| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder: January 27, 1980
The wind was still raging when I arose. I let the goats into the pasture and fed Judy. I noticed that the gate on the new pasture was torn off it's
hinges. One of the hinges was sheared right through the metal.
After breakfast I drove to town and met Bob in front of the Post Office. I read the letter from Sheila. She said, in effect, thanks but no thanks. She
is strongly attracted to me spiritually, she writes, but not physically enough. And P.S., she adds, save me some cheese. Sorry, Sheila, the cheese was
ruined when the creek rose.
Bob and I went to the bank and several stores, stopped by the library in Alpine, and had lunch at the Lodestone, in Descanso, before getting home
about one.
Bob took the goats out, and I repaired gates. The wind had stopped. Bob helped me stand the outhouse back up before he left, and I braced it
strongly.
Tonight is warm, with a half moon. I have my shutters open.
I finished reading a western novel. At ten-thirty I put on my robe and went outside. The stars twinkled and the goats rested calmly. I spoke to them
quietly. Torie stood near the fence, and I patted her nose.
"Hey, Torie." I peed by the gate, thought to myself, what a beautiful life this is, and went back to bed.
The wind was still raging when I arose. I let the goats into the pasture and fed Judy. I noticed that the gate on the new pasture was torn off it's
hinges. One of the hinges was sheared right through the metal.
After breakfast I drove to town and met Bob in front of the Post Office. I read the letter from Sheila. She said, in effect, thanks but no thanks. She
is strongly attracted to me spiritually, she writes, but not physically enough. And P.S., she adds, save me some cheese. Sorry, Sheila, the cheese was
ruined when the creek rose.
Bob and I went to the bank and several stores, stopped by the library in Alpine, and had lunch at the Lodestone, in Descanso, before getting home
about one.
Bob took the goats out, and I repaired gates. The wind had stopped. Bob helped me stand the outhouse back up before he left, and I braced it
strongly.
Tonight is warm, with a half moon. I have my shutters open.
I finished reading a western novel. At ten-thirty I put on my robe and went outside. The stars twinkled and the goats rested calmly. I spoke to them
quietly. Torie stood near the fence, and I patted her nose.
"Hey, Torie." I peed by the gate, thought to myself, what a beautiful life this is, and went back to bed.
| Chapter Fifteen MICHAEL |
To Uncle William it was just old gossip. To her it was legends of her mother. Legends, Cat One liked to think privately, that Uncle William
himself didn't even fully understand.
The story went on. Twilight died in its purple flickers, and Andrea was alone on the mountain. No moon, not the barest sliver that she had
half hoped to see. She searched the deepening indigo, almost seeing the invisible globe that hung somewhere out there in the night.
Instead there was a star, or rather, a planet. It was little old Venus. She seemed to wink at Andrea in a girl-to-girl fashion. She seemed
lonely. Of course, that was because Diana was still gone.
Wasn't Andrea looking for Diana herself? Venus seemed to smirk in a raunchy, knowing, girl-to-girl way.
As Andrea stood, a purple silhouette on the rocky peak of Clark's Hill, she heard the message streaming in from space.
"Hello, pretty Earth," said Venus to her sister. Andrea Clare Devlin was a quivering half-frozen receptor on the skin of the sister.
Venus seemed literally to steam with sensuous, luring tones.
Earth moved fervently in response. Even drifting to winter wrapping she lounged lusciously, and restlessly, in her autumn skirts.
Venus laughed on in the freezing sky. There was no moon. Andrea moved down the trail. She could see the lights of the village below, but
nothing of the trail.
Presently Venus herself disappeared behind a cloud. Andrea Clare became aware that it was snowing. She hurried on the familiar trail in
darkness till suddenly she was in the crossroads a mile outside the village.
An old woman stood waiting in the middle of the crossroads. Snow was veiling down all around. Her dark shape loomed. The road was
already white with snow.
"What's this all about?" thought Andrea. The old woman was looking directly at her. Through the blowing snow and the faint village light
reflecting on the snowflakes, a tiny gleam came from her fingers clutched at her breast. Andrea moved toward that gleam.
It was a crystal. It dangled on a gold chain from the fingers of the old lady. The wind was like ice.
Agnes.
Andrea stood before the old woman. On Agnes Tawny, age shone like strength and wisdom, though age itself was incredible. It was only her
dark cloak which shielded her magnificence so that she might pass through the village and the world.
So that she might at least pass ignored, dismissed with age and infirmity. The snow whistled about her, white tumbling flakes against the
dark hood and the darker eyes. Andrea Clare Devlin was transfixed. But she came willingly, and had come before.
And she knew the crystal. Before, she had looked into it. Those times, Agnes had held her gaze. Suspended on the golden chain from a
finger tip, was the crystal. Agnes raised it into the line of their vision. And then there was much of magic.
But tonight in the snowstorm, she merely held her eyes, and Andrea held the eyes of Agnes in return. Those who meet at a crossroads are
often going in separate directions.
Andrea had heard it from Agnes. Had heard it many times. Had wondered, had believed, and had followed.
Now she stood at the crossroads. And she had met Agnes. In her mind's eye she could see the cottage as it would appear in its tumbledown
ruin, the stones lost and scattered.
The pool full of leaves. The brambles wild.
Agnes was leaving.
"I knew I would find you here," she cackled happily, as if it were the most casual event, to meet one in a deserted crossroads, in a
snowstorm, in the middle of the night.
Andrea Clare was seventeen. She stood straight and fierce in the wind. Snow flakes clung to the hair that swirled by her face from beneath
her hood.
Agnes pushed back her own hood. Her weathered face exalted in the fury of the storm. It seemed the same zest that might respond to a
loam-soft spring day. Indeed, it was.
Andrea wondered what her family and the other folk she knew would think if they were to see Agnes Tawny as she was. If they hed seen
her as she was when she straightened her back and dismissed the stoop she merrily affected for the village.
If they had seen Agnes Tawny dance from rock to precipice on the climbs of Clark's Hill. If they had seen her muscles thrown bare to the
moonlight. If they had seen her run, grown wiser and stronger with age.
Andrea wondered privately. But Agnes was a secret for her alone; now she was going away.
Agnes tossed her hair in the gale. She looked a little wild.
"What a night!" Her old eyes twinkled. "I have this for you," she smiled and extended the crystal to Andrea Clare.
Andrea hesitated. "Where are you going?" She wanted Agnes to slow down, to wait, to hold the crystal suspended forever before the girl's
eyes. Yet her hand cupped. The crystal lowered into it. "Where are you going?" The question died on her lips in a whisper.
Agnes smiled. She seemed as snug as in her tiny cottage pouring tea. Andrea felt wrapped in that cozy aura. She felt that she added to it,
and suddenly for the first time she really wondered how it would be for the old witch. She could see that she clearly meant to go off on foot
into the night and the storm. Andrea folded her hand over the crystal. But she looked right at Agnes Tawny, and she reached for her with
her other hand.
himself didn't even fully understand.
The story went on. Twilight died in its purple flickers, and Andrea was alone on the mountain. No moon, not the barest sliver that she had
half hoped to see. She searched the deepening indigo, almost seeing the invisible globe that hung somewhere out there in the night.
Instead there was a star, or rather, a planet. It was little old Venus. She seemed to wink at Andrea in a girl-to-girl fashion. She seemed
lonely. Of course, that was because Diana was still gone.
Wasn't Andrea looking for Diana herself? Venus seemed to smirk in a raunchy, knowing, girl-to-girl way.
As Andrea stood, a purple silhouette on the rocky peak of Clark's Hill, she heard the message streaming in from space.
"Hello, pretty Earth," said Venus to her sister. Andrea Clare Devlin was a quivering half-frozen receptor on the skin of the sister.
Venus seemed literally to steam with sensuous, luring tones.
Earth moved fervently in response. Even drifting to winter wrapping she lounged lusciously, and restlessly, in her autumn skirts.
Venus laughed on in the freezing sky. There was no moon. Andrea moved down the trail. She could see the lights of the village below, but
nothing of the trail.
Presently Venus herself disappeared behind a cloud. Andrea Clare became aware that it was snowing. She hurried on the familiar trail in
darkness till suddenly she was in the crossroads a mile outside the village.
An old woman stood waiting in the middle of the crossroads. Snow was veiling down all around. Her dark shape loomed. The road was
already white with snow.
"What's this all about?" thought Andrea. The old woman was looking directly at her. Through the blowing snow and the faint village light
reflecting on the snowflakes, a tiny gleam came from her fingers clutched at her breast. Andrea moved toward that gleam.
It was a crystal. It dangled on a gold chain from the fingers of the old lady. The wind was like ice.
Agnes.
Andrea stood before the old woman. On Agnes Tawny, age shone like strength and wisdom, though age itself was incredible. It was only her
dark cloak which shielded her magnificence so that she might pass through the village and the world.
So that she might at least pass ignored, dismissed with age and infirmity. The snow whistled about her, white tumbling flakes against the
dark hood and the darker eyes. Andrea Clare Devlin was transfixed. But she came willingly, and had come before.
And she knew the crystal. Before, she had looked into it. Those times, Agnes had held her gaze. Suspended on the golden chain from a
finger tip, was the crystal. Agnes raised it into the line of their vision. And then there was much of magic.
But tonight in the snowstorm, she merely held her eyes, and Andrea held the eyes of Agnes in return. Those who meet at a crossroads are
often going in separate directions.
Andrea had heard it from Agnes. Had heard it many times. Had wondered, had believed, and had followed.
Now she stood at the crossroads. And she had met Agnes. In her mind's eye she could see the cottage as it would appear in its tumbledown
ruin, the stones lost and scattered.
The pool full of leaves. The brambles wild.
Agnes was leaving.
"I knew I would find you here," she cackled happily, as if it were the most casual event, to meet one in a deserted crossroads, in a
snowstorm, in the middle of the night.
Andrea Clare was seventeen. She stood straight and fierce in the wind. Snow flakes clung to the hair that swirled by her face from beneath
her hood.
Agnes pushed back her own hood. Her weathered face exalted in the fury of the storm. It seemed the same zest that might respond to a
loam-soft spring day. Indeed, it was.
Andrea wondered what her family and the other folk she knew would think if they were to see Agnes Tawny as she was. If they hed seen
her as she was when she straightened her back and dismissed the stoop she merrily affected for the village.
If they had seen Agnes Tawny dance from rock to precipice on the climbs of Clark's Hill. If they had seen her muscles thrown bare to the
moonlight. If they had seen her run, grown wiser and stronger with age.
Andrea wondered privately. But Agnes was a secret for her alone; now she was going away.
Agnes tossed her hair in the gale. She looked a little wild.
"What a night!" Her old eyes twinkled. "I have this for you," she smiled and extended the crystal to Andrea Clare.
Andrea hesitated. "Where are you going?" She wanted Agnes to slow down, to wait, to hold the crystal suspended forever before the girl's
eyes. Yet her hand cupped. The crystal lowered into it. "Where are you going?" The question died on her lips in a whisper.
Agnes smiled. She seemed as snug as in her tiny cottage pouring tea. Andrea felt wrapped in that cozy aura. She felt that she added to it,
and suddenly for the first time she really wondered how it would be for the old witch. She could see that she clearly meant to go off on foot
into the night and the storm. Andrea folded her hand over the crystal. But she looked right at Agnes Tawny, and she reached for her with
her other hand.
| * * * |
The bloody mush Murphy now surveyed was not beautiful. Or possibly what beauty it held escaped him. As stated earlier, he was not
particularly creative with his expressions, and not, it turns out, with his perceptions either.
Say this for him. Murphy took that limp cushion of stained fur, slung across the back of his saddle and secured with a couple of thongs, on
a twilight funeral procession to a soft green meadow on up the draw from the pumphouse where Bird's Egg had passed away. All of the
colors were deep with greens and blacks as Murphy turned the moist earth, carving with a short spade a small cavity.
Just right for a wolf, he thought, at an odd peace with sorrow and exhaustion. He had done all he could, and he had not hidden behind even
such fables as charity, and he could clearly see that even the sacrifice of his own innocence or wholesomeness or pride had done nothing for
Blaze.
The one salvation that Murphy could see at that point was that the reputation of Blaze and his kind was likewise to that of the wolf not
sullied, nor harmed, nor disgraced by the horrors of moments that already grew cool and distant. Horses were still magnificent.
It was his own reputation that he felt more at a tenuous jeopardy as he patiently molded the grave. It was like he walked on tiptoes
through a template of almost formal behavior, complete with the brooding trees and the warm summer evening breeze. Even the placing of
rocks, hauled one at a time from the close by wash, was done with the delicacy of placing seedling memories, nurturing a private garden
shrine.
Hell, he hadn't done as much for Blaze. Of course, it wouldn't have been done "for Blaze" had it been done, no more than the loamy ritual
here was done for Bird's Egg. It would have been done for Murphy, who, as it was, had contented himself with a braid of hair from the
horse's tail, worn about his wrist like a conscience, and cast at a whim onto the shadowy, wet fur of the wolf, before he shoveled back the
dirt.
particularly creative with his expressions, and not, it turns out, with his perceptions either.
Say this for him. Murphy took that limp cushion of stained fur, slung across the back of his saddle and secured with a couple of thongs, on
a twilight funeral procession to a soft green meadow on up the draw from the pumphouse where Bird's Egg had passed away. All of the
colors were deep with greens and blacks as Murphy turned the moist earth, carving with a short spade a small cavity.
Just right for a wolf, he thought, at an odd peace with sorrow and exhaustion. He had done all he could, and he had not hidden behind even
such fables as charity, and he could clearly see that even the sacrifice of his own innocence or wholesomeness or pride had done nothing for
Blaze.
The one salvation that Murphy could see at that point was that the reputation of Blaze and his kind was likewise to that of the wolf not
sullied, nor harmed, nor disgraced by the horrors of moments that already grew cool and distant. Horses were still magnificent.
It was his own reputation that he felt more at a tenuous jeopardy as he patiently molded the grave. It was like he walked on tiptoes
through a template of almost formal behavior, complete with the brooding trees and the warm summer evening breeze. Even the placing of
rocks, hauled one at a time from the close by wash, was done with the delicacy of placing seedling memories, nurturing a private garden
shrine.
Hell, he hadn't done as much for Blaze. Of course, it wouldn't have been done "for Blaze" had it been done, no more than the loamy ritual
here was done for Bird's Egg. It would have been done for Murphy, who, as it was, had contented himself with a braid of hair from the
horse's tail, worn about his wrist like a conscience, and cast at a whim onto the shadowy, wet fur of the wolf, before he shoveled back the
dirt.
| * * * |
By the time the kittens were two months old, the area for two miles in any direction had become rather free of small mammal infestation
in general. It had become a windy city. Hillock and ridge and glade and glen after hillock and ridge and glade and glen yawned with endless
empty burrows and holes and hollows and nooks and forms and nests and crevices. Billy and Tilly still enjoyed the grace of den mice, and
the pair of gnatcatchers still nested in the low hanging manzanita.
Both couples were living in luxury. The absence of other vegetarian creatures, aside from some deeply dug gophers, made for abundance.
Seeds and grains and leaves and fruit in a multitude of descriptions were everywhere. Tilly had a litter in a cradle of leaves. Drama laid her
eggs in a hanging nest. Dram and Drama sang to all who would dare to hear, even to the stubborn gophers, the tips of their ears twitching
down in the soil, even to the kittens who measured their own teeth by then, teasing one another and bounding and tumbling. When one of
the inquisitive kits stumbled upon the treasure of mousling tidbits, she was forced to share with her sister and brother, who were right on
her heels.
With snarls of glee they seized the noisy, wriggling pink toys. Billy and Tilly came rushing home, and were forced then to watch and to
listen from a distance as their family of scant days was played with, mangled and devoured by the happy kittens. Betrayed by normalcy,
Billy and Tilly moved in shock.
Assuming the blank stares of uncomprehending loss, they moved away, a little farther into the brush, and resumed their lives. Tilly
quickly became pregnant again. The blank stares remained as the days fled and they gorged on the bounty of vegetation. Before Tilly came
to term, Billy failed to come back from a jaunt one day. The next morning, still full with the new litter, it was Tilly's turn to be surprised by
a kitten with the bloody flavor of mouse just dripping from his appetite.
Tilly's nervous system flipped the switch that made the pain go away. It was a useless alarm now. She remained aware, that blank stare
now rich with understanding. The claws dug into her sides, and then released her. She stood as if in a trance. She looked at the kitten; it
looked so much like Tawngness. Tilly swallowed with mortality. Another goad from the needle-sharp claws sent her into an obedient dance
across the dusty arena. Back and forth the beautiful, cute monster jabbed her. Stripped of her mousey pride, she scuttered a few inches or
feet with each jab, then resumed her frozen stance.
In short order the jaws closed over her head, and she lost all awareness. The gophers stayed down; Dram and Drama sang to no one in
particular.
They sang for the joy of the day. They shrieked in calamity when their own brood's chirps drew the same attention as had the mice and the
mouslings, and half-fledged chicks tumbled to meat.
in general. It had become a windy city. Hillock and ridge and glade and glen after hillock and ridge and glade and glen yawned with endless
empty burrows and holes and hollows and nooks and forms and nests and crevices. Billy and Tilly still enjoyed the grace of den mice, and
the pair of gnatcatchers still nested in the low hanging manzanita.
Both couples were living in luxury. The absence of other vegetarian creatures, aside from some deeply dug gophers, made for abundance.
Seeds and grains and leaves and fruit in a multitude of descriptions were everywhere. Tilly had a litter in a cradle of leaves. Drama laid her
eggs in a hanging nest. Dram and Drama sang to all who would dare to hear, even to the stubborn gophers, the tips of their ears twitching
down in the soil, even to the kittens who measured their own teeth by then, teasing one another and bounding and tumbling. When one of
the inquisitive kits stumbled upon the treasure of mousling tidbits, she was forced to share with her sister and brother, who were right on
her heels.
With snarls of glee they seized the noisy, wriggling pink toys. Billy and Tilly came rushing home, and were forced then to watch and to
listen from a distance as their family of scant days was played with, mangled and devoured by the happy kittens. Betrayed by normalcy,
Billy and Tilly moved in shock.
Assuming the blank stares of uncomprehending loss, they moved away, a little farther into the brush, and resumed their lives. Tilly
quickly became pregnant again. The blank stares remained as the days fled and they gorged on the bounty of vegetation. Before Tilly came
to term, Billy failed to come back from a jaunt one day. The next morning, still full with the new litter, it was Tilly's turn to be surprised by
a kitten with the bloody flavor of mouse just dripping from his appetite.
Tilly's nervous system flipped the switch that made the pain go away. It was a useless alarm now. She remained aware, that blank stare
now rich with understanding. The claws dug into her sides, and then released her. She stood as if in a trance. She looked at the kitten; it
looked so much like Tawngness. Tilly swallowed with mortality. Another goad from the needle-sharp claws sent her into an obedient dance
across the dusty arena. Back and forth the beautiful, cute monster jabbed her. Stripped of her mousey pride, she scuttered a few inches or
feet with each jab, then resumed her frozen stance.
In short order the jaws closed over her head, and she lost all awareness. The gophers stayed down; Dram and Drama sang to no one in
particular.
They sang for the joy of the day. They shrieked in calamity when their own brood's chirps drew the same attention as had the mice and the
mouslings, and half-fledged chicks tumbled to meat.
| * * * |
In spring of seventy-nine Johnny was living in the city of San Diego, down in Ocean Beach. He had left the mountains a year and a half
earlier after having gone broke with an earlier bunch of goats, as well as pigs, rabbits and chickens. Johnny had spent the time since
working in various jobs, a gas station, construction, and finally his own business, digging ditches and holes.
Along about that time, Michael Wertz, an old friend from Carmel Valley, went completely broke. He was living in the Rock House Hotel in
Del Mar and had been driving dump trucks for a while, but that had ended several months before. He was about thirty-five at the time.
One day Johnny was visiting him. He confessed to being down to his penny collection, and the rent was due in a couple of days. He was
desperate and worried. He was, he said, close to tears.
Michael was an old friend of Johnny's brother, Grant. In fact, Grant was much more of a past companion of his than Johnny ever was. In
unguarded moments Michael could be heard to call Grant his best friend.
Now, Grant was the legal owner of the little ranch on the side of Cuyamaca Peak that weaves its way in and out of this story.
So, between the two of them, Michael and Johnny hatched the plan for Mike's escape from the town of Del Mar and the Rock House Hotel
where he had lived for a number of months, as well as from his landlord, and from the wave of depression that was closing over his head.
Michael was to move into the old house-trailer and enjoy free rent in exchange more or less for being a watchdog against robbers. As noted
earlier, Michael was armed with a very impressive pistol.
Before he moved, they decided to take a drive up to the place to check it out. So, one Saturday morning, Michael drove his old blue Chevy
down to Ocean Beach to Johnny's apartment. From there they went in Johnny's car up into the mountains. It was a beautiful spring day.
The hills were blue with lilac; the air was cool, and the sun was hot.
At the gate Michael got out and unlocked it. "I'll walk the rest of the way," he volunteered.
"Okay," Johnny said, and he drove on in, around the hill with the water tank on it, around the big oak tree, and stopped in front of the
trailer. Johnny hadn't been there for months.
The door was open! Johnny got out of the car. He paused to buckle on his gunbelt. Approaching the trailer, the first thing Johnny
noticed was the broken padlock lying in the dirt. The inside of the little trailer seemed ominous and threatening, as though inhabited by an
evil presence. Johnny drew his gun and went in. It was empty.
Boy, was it empty! The three-burner gas stove was missing! Johnny shook his head in wonder. The kerosene lamps were gone again. There
had been little else to take.
Johnny went back outside. Michael came walking up, exhilerated at being in the mountains, in what was to be his new home.
His expression fell when Johnny told him they had been hit again. "But that's okay," said Michael. "I have a little Coleman stove. I'll get
along fine. As long as I have water."
"Right!" Johnny said. "Come on around back, and I'll show you the water system." They walked around the trailer. The system that he
and Grant had set up involved pumping water from the well up to a large iron tank on a hill above the trailer. From there it flowed down
through another pipe and into the trailer. They had not yet got around to burying the pipe that connected the trailer to the tank. It was
gone. They stared at the fresh hacksaw marks on the short end that projected from the bottom of the trailer.
"Sons of bitches. This will not happen again!" Michael was bristling with threat. Michael could be awesome when angry. Yes, indeed.
earlier after having gone broke with an earlier bunch of goats, as well as pigs, rabbits and chickens. Johnny had spent the time since
working in various jobs, a gas station, construction, and finally his own business, digging ditches and holes.
Along about that time, Michael Wertz, an old friend from Carmel Valley, went completely broke. He was living in the Rock House Hotel in
Del Mar and had been driving dump trucks for a while, but that had ended several months before. He was about thirty-five at the time.
One day Johnny was visiting him. He confessed to being down to his penny collection, and the rent was due in a couple of days. He was
desperate and worried. He was, he said, close to tears.
Michael was an old friend of Johnny's brother, Grant. In fact, Grant was much more of a past companion of his than Johnny ever was. In
unguarded moments Michael could be heard to call Grant his best friend.
Now, Grant was the legal owner of the little ranch on the side of Cuyamaca Peak that weaves its way in and out of this story.
So, between the two of them, Michael and Johnny hatched the plan for Mike's escape from the town of Del Mar and the Rock House Hotel
where he had lived for a number of months, as well as from his landlord, and from the wave of depression that was closing over his head.
Michael was to move into the old house-trailer and enjoy free rent in exchange more or less for being a watchdog against robbers. As noted
earlier, Michael was armed with a very impressive pistol.
Before he moved, they decided to take a drive up to the place to check it out. So, one Saturday morning, Michael drove his old blue Chevy
down to Ocean Beach to Johnny's apartment. From there they went in Johnny's car up into the mountains. It was a beautiful spring day.
The hills were blue with lilac; the air was cool, and the sun was hot.
At the gate Michael got out and unlocked it. "I'll walk the rest of the way," he volunteered.
"Okay," Johnny said, and he drove on in, around the hill with the water tank on it, around the big oak tree, and stopped in front of the
trailer. Johnny hadn't been there for months.
The door was open! Johnny got out of the car. He paused to buckle on his gunbelt. Approaching the trailer, the first thing Johnny
noticed was the broken padlock lying in the dirt. The inside of the little trailer seemed ominous and threatening, as though inhabited by an
evil presence. Johnny drew his gun and went in. It was empty.
Boy, was it empty! The three-burner gas stove was missing! Johnny shook his head in wonder. The kerosene lamps were gone again. There
had been little else to take.
Johnny went back outside. Michael came walking up, exhilerated at being in the mountains, in what was to be his new home.
His expression fell when Johnny told him they had been hit again. "But that's okay," said Michael. "I have a little Coleman stove. I'll get
along fine. As long as I have water."
"Right!" Johnny said. "Come on around back, and I'll show you the water system." They walked around the trailer. The system that he
and Grant had set up involved pumping water from the well up to a large iron tank on a hill above the trailer. From there it flowed down
through another pipe and into the trailer. They had not yet got around to burying the pipe that connected the trailer to the tank. It was
gone. They stared at the fresh hacksaw marks on the short end that projected from the bottom of the trailer.
"Sons of bitches. This will not happen again!" Michael was bristling with threat. Michael could be awesome when angry. Yes, indeed.
