Stone Junction

There were three more stops before lunch: a fire-hollowed fir stump that held a tank of nitrous oxide which Daniel politely sampled and Mott nearly drained; a buried stash of black opium the consistency of taffy – Daniel declining, Mott biting off a piece the size of a walnut; and taped in the crotch of a young maple, a waterproof canister of LSD microdots, Daniel trying one, Mott several.

They ate lunch at the Palmer Ridge line shack. The cupboards were stocked with quart jars of chili and the propane refrigerator was full of beer. Mott dumped the contents of several jars into a large, cast-iron kettle. ‘Seeing as how we just met today,’ Mott said as he lit the stove, ‘I’m gonna cook you up my Special Mott Stocker Seven- Course Mountain-Man Shitkicker Lunch: a bowl o’ red and a six-pack. I make a whole bathtub full o’ chili the end o’ every month and stash it around wherever I might find myself working. Let me warn ya right now, Dan: It’s pretty damn tasty fare.’

The first bite left flesh hanging from the roof of Daniel’s mouth. He sucked air to cool it.

‘Spicy, huh?’ Mott said, shoveling another spoonful.

‘Yaaa,’ Daniel gasped.

‘You bet. Secret’s in the chiles. I grow my own, out o’ my own stock – been perfecting it for about ten years now. You mighta noticed that little hothouse out in back of the barn? That’s all chiles. And I go in there every chance I get and insult ’em. Call ’em stupid-ass, low-down, dipshit heaps of worthlessness. I pinch ’em, piss on ’em, slice off a branch here and there. Water ’em just enough to keep ’em alive. No water – that’s what makes ’em hot, but the abuse is what makes ’em mean.’

Daniel, popping his second can of beer, was still unable to speak, but he nodded in understanding.

Mott shoveled down more chili, sweat coursing off his forehead. ‘This is venison chili. Where’s the beef? Hey: Fuck the beef. And fuck all them fancy chili cookoff winner recipes. This stuff is deer meat, chiles, spring water, little bit of wild pig blood, and three tablespoons of gunpowder. Sometimes I throw in a handful of them psilocybin mushrooms if there’s any around, though personally I think they weaken it.’

‘So would sulfuric acid,’ Daniel mumbled, his lips numb. At the mention of acid he noticed the cabin walls seemed to be melting.

‘Eat up,’ Mott urged. ‘Lucille’s due in an hour and we still got ground to ride.’

‘I don’t want to insult your hospitality, but the chili’s a little hot for me. Makes my ears ache.’

‘Supposed to. Good bowl o’ mountain red should just kick the dog piss outa ya and make your dick grow an inch. But don’t worry, you’ll work up a taste for it. Only thing that’d be insulting is if you brought a sack lunch with a cheese-and-sprouts sandwich or some such stuff. Tuna. Shit like that.’

‘I’ll wash the bowls,’ Daniel volunteered.

Mott drained another beer. ‘I’ll twist us up a coupla joints for the trail.’

‘What should I do with the leftovers?’

‘Dump it back in the kettle for Pissgums. He deserves a treat. Hasn’t tried to kick me in the nuts since last Tuesday.’

Daniel watched with fascination as the mule slurped the chili from the pot, alternating each bite with a mouthful of damp moss from the trunk of his hitching tree. Daniel tried a handful. It helped.

‘You’re really pretty smart,’ he said appreciatively, patting the mule’s neck.

Pissgums snaked his head sideways and bit Daniel savagely just below the ribs.

Daniel’s yowl brought Mott rolling through the cabin door, his .45 in one hand and a large knife in the other.

‘No! No!’ Daniel yelled, waving his arms. ‘It’s just Pissgums. The son of a bitch bit me.’ Daniel hiked his shirt and showed Mott the egg-shaped bruise.

‘You fucking with him or did he get outa line?’

Daniel wasn’t sure if Mott was asking him or the mule, but he answered anyway. ‘I wasn’t doing a damn thing except feeding him and giving him a friendly pat on the neck.’

‘Shit. Never do that. Pissgums hates affection.’ Mott holstered his pistol and slipped the knife back in his boot.

‘You know,’ Daniel said, rubbing the bite, ‘I’ve spent a lot of time in the hills. I know the hills. I feel safe there. When I woke up this morning I was looking forward to a pleasant day gathering cattle, and here I am six hours later, reeling from drugs, my ears still humming from lunch, with some whiskey-drinking sadomasochist mule who almost ate my rib cage, on my way to see a mysterious woman for even more mysterious reasons that – you were right – I really don’t want to know, and I’m beginning to believe that things are seriously out of control.’

‘Always,’ Mott agreed. ‘But it’s like the Rock Island Line: You gotta ride it like you find it.’

‘Fine,’ Daniel said. ‘Fine with me.’

‘We’re gonna get on real good, Dan,’ Mott grinned, a wild twinkle in his faded blue eyes. ‘All aboard.’ He slapped Pissgums on the nose and swung into the saddle. ‘Let’s go meet Lucille.’

Daniel and Mott heard her coming. They’d stopped in the trees at the edge of the ridgetop and waited a few minutes when Daniel caught the sound. Startled, he glanced at Mott. ‘What’s that?’

Mott, holding in a lungful from the cigar-sized joint he was smoking, answered in a strangled wheeze, ‘Lucille.’

‘No,’ Daniel said, listening intently. ‘No, it’s a machine – hear it?’ He imitated the sound: ‘Chwop: chwop: chwop: chwop …’ When his drug-soaked brain finally realized the sound was familiar, he whirled on Mott: ‘Fuck! It’s a helicopter!’

‘Yuuuup,’ Mott exhaled. ‘That’s what we’re waiting for.’ Behind the dense cloud of smoke, Mott’s voice seemed disembodied.