Meadowlarks Read online

  Thomas Holladay

  Meadowlarks

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also By Thomas Holladay

  Dedication

  Meadowlarks

  Meadowlarks | By | Thomas Holladay | Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  THE END

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  About the Author

  Dedicated to my wife, Wilma, and our daughter, Michelle

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locals are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from this author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  ISBN:

  FOR MY WIFE, WILMA, and our daughter, Michelle

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  Think Clive Cussler combined with Indiana Jones for an idea of the atmosphere and adventure that Treasure promises to its readers. Then add a dose of espionage-style thriller components as the characters interact and Michael discovers that his beloved Katrina is threatened on more than one level.

  The fast pace of the adventure, combined with the myriad of special forces operating against one another and the backdrop of supernatural influences, makes for a story that is compelling and hard to put down.

  If it's a supernatural adventure story in the style of Indiana Jones that is desired, Treasure provides just the ticket for a gripping journey filled with twists and turns, whether it be over the ownership of a dangerous treasure or matters of the heart.

  THOMAS HOLLADAY EXCELS in descriptions that are gripping and action-packed.

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  Meadowlarks

  By

  Thomas Holladay

  Chapter One

  I tried to warn them but they would not listen. The white man never listened to an Indian anyway.

  Outside my hut, men cried out in the cold night, running for their lives, the glow from their lanterns and torches rushing past, their guns firing from all around. Some of their bullets cracked through the thin walls of my hut.

  I sat with my back to the door, afraid to turn and look, crying out to my forefathers for protection, raising my voice against the heavy weight of my fear.

  It already knew where I was, the dark spirit of that place, protector of the Valley of Wonder, the sacred valley of our ancestors.

  Outside, the cries from the miners broke off one by one, some shrill, others with low grunts. Their gunfire became uneven, tapering off with each taking of a life. When all their gunfire finally stopped, the shrill, triumphant scream of the creature echoed from the valley walls. The shrieking laugh that followed sent chills across my shoulders and down my back.

  A heavy silence fell over the gold camp, a time of breathlessness I could not measure.

  The waning flames from my small fire suddenly jumped higher. A blast of frozen air told me the deerskin curtain over my door had been pushed aside.

  The creature had come into my hut, standing close behind me. Hot, wet breath, stinking of fresh blood, licked at the back of my neck. I closed my eyes and continued the ancient chant of our people, even louder than before.

  I did not turn to look.

  NOW SOMEWHERE IN HIS nineties, not sure exactly, John Crow was amazed by how clearly he remembered his great-grandfather's stories. He and other children had crowded into his hut on the Washoe County Indian Reservation to listen to stories of the gold rush days of the 1850s. On cold winter nights, they turned their backs to the fire, somehow warmer, watching the reflection of the flames flicker in his great-grandfather's eyes, the way they must have looked that night.

  So long ago.

  His great-grandfather's shadow from the open fire would sway and skip across slats on the wall behind him, a magical, fearful dance; a sharp, clear memory.

  His great-grandfather had told them of how he'd warned the miners not to use explosives to tear up the earth and not to use acids to purify their raw ore. They were fouling the streams and river in this sacred place of the Paiute.

  They had refused to listen to a young Indian hired to provide them with fresh meat. The morning after the slaughter, the few survivors from outlying camps had looked at him with unjust suspicions.

  Why had this Indian been spared while so many of their friends lay mutilated and headless, frozen into blood-soaked snow and ice?

  Everybody, including John's great-grandfather, had packed up and left, leaving those frozen bodies for the wolves and worms.

  Maybe they had received a decent burial. The church cemetery had some very old, unmarked graves. Willis had never spoken of it.

  Not surprising.

  Nobody ever spoke of what had happened ten short years ago, that night when fear again entered this valley.

  John climbed onto his front porch near the giant Douglas fir, taking in his view. On the far side of the valley, shadows crept up the face of the mountain, still some daylight, a good time of day for memories.

  Mostly good.

  It had been at the annual mustang round-up down in Reno, where he'd first met Jethro and Mary Lou Potter. Jethro had asked John's advice on horses and purchased all three John had recommended. They'd hired John on the spot and brought him here to this sacred valley. He'd not yet grown to manhood, but he'd earned a reputation for knowing horses.

  It had taken a few years for John to realize his location, this sacred valley of his people. He could not now recall the exact circumstances of his enlightenment.

  No matter.

  Jethro had purchased the whole valley from the land office down in Sacramento in 1935, not knowing about the gold or about those early miners, the ones from his great-grandfather's stories. That had been the beginning of the Potter Ranch.

  In those early days, Willis Donner had been the only other resident, living on the Perch, a high granite dome that overlooked the entire valley. The Perch and John Crow's place were separated by a fast moving stream, impossible to cross from up here.

  Around 1940, Jethro and Mary Lou had given Willis clear title to the Perch and about five acres surrounding it. A year later, they'd given John Crow title to his one acre. Their reason given for both deeds of title had been services already rendered.

  John could see most of the valley from here. Willis could see the whole valley from the Perch.

  In those early days, John had never felt the fear described by his great-grandfather, not once in all the seasons that had flowed, not even after realizing where he lived, not until that night ten years ago. Now, that fear fell over the valley with each coming of the full moon.

  Never forget.

  John stepped down
and walked out from under the overlapping roof planes of his teepee shaped house, looking west over the top of the sheer cliff into which Willis had set long redwood logs supporting the high point of his steeply pitched roof.

  Looks like a tepee.

  Well, half a tepee.

  He'd been angry with Willis at the time, thinking Willis was mocking John's Indian heritage.

  Not Willis.

  He swelled with pride, looking at it now. John's fine house fit this natural terrain perfectly.

  Home.

  The sun had already dropped behind the mountain.

  Time to prepare.

  The family of groundhogs downhill from John's house were saying goodbye to the day, their heads poking out of their holes, chirping at one another, at the twilight, at John.

  They all ducked into hiding, a hawk swooping down.

  The hawk rose with the breeze, floated over the tall trees near the house, and pulled its wings back, plunging into the forest. The shrill scream of a squirrel announced the hawk's success; supper.

  The way of nature.

  He inhaled deeply the pungent odor of wolf bane, those night-blooming red flowers Willis had scattered about, thicker near the house. They looked native to the terrain, same as the house.

  Five miles up the valley, white smoke hovered above the village, rising from the big wood-burning stove in Jacobsen's Emporium, getting ready for the night. The village had already fallen under the shadow of the mountain.

  Time to prepare.

  John climbed back onto his porch, forever amazed by the craftsmanship, the tightly fitted stone and timber that defined his house. Heavy stone buttresses at the bottom welcomed the tightly fitted windows, rising to embrace redwood timbers.

  Willis had a God-given talent appreciated by everyone but Kidro Potter. Kidro cared only for Kidro.

  Getting late.

  The full moon rising over the eastern rim stood in stark contrast to the darkening sky; a clear night.

  Early moonlight on his three inch thick, solid oak door highlighted the pattern Willis had chiseled into it. The geometric, interconnecting lines resembled a bird in flight; a crow, perhaps, or one of Willis's beloved meadowlarks.

  A chill crossed his shoulders, the humbling admiration for such fine craftsmanship. He crossed the threshold, closed his door and dropped the heavy oak bar into place; a solid barrier against whatever might come. He moved across the upper stone floor and secured the narrow, thick oak shutters over the windows.

  Nothing could get inside now.

  His fortress secure, he grabbed a match from over his wood burning stove and lit an oil lamp. He trimmed and carried the lamp down stone steps into the living space where he'd spread a large Navajo rug over the clean, white sand floor.

  He set the lamp on a table Willis had carved from a fat tree trunk and knelt to light the kindling in his already prepared fireplace. Dry slivers ignited quickly and spread to twigs. Flame leapt and crawled up the sides of heavier logs until the heat forced him to step back.

  He fingered the well worn Bible on the mantle and wondered if this night was from God or from something else? His Bible had no answers.

  Through all these years he'd never been able to understand the nature of a night like the one now at hand. His great-grandfather's stories lacked explanation.

  It hadn't come with each full moon. Even after they discovered it would take a young bull calf and leave people alone, it hadn't always come. Maybe it hunted in different places.

  Who knows?

  Why the residents in this valley hadn't all left mystified to John, only a little, was a bit of a mystery. This valley had proven to be an unnaturally healthy place to live.

  John pulled his medicine bag from around his neck, opened it and emptied it onto the rug. He dropped to his knees and studied the pile of small sticks, smooth stones and tiny pieces of bone. After seeing how they lay, he swept up the pile and tossed it into the air. He watched the bits and pieces fall again, studying the pattern.

  Tonight, it will come.

  The hair on his neck stood up, a spiritual force. He threw his head back and lifted his voice in the ancient, melodic chant of his forefathers. Maybe it would help protect him and his lifelong neighbors.

  Yes, even Kidro.

  KIDRO POTTER SAT AT the dining table Willis Donner had built into the wide bay window that jutted from the side of the Potter kitchen. The wood framed kitchen had been built over the top of the stone-walled carriage house, now used as a garage. Being so high up, the kitchen didn't need iron bars or protective shutters.

  From here, Kidro could see up River Road to the village and all the way around to his lower meadow where fine, sleek, Black Angus cattle grazed near the brook that wound its way into the tall timber forest at the lower end of his valley.

  Down in that forest, the brook took the run off from the lower hot spring and emptied into the river. Just beyond, the river flowed strong over the falls and down into Pickle Meadow, Leavitt Meadow Recreation Area and the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center. The Marines never came up here, not into Kidro's valley.

  Only a few big trees grew in Kidro's lower meadow, those that found deep boulders to root around. The ground was otherwise too soft to support tall trees. Patches of brush hugged portions of the brook and tall grass covered the rest.

  His young heifers and steers would be ready for market in another month. The remainder were breeders, sold out to canned goods companies when they got too old.

  Every summer he allowed Basques to drive in herds of sheep to crop grass in both his upper and lower meadows. In return, each year, his family members had received a fresh young lamb and a fine, handmade sheepskin coat. The trade cost him nothing. The grass needed to be cut. His cattle preferred the feed corn he placed in bins near the brook. Corn produced better beef, anyway.

  Yep.

  Kidro Potter raised some of the finest table beef in California.

  Hell, in the country.

  In the world.

  He poured his second glass of Canadian Club rye whiskey, recapped the bottle and sipped.

  He enjoyed this time of day, sipping whiskey. With the sun long gone, the thin clouds over the western rim had turned pink, orange and gold. Some might call this a beautiful sunset, those who enjoyed such things.

  J.J. had enjoyed these sunsets. So had Kisro's wife, before she'd been taken.

  A little down from the rim and high up the slope, John Crow's house had already been shuttered, already dark. A thread of white smoke swirled and dissipated into the evergreen trees above the cliff. That stinking Indian had prepared for the night.

  Damn squatter.

  That stupid, superstitious Indian was Kidro's closest neighbor. Kidro had never had much use for Indians in general, and he'd never liked this one, a real know-it-all when it comes to horses.

  Across the ravine from Crow's, above the waterfall, lamplight winked through the treetops from the Perch, Willis Donner's place. The glass reflected sunlight in the daytime and lamplight at night, a constant reminder of Willis's so-called right to be there.

  God, I hate that bastard.

  Kidro's parents had always treated Willis like a favored member of the family and Kidro had always resented him for it.

  Hell, he'd never be able to do anything to get him and Crow out. That knowledge gnawed his gut near every night at this time, looking up at their two properties, both properly registered down in Sacramento. Kidro hated himself for hating both of them and doing nothing about it.

  He squirmed on the cushioned bench and turned to look up River Road; still no sign of Nason. He drained the last of his whiskey and looked into the adoring stare of Scooter, his Springer Spaniel, sitting on the polished stone floor, waiting.

  He knows.

  "Nason's always late, isn't he?" Kidro smiled.

  His dog's tail swept back and forth against the floor.

  "You’re right.” Kidro set the glass next to the bottle and stood, feeli
ng soreness in his left knee where Gilpin’s horse pinned him against the lower corral rail. At age sixty-eight, Kidro didn’t heal as quickly as he used to. He’d probably limp for a month, maybe for the rest of his empty life.

  Stupid horse.

  Kidro forced himself to walk through the pain to the kitchen door. He lifted his lightweight Levi jacket from a hook and put it on. He made it through the living room with only a slight limp and climbed three stone steps to the entry foyer. He dragged his heavy black Stetson hat from the deer antler rack Willis had mortared into the stone wall since before Kidro could remember and put it on. He opened his new factory-made entry door and followed Scooter outside.

  As long as Kidro lived, Willis Donner would never hang another door here.

  Scooter shot down the stone steps and rounded the corner of the garage before Kidro shut the door. Pain forced him to use his right leg, limping down the steps, keeping the left knee straight like some kind of cripple. Climbing down steps seemed worse than climbing up. Hell, he hated pain any way it came.

  That stupid horse cost too much, five hundred bucks and a bull calf.

  He wove his way up the rocky path through tall pine and limped out of the woods into his upper meadow where stubby grass mixed with sagebrush in rocky soil. He followed Scooter up the well worn trail, limping more instead of less.

  “Stupid horse.”

  Scooter reached that flat stone far ahead of Kidro, chasing those ever-present meadowlarks, howling and baying until the sky was filled with swirling, yellow-breasted birds. The dog almost never barked, earning Kidro’s constant gratitude, but he allowed it for chasing these stupid birds, always singing stupid bird songs.

  Kidro never had liked noisy things, especially noisy people like Gilpin. He gritted his teeth, hating Gilpin more with each painful step. One good thing about this sore leg, another reason to hate Bruce Gilpin.