On the Banks of the Bighorn Part Four - by Tracker

The Three Moon Saloon and the Grand Duchy of Lutha.

 

From Smith’s Secret Diary.

 

I found out some interesting things I didn’t know about how the ranch works.  So out here, Ranches have both deeded acres and grazing rights.  Deeded acres are land the Ranch owns outright.  Usually the best land with water and good grass. Ranches need deeded acres to exist.  Grazing rights mean a ranch can graze livestock on a particular piece of land, usually government owned. It can be exclusive or non-exclusive.  We, or rather the Lazy F, share grazing rights with a lot of the little ranches in our valley.  It is one reason we have round-ups, to separate out our cattle from the livestock of the other ranchers.  The unbranded calves are branded according to the brands on their mothers etc.  But there are always some cows that were never branded, so they get shared out according to the proportion of branded cattle.  Mr Frick is very adamant that we don’t take cattle belonging to the other ranchers and that the share out is done fairly.  

 

I guess things were done a little differently when Mr Willard Frick was running thing here, but Mr Wilson Frick is pretty upright. A good man to work for.

I have to watch myself.  I keep finding myself writing we and our when I am supposed to be reporting on these folks.  After forty-five  years, I would like to settle down sometime and this seems a good place to put down some roots.  I may have to decide at some point where my loyalties lie.  I still can’t get my reports off, as the drop point is still being watched.  It was different watchers, but in my forty-five years I have learned a thing or two.  One thing for sure, I am not going to use any alternate electronic method of reporting, in this day and age it is too easy to intercept.  So after going to the bank to deposit my pay check, I left the pay stub envelope face up instead of face down as a signal that I saw the watchers.  Simple tradecraft is still the best.

 

I had a beer or two at the Three Moons instead, because it seems expected, even though the girls in the place aren’t a patch on the ones at the ranch.  There were some strangers there, not slaughterhouse workers, the dangerous looking kind of men.  The less dangerous were three guys in camo talking to some of those survivalist trash, all loud and brash.  They might be touch in a fight though. There were two more big guys in the corner by the stage, real quiet and watchful, combat boots, not cowboy boots, and showing some muscles under their shirts.  Those were the more dangerous ones; the kind with shut mouths and watchful eyes.

 

Now out to another day of getting the corrals at the round-up area ready.  These are not the small steel corrals we use for girls up near the ranch house but a different set-up.  Anyway the girl corrals are full. We got twenty-five in all at once two nights ago on a cargo flight to the Lazy F private airfield, but with so much going on there hasn’t been time to process them.

 

I am working with Fred, another one of the new hands who came on about a month before me, Aaron, the kid I rode on patrol with a while back, plus a few kids from some of the ranches around here.  Two of the kids, Tom and Kathy Harris, were worried about their dad who has been poorly.  We were re-painting some of the double line of corrals that form an avenue leading west from the stone stage.  Mr Frick likes the place to look sharp; all the Fricks, so far as I know, like to look sharp themselves and have sharp surroundings.  Kathy Harris didn’t want to work at any of the corrals close to the stage. She said it gave a lot of women the willies.  As I was working with Kathy Harris, her friend Brenda Smith (same last name as me, but she is a real Smith) and Fred the other ranch hand, Mr Woodrow Frick showed up to help us.  I didn’t know he was back from Pittsburgh.  I wish I could place the accent he picked up when he was off the grid, but he is an interesting enough young man.  He was talking about how we are ruining this planet with our industry and pollution and how much better unpolluted clean air is.  So wherever he was, it has cleaner air than what we have in our cities now.  That Fred, he seems to be always wanting to talk to Kathy Harris alone.  I bet he wouldn’t do that if her father was here, or if her brother was working in our crew instead of a different one.

 

From Juliette Chen’s Narrative.

 

I could hear the sounds from the tires change under the Subaru Forester as Patrick turned off the paved highway onto the unpaved dirt road into the town of Town.    The unpaved street was full of  potholes and we slowed on the uneven road surface.  To our left, between the road and the railway tracks, were two old fashioned wooden grain elevators, their paint peeling and looking a little out of true and plumb (Patrick’s words).  Just past them was the stockyards, a few cattle lowing as we went by.  Even with our eyes shut, we would have known they were there by the smell.  The stockyards went on for three blocks while on our right was a succession of small unpainted wood frame houses with weed filled yards and scraggy cottonwood trees in front. All the potholes were full of water from the recent rains.  There was no other traffic on the street, even though it was middle of the day.

On the left, the stockyards gave way to a blank faced building with Montana Range Abattoir and Slaughterhouse painted on its side in fading large block letters, while on the right the houses were replaced by wood frame apartment buildings, two and three stories high, with rickety outside wooden fire escapes.  The road came to an end in a cross street that had a group of trees past it.  

 

Just before the T intersection was a small convenience store on the right and a cindercrete block building on the left.  On the top of the one story building was a sign reading Three Moon Saloon.  The Saloon shared a parking lot with the abattoir.  The lot was unpaved, potholed and, except for a couple of old pickup trucks in front of the door, deserted.  Patrick pulled the Subaru in the parking lot and stopped in front of the door.

 

“Let’s go in and see if we can get some directions to the Sheriff’s Office, and maybe use the toilet.  It doesn’t seem to look like a place where we would want to eat.”

 

It didn’t look like the sort of place where I would want to pee, either.  If Patrick had not been with me, I wouldn’t even have wanted to go inside.  There were double glass doors at the front, one door was propped open with a stick, the bottom glass panel in the other was missing and replaced by a piece of plywood.

 

We went in through the doors and down the hall.  I think the thinning carpet on the floor squished under my feet. I was so glad I was wearing my hiking boots instead of shoes. Through some swinging old west style doors was a dingy room smelling of cigarettes and stale beer.  To our right was a long bar, unoccupied by patrons or a bartender, while straight ahead was a stage or platform, with a small drum kit at the back.  Each side of the stage had a lower circular platform with a stripper pole in the middle.  The front and far sides were lined with alcoves, closed with curtains of faded red plush, for privacy I presumed. There were no windows.

 

There were five patrons, all men in cowboy hats, seated at the tables.  Towards one table a waitress was hurrying with jugs of cheap lager beer.  She was dressed like what a slutty Hooters waitress would wear, with cowboy boots, short shorts, midriff bare, with a skimpy almost sheer top tied under her breasts. By slutty Hooters waitress, I mean, a regular Hooters waitress would think her slutty.  Her breasts were really ample in an enhanced sort of way.  When she reached the table, she squatted down to put the pitchers of beer on the table, giving all three men a great view down her top.  As she was showing herself off,  I wondered if she had paid cash for the fake tits she was flashing or if she had let the surgeon take it out in ‘trade’.  Not the sort of girl to get married, I judged, or at least not to the original father of her children.

 

“Like the crossties of the railroad, and the stars in the sky,” a voice on the PA warbled.

 

The juke box came on to some country tune I didn’t know as another similar waitress hurried by with what looked like shots of whiskey.  She did not kneel by the table but leaned across it to pass the two men their drinks.  As she bent forward, I saw that what I had thought were her short shorts were not shorts but a very short skirt.  I also saw that she had got into her ‘uniform’ in a hurry this morning because she had forgotten to put on her underwear.  I felt very uncomfortable and wanted to get out of there.

 

“Can I help you Mac?”

 

Patrick and I turned around.  The bartender had appeared. Patrick asked if I could use the Ladies Room.  I was trying to be unobtrusive as I signalled to Patrick I didn’t need to pee that badly.

 

“No”.  The bartender shook his head. “No”.  

 

Patrick can be unreasonably stubborn in my opinion. “Why not?  We will buy drinks if that is what you are driving at.”  Patrick does not at all like to back down.

 

“She can’t use the Ladies Room cause there ain’t a Ladies Room.”  It was the first time I actually heard someone make a noise that could be described as a guffaw. It did not sound pleasant or humorous.

 

Patrick is sometimes unreasonably stubborn in my view. I love him and want to marry him, but sometimes retreat is better. “What about them? Where do they go?” Patrick motioned to the two waitresses, the one with the big fake boobs and the one without underwear.

 

“They’re not Ladies.  If they need to go, they use the Gents. The boys don’t mind.”

 

Defeated, and not before time, we turned to leave.  Patrick asked directions to the Sheriff’s office.  He was still polite, his voice still reasonable. When he is upset, he rarely shows it. He says it gives the other side an advantage to show emotion.  He is a successful lawyer.

 

While Patrick reviewed with the bartender the directions to the Sheriff’s office, I saw another ‘waitress’ emerge from behind the curtains in an alcove along the back wall.  She was tying up her top, and was followed by a man doing up his belt.  She looked like she had about fifteen years less mileage than the other pair and had a cute face, but I don’t think she was a Lady either.  Definitely not the marrying kind.

 

We drove away from the Three Moon Saloon in silence, Patrick and I.  As Patrick navigated a turn that took us away from what I called in my mind Slaughterhouse Row and towards a more treed, leafy part of town, Patrick said, “I think we ended up in what is called the wrong side of the tracks”. Patrick has a droll sense of humour.

 

We crossed those same tracks in about another block, Patrick meticulously stopping and looking both ways before proceeding.  Being careful is what makes him such a good climber and lawyer. 

 

The right side of the tracks was much more salubrious.

 

Patrick Masters’ Narrative.

 

The good side of Town was much nicer.  The yards were weeded and the inhabitants of the houses had even used paint on their homes.  I pulled up to a three story brick building with a sign saying Hotel.  A cheerly looking single story annex had a sign saying Maisie’s Diner.  Just beyond should be the Sheriff’s Office.  I asked Juliette to order some coffee for me while I talked to the Sheriff, but she said she would wait in the car rather than go unescorted into another of Town’s hospitality establishments. I did not blame her.

 

The Sheriff’s Office door had an old fashioned bell on a spring that tinkled as I entered.  A voice from the office in the back told me he would be right out.  CNN was playing on the wall-mounted TV in the corner opposite the counter that separated the public part of the office from the police side.

I sat down to wait.  CNN had a follow up story on the Sloop Adventure Galley, which had gone missing in the Caribbean.

 

More in our story Missing in the Bermuda Triangle

 

Breaking News.  Breaking News  The missing sloop Adventure Galley  from which nothing has been heard for three days has been found!  But the Mystery only deepens as the ship, found sailing with all sails set south of Bermuda, had no crew or passengers on board.

 

The Adventure Galley, with twenty lucky winners of the Beauty n’ Brains essay contest sponsored by a mystery company, But I Kidd, on Instagram has been found, but with all twenty lucky winning contestants and all seven of the all-female crew missing.  The sails were all set, the life rafts were still on board, and there was no sign of violence or sickness.

 

The contestants, randomly selected after submitting photos and essays for a free Caribbean Cruise were from top Universities in the United States and Britain.  The crew was likewise made up of young accomplished female sailors under Captain Rachel Schmidt Wall.  All are now missing.  Has the Bermuda Triangle claimed more victims?

 

This is the fourth mystery disappearance from a yacht in the infamous Triangle in the past twenty years.

 

“Likely a kind of publicity stunt”, said a voice behind me as the TV snapped off.  “I’m Morrison, the resident deputy here in Town.  How can I help you?”

 

“I’m Patrick Masters. My girlfriend and I wanted to confirm that the Bighorn Wildlife preserve is open for wild camping and pick up any necessary permits.”

 

“Yes, the preserve is open now.  I can get your permits.  No hunting, at all, but fishing is okay with a license, and you should check in at an office so we can go on search if you do not return in a reasonable time.”

 

I got fishing licenses for both myself and Juliette, although we would be mostly hiking and climbing.  The deputy advised us not to go too far north, out of Cheyanne County, as north of there, further downriver, there were unorganized communities of self-described survivalists, mostly harmless, but some vicious, scratching out a living ‘off the grid’. “Most of them are barely getting by, they don’t have all the skills they think they do and are embarrassed, some are doing well, and don’t want anyone to know how they ae doing it.  All of them are pretty sketchy and aren’t above poaching and rustling. There is none of them wouldn’t rob you if they thought they could get away with it. Do ya have a gun?”

 

“No, we weren’t hunting this trip.”

 

“It’s not the animals you need to worry about as much as some of the people.  Stay south of this line here, and of course stay on this side of the Bighorn.  The other side is all ranches, and with their expensive stock they don’t like strangers on their range.”

 

I paid for the permits and licenses and thanked the deputy for the free advice, which contrary to opinion is often valuable.

 

I joined Juliette at the Subaru and we went into to Maisie’s Diner, mostly for something to drink and a light meal.  The cliental was a mixture of ordinary looking people  and people in what looked like costumes.  The men in cowboy gear and the women in long dresses looked like they were out of the 19th century.  There was no woman sitting alone I noticed. The women were either with a man, or in groups of at least three, with at least one of the women an older, like a chaperone.

 

Juliette paid for the simple, but delicious food, it being her turn.  The woman at the counter gave me a dirty look, but I returned her look with a hard stare and she lowered her eyes.

 

We got some fresh food at the rather quaint General Store and loaded the Subaru.  I filled up the gas tank, as such is always prudent and headed out of town.

 

Juliette Chen’s narrative

 

As we drove out of Town we passed another of Montana’s Road Signs:

 

Lazy F Ranch                                            60 miles

Consulate of Grand Duchy of Lutha             60 Miles

Bighorn Natural Camping Area                   75 Miles

 

I turned to Patrick and said, “that must be a joke sign.  A consulate, way out here?  I haven’t even heard of a Grand Lutha!”

 

Patrick considered for a bit, his brow furrowed in that lovely way it does when he is trying to think of something. After a couple of miles he finally spoke.

 

“Lutha is one of those European micro-countries, like Andorra or San Marino. Left over from the Middle Ages.”

 

“Sort of like Monaco and Liechtenstein?”

 

“Exactly.  Except it is stuck over in the eastern part, between Austria and Serbia, just south of Ruritania.  About 150 square miles.”

 

I was looking on Google now.  “The capital, and only city is Lustadt, total population of whole place is 145,000.  And get this Patrick.  They have some really old laws they haven’t bothered to repeal; some go back to when it was ruled by the Ottoman Empire in the 1300s.  They still lock people up for debt, and if the debt isn’t paid off after a year, they sell you into slavery.  Likely haven’t done that for a while though.  And their aristocrats have severe no poaching laws.  If a peasant is caught trespassing on a noble’s hunting estate, it is trespassing with intent to poach game and the same penalty: slavery.  Again likely not enforced though”

 

Patrick frowned.  “As a lawyer, I don’t approve.  As long as those old laws are on the books, they could be enforced someday.  They may think those laws are quaint and good for tourism, but they are still laws.”

 

“But why have a consul in Montana, of all places?”

 

“Not a bad idea, being a foreign consul, if you have something you don’t want the law to look into.  A consul’s land is foreign territory, where US law doesn’t apply.  Anything you want to hide, put in the consulate, and no search warrant can touch it. Any dodgy stuff you are doing, as long as you are in the consulate, Luthan law would apply not US law.”

 

“So the Consul, whoever he is, could even have slaves.”

 

“I guess theoretically he could, under Luthan law.”

 

We drove on for the next hour.  My book was really boring, I wondered if that Gor book I saw the shoplifter take was more exciting. Fifteen minutes into the drive took us to a bridge over the Bighorn leading to ranching country.  We turned north on the eastern side of the Bighorn valley and drove through a lovely land, turning green now the rains had come.  The highway clung to the top of the hills so the whole valley was spread out beneath our gaze.  Patrick spotted a red-tailed hawk lazily circling in the sky, and once we saw a small herd of Buffalo.  Bison, corrected Patrick.  He is always correcting me.

 

At some points the valley walls were very steep running down to the river.  An hour after turning north, we came to one such place where the road was practically looking straight down at the river.  Patrick stopped the Subaru as the road took a long curve eastwards away from the river.  There was a faint dirt road leading along the river to some rocks.

 

“Let’s take a peek”.  Patrick was grinning.  The Subaru bumped along the track to the clump of rocks.  We climbed the hill and saw a hidden valley.  

The top of the hills curved away from the river at this point, leaving a secret area running back from the Bighorn river.  Here, instead of being right by the river, the hills here, quite steep, almost sheer, had created a little valley.  It was a D shape, with the river, and the straight upright of the D, while steep cliffs closed off a valley, was hard to access from any place except the river.  Well hard to access, unless you were an experienced climber.  We got out our gear and climbed down the rock face.  

 

At the bottom we looked around. I grinned at Patrick, and he grinned back.

 

It looked like a Paradise.  An enchanted place to camp, where only good things would happen.