Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(52)

“Are there three beds inside?” Price asked.

Boedecker just laughed. He seemed to revel in causing Price deprivation, Joe thought.



* * *



—

Joe placed the two grouse he’d killed on top of a three-foot-high stack of cut and split wood protected by the roof of the lean-to, while Boedecker and Price went inside. The firewood was pine, and it had been there for so long the exposed outsides of the lengths had turned dark gray. Probably twenty to thirty years, Joe guessed. But it was firewood, nonetheless, and dry.

He could tell by the nails in the wall at the back of the lean-to that the structure had once been used to stretch hides and pelts. Several rusty leg traps hung from the wall, and the floor was littered with bleached coyote, fox, and beaver skulls. The skulls had been exposed so long they looked paper-thin, like they’d crumble into powder if touched.

He turned to see Price coming back outside from the cabin, followed by Boedecker. The look on Price’s face told Joe what to expect inside.

“It’s a dump,” Price said.

“But it’s our dump,” Joe replied.

He shouldered around them and stepped inside. It was even colder than it had been out in the trees and he could see his breath.

The interior was simple and crude. There was a small rusty potbellied stove supporting a dented galvanized metal chimney pipe in the middle of the room, a metal washtub on a crude counter near the left wall, a rough table and two chairs, and a single bed with an iron frame covered by a ratty army surplus blanket. In the rear corner was a chest-high pile of garbage and parts: two-by-fours, T-posts, squat steel cylinders, broken chairs, a saddle so worn through the wooden frame stuck out from beneath the leather like exposed ribs. An ancient kerosene lantern hung from a nail over the counter with the tub, and Joe brought it down. There was no fuel in the well and he couldn’t see a tin of it anywhere. Although the cardboard corners had been gnawed by rodents, there was a half-full box of wooden matches.

Joe slipped his pack off and dumped it on the table and glanced around the interior. There was only one door to the place and it opened to the side mouth of the lean-to, where Price and Boedecker stood stamping their feet to keep warm. There was a boarded-up window next to the front door and a window on each wall of the cabin. All were covered by pieces of plywood from the inside.

The rafters were exposed above him and he could see cracks of light through the planking on the roof.

The cabin was in miserable condition and it had been neglected for years. But Joe was thrilled they’d found it.

Boedecker stuck his head around the open doorframe. “I’ll clean those birds and get ’em ready to roast if you’ll get this place in order,” he said.

“Are we sure we want to fire up the stove?” Joe said.

“How else are we going to cook them?”

“I’m worried about making woodsmoke,” Joe said. “The Thomases probably know we ditched them by now.”

“We need to eat something. And we need to warm this place up or we’ll freeze to death.”

Joe knew it wasn’t wise. But he was cold, hungry, and exhausted.

“Okay,” Joe said after a long pause.

“What should I do?” Price asked from outside.

“Have you ever plucked a chicken?” Boedecker asked.

“No, but I’ve seen it done. My chef does it.”

“My chef does it,” Boedecker mocked.



* * *



—

Joe ignored them while he removed the covers from the windows to let in the last remaining light of the day. The cabin was even dirtier than he’d thought at first glance. His boots left distinct tracks in the half inch of dust on the floor and his movement caused dust motes to roll across it like miniature tumbleweeds.

He cranked open the flue on the chimney pipe, and when he did a shower of pine needles and a couple of atrophied bird carcasses dropped into the belly of the stove. There were several copies of the Saddlestring Roundup from 1983 in a bucket near the stove that he crumpled up and used to light kindling. He watched in anticipation as the first curls of smoke got sucked upward and he was grateful the chimney pipe wasn’t blocked by nests or debris. He waited until the flames launched into a full roar and added several lengths of wood from a stack. Then he closed the stove doors and stepped back. As the metal heated, it ticked furiously. But within a few minutes, he could feel heat start to emanate from the stove.

Outside, Boedecker and Price bickered as they prepared the grouse.

“If it wasn’t for you, we’d all be home having a cold beer and watching the game on television,” Boedecker said.

Price said, “And if you’d raised your hand early to what was going down, we could have avoided it all.”

“It’s not like you didn’t fucking deserve it.”

“I have no clue what you or those hillbillies are talking about.”

“The hell you don’t . . .”

Joe closed the door on them.



* * *



—

He was heartened to find that within the pile of junk in the corner, the metal cylinder he’d noted was actually a propane tank. He lifted it out and by its weight guessed it was a quarter full. He rooted around in the pile and located a round dented metal dish with a heating coil inside. It was designed to screw onto the valve of the tank. If they could get it lit, they’d have sustained heat inside the cabin. And with no woodsmoke giving away their location.