back was a breastplate made from a precious metal he called orichalcum.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Constance said.

“That’s because it doesn’t exist,” Alex said. “It is a metal that, according to ancient texts, was mined in Atlantis.”

“Well, Madoc believed it was real, and so did his father, the king. Madoc returned to North America at the head of a fleet of ten ships, intent on exploring and establishing a colony. They were never heard from again, but people across the Midwest have found what they claim are markers left behind by Madoc and his followers as they journeyed across America. Legend holds that they settled somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Hunters and trappers in the region would report encounters with light-skinned natives, many with blue or green eyes, whose language included a handful of Welsh words.”

“I take it Lewis and Clark didn’t find them,” Alex said dryly.

“Or maybe they did, and that’s why Meriwether Lewis was murdered.”

“But he committed suicide,” Constance said.

“He was shot in the chest and then the head. Doesn’t sound like any suicide I’ve ever heard of.”

“What would be the motive?” Constance asked.

“Lewis was on his way to meet Thomas Jefferson when he died. Maybe he was ready to spill whatever secret he’d been keeping, and somebody couldn’t let that happen.”

“Like who?” Alex asked.

“Some say the Illuminati helped Jefferson get elected. He was thinking about breaking ranks with them, but the murder of Lewis was enough to shut him up. Same reason he never acknowledged his colored family, but that’s another story.”

“What would Lewis and Clark have found out here that the Illuminati would kill to cover up?” Alex asked.

“Lower your voice,” Constance hissed. “The lumberjacks are staring again.”

“I’ve said too much,” Milton said. “Thank you for the drink.”

Constance reached out and grabbed Milton’s sleeve as he rose from his chair. “Do you have any idea where Trinity went?”

“She might have gone to talk with Harold Moss. I told her to ask him about Ape Canyon.” With that, he hurried out the door.

“Well,” Alex said. “This gets stranger and stranger.”