Yellowhead Blues: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery by R.E. Donald

Author:R.E. Donald [Donald, R.E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Proud Horse Publishing
Published: 2019-07-20T22:00:00+00:00

– – – – – FOURTEEN

Léon woke with a start, momentarily confused. In his dream, he was riding his favorite little mare. She was small and quick and cowy. Jazz, or Jazzy as he used to call her, was a sweet horse, one of the best he’d ever owned, and when she was in her late teens he’d been happy to sell her for a song to a family with young kids just learning to ride. He knew she’d be pampered and cared for until the end. She deserved it. He rubbed his eyes, listening to the hubbub of curses and conversation and flushing toilets up and down the cell block, wishing he could be back inside the dream. In the dream he was riding Jazzy up the rough forest service road toward the abandoned Nahatlatch fire lookout northwest of Boston Bar, just as he had years ago on a clear, crisp day in late September with an old friend from Boston Bar. They’d had lunch beside the weathered tower, looking out over forested slopes on the surrounding mountains and south along the Fraser River toward Boston Bar. Just buttered bread and chunks of cheese and an apple, washed down with a thermos of coffee, but a fine meal nonetheless. And it was a fine memory. In the dream he could even smell the scent of sweating horses and fresh manure, feel the cool breeze on his face and the leather reins between his fingers.

But now, awake, he was in jail. No cool September breeze, no mountain view, no sweet-tempered Jazzy between his legs and no lazy clop, clop of hooves on the hard-packed dirt or the hoarse cries of ravens overhead. Why was he here? Was God punishing him for something? Yes, there were times he had hurt people in his life, but he always thought God had guided him at those times. Sometimes it was to protect himself, sometimes to protect a person or an animal not capable of defending themselves. Had he misunderstood?

He swung his legs out of the bunk, sat staring for a moment at his feet as he wiggled his toes above the cold floor. Everything was new and shiny in his cell. He wondered if an old building would feel less like a jail for him, but he did appreciate that everything was clean. And he liked that he didn’t have to share the cell with someone else. He’d had to share a cell once years ago, back in Quebec. He remembered how unpleasant it became to see the other man’s toothpaste and spit sliming the sink, smell his farts and shit, listen to the guy belching and coughing at night when he was trying to fall asleep. Things could be worse. He learned that long ago. Things could always be worse.

As long as the truth came out, he’d be okay. Pat wasn’t a bad guy. He had no beef with Pat. The gypsy kid, though, that wannabe cowboy who worked for Pat, he was bad news.

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