Meeteetse Massacre

By Lee Atterbury

A serial killer lurks in the Wyoming wilderness. Campers and fishermen are murdered with an axe. Jim Taylor and his horse, Buck, become reluctant participants in the hunt for the killer. They struggle through a blizzard to rescue a wounded FBI agent. Will the killer escape the hunters to claim more lives? Man and horse must find a way to stop the slaughter. The second in the author's Jim Taylor and Buck series of western adventure novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Atterbury
• Release date: Jul 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311632975

Lee Atterbury

About the Author: Lee R. Atterbury is a trial lawyer in Middleton, WI. He lives with his wife and nine horses. He is working on two other novels featuring Jim Taylor and Buck.

Book preview

Prologue

The clearing was an island of silver starlight amid the impenetrable blackness of the thick pine forest. The rhythmic gurgle from the creek floated on the still air. Ground squirrels crept about near the dead campfire seeking crumbs of ‘smores, ever alert for a change in the soft breathing from the tents. A small plush panda stood sentinel in front of one tent.

A figure emerged noiselessly from the depths of blackness, a wisp of night suddenly solid and mobile. With careful steps it glided toward the camp. When it neared the tents it stopped and stood in the silvery light, head cocked, listening and sniffing.

After a minute the figure padded over to a tarped bundle near the campfire. It crouched and quietly lifted an edge. As it started to reach into the bundle there was a noise, a stirring from one of the tents.

The zzizz of a zipper cut through the stillness like a buzz saw.

The figure went as still and taut as a stalking cat, the quiver of its tightening muscles more of an idea of motion than a physical event.

The man crawled out of the pup tent and stood. He took a deep breath of the chill air and shivered. Then he walked across the clearing toward the campfire. He stopped.

He turned his back on the dead fire. Looking up at the swirls of stars, he undid his pants and started to relieve himself.

Chapter 1

They halted just inside the wilderness boundary where the trees closed in and gave them shelter from the chill wind. The two riders dismounted and checked the girths on the string of horses and mules. They were quick and efficient but took time to skritch or pat each animal and mutter a kind word. Like the men, the animals welcomed the respite from the wind, a north wind come too early, and bringing the unwelcome promise of winter.

Bob Lundsten and Jim Taylor were on their way to pick up a family of drop trip campers they’d brought in several days before. The extra horses and mules were for the campers and their gear. When they’d finished checking the animals the men sat on a log and ate lunch from a backpack.

As they were eating, Jim’s horse, Buck, ambled over and stood behind the men. A sleek, well-muscled, bay quarter horse, he watched them eat. His deep, dark eyes displayed an intensity and intelligence and his black fringed ears, curved like cupped hands, were angled forward revealing his interest in what the men were doing.

Jim felt the smooth hair of the long, tapered head glide along his cheek. The horse’s muzzle with its white elongated triangle running down the middle briefly touched his nose. Then, with a startling quickness, Buck’s neck pressed against Jim’s shoulder and the horse grabbed a mouthful of potato chips from his hand.

Jim laughed. Buck, I’m thinking we might change your name to Minnie the Moocher or maybe Chas the Cadge. What do you think?

The horse snorted, blowing soggy fragments of chips all over Jim.

Bob started laughing. Looks like Buck got in the last word.

Jim grinned and shook his head. Yeah, as usual. After three marriages I’m used to it.

Bob stood. Let’s get moving. If the Steins are packed we’ll get back down to the trailhead by five and we can eat in town tonight.

Jim grunted. He was in no hurry to get to town. Up in the mountains he was free from his former life, no one could find him if he didn’t want to be found. Bison was a small town. Everybody knew everybody. In town, people could find him, letters and messages could reach him, and process servers could serve writs and subpoenas. Complications from his old life could catch up with him. Obligations and complications he didn’t want or need.

Buck nudged him in the back, interrupting his funk.

Yeah, okay, sorry.

_____________________________

They were only about fifty yards from the campsite when Buck, who was leading the caravan, suddenly halted. He snorted, bent his head down, and swiveled his ears forward. His entire posture shouted trouble ahead. Jim squeezed with his calves but the horse wouldn’t budge. Buck turned his head and looked at Jim. Buck wasn’t going another step.

Jim leaned forward. What’s going on, Bud?

Buck gave a deep grumble and shook his head.

Jim stroked him on the neck. Okay, old friend, I get it. He turned in the saddle. Hey, Bob. Something’s very wrong up ahead. Buck won’t go another step.

The other animals picked up on whatever had spooked Buck. They were looking around, wide eyed, ears pricked, and prancing about on the trail.

The men knew that this situation could get out of hand quickly. The animals were close to panic. Bob and Jim dismounted and started talking gently to the horses and mules.

Bob called to Jim, careful to keep his voice steady and businesslike, Jim, grab some rope. Let’s set up a couple of picket lines and get these guys tied up.

They quickly strung rope between trees and tied the horses and mules to the lines. Jim left Buck free knowing that Buck wouldn’t leave without him. With the animals secured, the men walked up the trail toward the campsite.

Buck had picked up a scent he’d smelled before, one he knew too well and wished to stay clear of. A scent that boded nothing but danger, a scent that for a prey animal triggered a most primitive instinct.

Chapter 2

As they walked up the trail the wind died down and the sun emerged from the overcast. Sunlight splashed on the rocky trail and brightened the greens of the pines and aspens. Jim was too apprehensive to be cheered by the improvement in the weather. He looked back at the horses. Buck stood in the middle of the trail, eyes and ears focused on Jim. When Jim walked on, Buck let out a bellow much like a horse in a barn would call to another out in the pasture.

Jim grabbed Bob’s arm and stopped. Buck doesn’t spook easily. He helped me take on those kidnappers. If he’s spooked, it has to be something pretty bad.

Yeah, I know it. It’s too quiet. We should have heard those two kids by now.

Ah, jeez. Please let those kids be okay. The kids had been polite and friendly on the ride up, full of questions and exuberance.

They walked into the clearing together. The men stepped cautiously, heads swiveling, not speaking. It was an exquisite place to camp. The grassy clearing was roughly circular and almost surrounded by forest. The creek ran along the far end of the meadow and beyond was a sheer granite cliff shooting almost straight up for a thousand feet. Two pup tents were pitched facing a fire ring of rocks. The tents flapped and billowed in the shifting breeze. Nothing else moved. There was no sign of the family.

Jim hesitated. Part of him wanted to turn and leave. Some primitive instinct was telling him to flee. But there were two children here. He set his shoulders and went ahead. As he got closer Jim noticed what looked like a bundle of clothes near a log that had been rolled up to the fire.

Why would someone toss a bunch of clothes there? Was their packing interrupted? Jim scanned all around for some sign of the family. Then he realized that the bundle of clothes had arms and legs. He blurted, Ah, shit, and ran forward.

The body was sprawled face down. Jim knelt beside it and shooed flies away from the head. There was a bloody gash in the back of the skull. Gingerly he turned the body enough to see the face. Sheldon Stein. Jim closed his eyes and swallowed hard to keep his lunch from coming back up.

Where was the rest of the family?

He heard Bob moan, Oh, god, and looked over at the tents. Bob was bent over next to a tent. As Jim approached, Bob vomited onto the grass.

Jim took a deep breath and blew it out. The lawyer part of his brain knew he needed to be an observer, take in details that might help an investigation. Another part of his brain, the part that had nightmares, did not want any part of this. He bowed his head while he struggled for control. Logic and duty overcame revulsion. Jim pushed the tent flap aside and looked inside.

Livia Stein lay in her sleeping bag, eyes clouded, sightless, her forehead split open, bits of brain matter and blood splattered over her face and her curly black hair. Her arms were inside the sleeping bag, no sign of a struggle. It looked like she had died in her sleep.

Jim backed away. Oh, man, he moaned. Bob, have you checked for the kids?

Bob spat and croaked, Jim, I can’t look.

Looking was the last thing Jim wanted to do. He’d have given anything to just walk away, leave this horrible place, pretend there wasn’t another tent. He gave a low groan and closed his eyes.

He trudged the few yards to the other tent, thinking, Let them be gone. Let them be gone, run off when their mom and dad were killed. Let them be hiding in the woods. He squatted in front of the tent and without hesitation pulled the flaps apart and looked in.

The kids were in the tent.

Jim gave out a growling whimper as he took in the horror. The boy, Brad, had died in his sleep like his mother, a bloody gash revealing bone and brain matter. His eyes were closed, his limbs still in the bag.

Sarah, sweet little Sarah with the pigtails, had awoken and tried to escape. She lay face down on top of her sleeping bag. Her pink pajamas covered with congealed blood, several gashes in her back and head. Jim resisted the impulse to count. Clutched in her hand was a fuzzy stuffed animal.

Jim backed away and walked over to a log and sat down. He felt hollow inside like something vital within him had been taken. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing: in, one, two, three; hold, one, two, three; out, one, two, three. Slowly he relaxed, felt the mountains and forest all around him, heard the gentle noises from the creek, focused on the beauty of this part of the world.

Bob came over and sat, too. Jim, what are we going to do?

Jim sighed and opened his eyes. He spoke with effort. We do what we’re supposed to do. Bob, get your satellite phone and call the sheriff. I’ll take care of things here, zip up the tents and get a tarp to cover Mr. Stein.

Leave the bodies here?

Yeah, Bob. I don’t like it either, but this is a crime scene. There may be evidence.

Jim waited until Bob left the clearing then got up and walked over to the kids’ tent. He stood there looking at the wreckage of two murdered innocents, remembering their curiosity, their energy, their laughter.

I’m sorry, so sorry. You had so much yet to live. You’d barely got started. Now you’re nothing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I will remember you. I can do that for you.

He looked around him at the sky and trees and mountains. He sensed that the evil that had done this abomination was still near. The reptile part of his brain, the survival instinct, told him to leave this place. He felt a tingle run down his neck and across his shoulders. Shivered. That ancient part of his brain felt the dark thing out there, a thing no sane deity would allow to exist.

He strained his eyes and ears trying to find the malevolence. Despite his instincts, if the monster showed itself he would try to kill it. Jim put his hand on the gun holstered on his belt. He focused all his attention. He scanned the clearing, listened for any unusual noise, smelled the air. Nothing.

Jim was about to shrug it off as his imagination when Buck let out a loud rumbling call and came loping into the clearing. Muscles bulging and eyes wild, the horse came to an abrupt stop in front of Jim and snorted. The message was clear to Jim so he mounted up, whereupon Buck did a rollback, pivoting on his hind feet, front feet airborne, turning 180 degrees, and took off for the trail. There was such a tight connection between the two that Jim had not hesitated. He knew that Buck had his back, that compact rocket, 950 pounds of muscle and bone and heart, was as totally devoted to him as he was to the horse. He trusted Buck with his life.

Buck had scented another human, a smell that reminded him of something not right, of blood and death. Overcoming the instinct to flee, he had charged in to protect his human.

Chapter 3

It was night by the time Bob and Jim drove into town. They’d hauled the horses and mules down from the trailhead and put them out to pasture on Jim’s land south of town. The sheriff had told them to meet him for dinner, but neither of them had much of an appetite.

Bob and Jim went to the Roundup Bar to meet the sheriff. On the far end of Main Street, the Roundup was a favorite hangout for ranch hands, construction crews and bikers. It was dark and dingy but the drinks were cheap and the food passable. Bob parked next to several rusty GMC pickup trucks, two of which sported mangy mutts guarding the truck beds.

They had to step around someone’s vomit at the threshold. Once inside, they waited until their eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Only neon beer signs lit the place. Coors, Bud, Miller, and Rainier competed for garishness. Jim was surprised to see an ancient Hamms beer sign in the corner, the one that said, although he didn’t need to read it, from the land of sky blue waters.

It was after nine on a weeknight. The few patrons were hard core drinkers, hunkered down on stools at the filthy bar cradling their drinks, eyes glued on a television over the back bar. Jim couldn’t identify the show but it featured bikini clad young women strutting on a beach. A juke box playing Emmy Lou Harris signing Hello Stranger competed with the show.

The Roundup was a place for serious, all day into the night drinking. A place to get slowly hammered while the world went about its business without you. A place where a man could fire a shot into the ceiling and not get thrown out of the bar. The owner of the bar, Mrs. Bettina McCall, widow of John Short Stack McCall, lived with her daughter in Tempe, Arizona, and left the management to Stoney Smithback. Stoney was a retired bull rider, claimed to have broken near every bone in his body, and didn’t give a rat’s ass what the patrons did so long as they paid for any damage they did.

They bought beers at the bar and looked for the sheriff. The sole waitress accosted them. An overweight bottle blonde pushing fifty, her figure was barely contained by her stained cowgirl outfit. Bags under her eyes, lids at half mast, she tried to muster a smile. She pointed out the sheriff who was seated in a booth in the dark recess of the room.

Bob and Jim slid into the booth across from him. He acknowledged them with a nod. A pint mug of beer and a half empty shot glass were at his elbow. From the glassy look of his eyes, they could tell that this wasn’t his first round.

Sheriff Zeke Thomason was the epitome of an old time western law man. About six foot five and a bit over 270 pounds, he had a rugged, weather-beaten face. His crow’s feet had crow’s feet. Dressed in Tony Lama boots, blue jeans, and a western snap button shirt adorned with the metal star of his office, he was John Wayne in the flesh.

A couple of years beyond sixty five, he’d been a law man all his life and Sheriff of Flint County for almost twenty years. He loved to tell stories and had a taste for strong drink. A widower, he lived by himself on a windblown ranch just south of town. Unlike many career lawmen he was not self-righteous, rather he was tolerant of the quirks of others. This included Jim, whom he suspected of smoking marijuana from time to time.

Bob had known Sheriff Zeke for years. Jim had only met him in June. Jim had witnessed a murder and kidnapping. Zeke had been unable to get into the wilderness and had tasked Jim to track the kidnappers and report to him. Jim had done everything asked of him and much more, doing things that Zeke could never have asked him to do. Although their personalities and backgrounds were as different as soup and nuts, mutual respect and friendship had bloomed between them.

Jim took a long pull on his Moose Drool Ale and sighed, Phew, man. I think I’m going to need a bunch of these.

Pretty awful up there?

Jim just shook his head.

Bob had finished his beer and waved at the waitress. Zeke, I just can’t talk about it. I wish I could forget everything.

Zeke gestured toward the waitress. You fellas be nice to her, she’s got a tough row to hoe.

Who is she?

Jim, your waitress is Barbara Ann Sutton. She’s raising two teenaged boys on her own.

Wasn’t she married to Junior Sutton?

She was, Bob. He’s her ex now and he’s pulling two-to-four on his fifth DUI. Junior crashed his pickup into the Citizens’ Bank and passed out after he finished off a twelve pack. Not that Junior ever helped her any.

Anyway, boys, drinks and dinner are on me.

Jim gave Zeke a sidelong look. He suspected Zeke had more on his mind than having a few companionable drinks.

Zeke cleared his throat. Bob, this horror you two found is going to knock hell out of the tourist season for the whole county. No one’s going to want to go up in the mountains with this killer on the loose.

I hadn’t thought about it but, yeah, if this guy isn’t caught, and fast, all my pack trips will cancel. A lot of businesses in town will be hurt too. He grimaced and looked for the waitress.

Well, Bob, I have a hunch that the media will hit town soon and in full force. People are fascinated by gruesome murders. Reporters, camera crews, production people, heck, every motel room in town will be full. Some will want guided trips to the crime scene. Jim shook his head in disgust.

Well, boys, you’re starting to get the picture. Zeke finished the shot and took a swig of beer. We’ve got a killer on the loose in the mountains, an unknown number of campers and hikers up there, and a three ring circus here in town. He finished his beer. Damn, my term expires in November. Why couldn’t this have happened next year?

There was some shouting and laughter from up at the bar as one of the patrons fell off his stool. The fellow staggered to his feet, made an exaggerated bow, and resumed his perch at the bar. Zeke looked over, shrugged, and turned back to Bob and Jim.

To top it off, I’ve got only four regular deputies to cover the whole county. The Forest Service is useless. They mean well, but if it’s anything more serious than an illegal campfire, they don’t know what to do. So I’m deputizing you two again.

What do you want us to do?

You are going to hate me for this. He grinned. I want you to baby-sit the FBI and any news people who want to go up into the mountains.

Damn it, Sheriff, I’m tempted to go home to Wisconsin.

You’ve been deputized. You can’t go.

Are you telling us that the FBI has claimed jurisdiction?

"Yup, the murders happened on