Wilds of Wyoming – Part 3
by Swellison
"Are you sure she said . . . ?" Dean let the sentence end, staring at the ground in front of them as they stealthily progressed down the narrow path.
"You heard her. Eleven Friday night at the Astoria Hot Springs—and we're here." Sam stopped by a large rock. They could hear the faint sounds of voices and splashing from somewhere in beyond the rock.
"College students are crazy," Dean pronounced, gazing past the rock to see neat piles of shirts, jeans and boots along the edge of a fairly wide hot spring about twenty feet in front of them He turned and watched as Sam unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. Freakin' hell, was craziness catching? "What're you doing?" he hissed as Sam slipped his t-shirt over his head and laid it on the rock top.
"What's it look like?" Sam's eyebrows rose, and he shrugged. "When in Rome. . . " He glowered at Dean, and Dean met his gaze in defiant, fully-clothed form.
"Sam . . . I don't do shorts; I sure as hell don't do briefs. Or boxers," he added as Sam placed his jeans on the rock top, exposing his blue briefs.
"Prude!" Sam teased, and stepped around the rock, padding away to join the students in the naturally heated thermal spring.
The crisp night air allowed sound to travel farther than usual. Dean heard the splashes and voices halt abruptly as the skinny-dippers must've caught site of Sam. He'd look plenty imposing, especially to anyone lying in the hot springs, gazing up and up.
"Sam!" Dean heard a girl's voice—had to be Zephyr's—break the silence. "Over here."
Dean heard footsteps enter the water, and then a sort of flapping splash as Sam presumably joined Zephyr, seated in the water. He vaguely heard the girl ask a question, and clearly heard Sam's "Dean's—shy. He's keeping watch, though."
Dean heard the girl's indistinguishable murmur, and then Sam's somewhat strained voice, "Whack—lick—look?"
Dean almost rose from his crouch behind the rock, but the next thing he heard was Sam's unfettered laughter. He listened to it; it had been a long time since he'd heard Sam laugh like that. Sam had a really enjoyable laugh, when he got going, it was almost infectious. Dean had teased Sammy more than once growing up that Sam should sell his voice to the TV sitcom's soundtrack engineers-make some money. The last time Sam had sounded remotely that happy was in Richardson, after he'd superglued Dean's hand to that beer bottle, the sneaky bastard. In retrospect, it had been worth the lost layers of skin to hear Sam's laugh—not that Dean would admit that aloud, ever.
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Sam settled next to Zephyr, trying to minimize the splashing he made as he sat down in the shallow, exceedingly warm spring water. He was thankful that he'd taken the time to check out Astoria Hot Springs on the web, so he knew what to expect. A shame he couldn't persuade Dean to join them, but Dean was stubbornly against the idea, and once his big brother's mind was made up, it stayed made up. Once, Sammy could wheedle Dean into doing his bidding, but he'd been reluctant to play his trump card—his puppy dog eyes—too often, he'd already expended some of his capital just to get Dean to come to Jackson. He decided not to push his luck. It was just another example of how college stuff sent Dean into out-of-the-ordinary retreat mode.
This wasn't getting him any further with the case, though, Sam thought as he listened to Zephyr. "But, I thought Dean was with you. Where is he?"
"Dean's—shy," Sam fibbed outrageously, assured that the girl didn't know them well enough to catch the lie. "He's keeping watch, though." Curiosity got the better of him, and looking at the dozen or so students lounging in the hot springs, he asked, "Ah, you do know it's after hours and the hot springs' closed, right?"
Zephyr laughed softly. "No trespassing signs don't apply to geologists, that's the first thing you learn at field school. Although we're usually crawling under barbed wire, dodging sagebrush in the process. Slipping through Astoria's gate posts is mild by comparison. The second thing we learn is whack, lick look."
"Whack—lick—look!" Sam repeated more loudly than he intended and shook his head, he must've heard that incorrectly.
"Yes, Professor Sudbury's favorite saying and SOP in the field when examining a rock –whack a sample off with your geo hammer, lick the exposed surface and look at the rock's color, crystal size and composition with a magnifying lens." Zephyr grinned slyly. "Catchy phrase, don't you think?"
Sam laughed. "It certainly got my attention." Sam's voice was back in the lowered half-whispered tones they'd been using, to keep the conversation private. At least a dozen of Zephyr's colleagues were within yards of them, sharing the hot spring's therapeutic waters and talking in small clusters.
"About the hot springs—U of M geo students have been coming here after hours for decades. It's sort of an unwritten tradition and a great way to relax after a long, hard week in the field." Zephyr stretched, and Sam saw her pink bra shifting as she put her arms out to her sides, laying them lightly on top of the water. She wriggled her fingers, letting the warm water flow over them. "In the early days, the students drove here using one of the vans, but the powers that be frowned on using official U of M vehicles for these nocturnal hi-jinks, so the cook's truck has been the chief mode of transportation for years. Everyone piles into the back of the truck and luckily it's a short ride. Greg always says—" she broke off, swallowed. "Sorry, I keep expecting to wake up and have this be a bad dream, or something, y'know? Anyway, Marissa drove us here tonight. Have you found out anything, about Greg?"
"Nothing solid. Dean interviewed the kitchen staff, and I checked out Greg's cabin. We talked to Greg's cousins—Randy and Keith Ferrin, and they claim to know nothing about his disappearance. They have been in touch with Greg, and Greg borrowed a gun from Randy. Did you know anything about that?"
"Uh, yeah. Greg told me about his cousins shortly after I got here. And he told me about the gun, eventually. He was kind of twitchy about being followed. That's why he borrowed the gun."
Zephyr stared into Sam's face for a few seconds, the way Jess used to look when she was making an important decision. Zephyr's hands reached for her braid, loosening it carefully. "I had to do something to keep my hair out of my eyes in the field. The first week, I wore pigtails. I looked about twelve, so Allie suggested a central, braided ponytail. It keeps my hair out of my face and I've been wearing it that way ever since."
She lowered her hands from her hair that now fell freely about her shoulders. Sam noticed that Zephyr's right hand was curled into a loose fist. "I. . . haven't been entirely honest with you, Sam. Greg gave me something, for safekeeping, the last evening we spent together. This." She held out her hand to Sam, open palm revealing a small bundle, rolled up in saran wrap.
Sam took the object and unwrapped it. He blinked at the small piece of antler. "Is that—?"
Zephyr nodded her head. "I know it sounds crazy, but Greg told me that he shot that off of a jackelope."
"A jackelope?" Sam swallowed, trying to wrap his mind around this new element in the case. Sure, he was used to dealing with the unbelievable, the supernatural, but—a jackelope?
"Greg was out hiking, and he felt someone staring at him—said it was becoming a familiar feeling, he just knew that someone was watching him. So, he pulled the gun and confronted—a jackelope. He shot at it instinctively, and it bolted away. He searched the area where the creature had been standing and found that, on the ground.
"I haven't told anyone else about this, but Becca said you guys are very open-minded. I don't know how, but I figure this has got to be connected with Greg's disappearance, somehow and you need to know about it. I mean, it can't be just a coincidence, right?"
"Stranger things have happened," Sam said slowly, "but you're right, a coincidence would be highly unlikely. Can I keep this for a few days?"
"By all means. I've been gettin' a little paranoid hiding it lately. I'm starting to feel like someone's watching me."
"What? Where were you when that happened? And what time of day was it?"
"Nowhere in particular. Yesterday, we were out in Red Rock Canyon, mapping the formations and I had this weird sensation that someone was watching me. It almost gave me goosebumps. I spun around and looked, but no one was there. Just my imagination running away with me, I suppose."
"Maybe." Sam frowned. "Do me a favor and don't wander around alone, all right? Make sure that Allie or one of your other friends is in sight when you're out in the field. Just as a precaution," Sam assured Zephyr.
"Okay." Zephyr glanced at her waterproof watch and said, "We need to be getting back to camp."
At her words, Sam heard an increase in splashing as the skinny-dippers reluctantly made their way back to the shoreline and began slipping into their clothes.
Zephyr stood up and Sam also rose to his feet.
"Thanks again for meeting me, Sam. I emailed you some pictures of the camp and the surrounding area, just in case it's useful."
"Thanks, I'll check them out."
"We're doing a road trip down to Utah for a couple of days next week, so I may be even harder to get hold of than usual." Zephyr said as Sam politely turned his back and she pulled on her jeans and t-shirt over her slightly damp bra and underwear. "Bye, Sam."
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Dean waited until they were safely ensconced in the Impala before he spoke. Keys in hand, he turned to Sam and asked, "So, what did Zephyr have to say?"
"She knew that Greg borrowed a gun, for protection. And she gave me something."
"What?" Dean's eyebrows arched up. "A hickey?"
"Wha—? No, this!" Sam pushed the antler, minus its saran wrap, into Dean's hand.
After a cursory look, Dean questioned. "A piece of antler?"
"It's not from a deer," Sam said, his tone almost challenging.
"Too small to be elk." Dean eyed the antler. "Way too small." He ran his finger over the two fine points on the hard chunk of antler, one on the end and one a little over an inch lower. Dean handed the antler back to Sam and tapped the steering wheel with his left hand. "I'm not in the mood for twenty questions, dude. What's so all-fired important about this antler that your girlfriend had to give it to you at a hot springs rendezvous in the middle of the night?"
"She's not my girlfriend!" Sam denied, shaking his head. "Greg gave this to Zephyr, the last time she saw him." He took a deep breath. "She said he told her he shot it off of a jackelope."
"And you believed her?"
"We've been lookin' for something strange about Greg. This—" Sam shook his hand still holding the antler, "is strange."
"Yeah," Dean snorted, "but our kind of strange, not loony-bins abducted by aliens strange."
"Dammit, I knew I shouldn't have said anything about the antler tonight. Let's just leave this for now, and pick it up again in the morning. I'm beat."
Dean almost started arguing, letting Sam know in no uncertain terms that he shouldn't even consider withholding information from him about a hunt, ever. "Fine." he said, tight-lipped.
"Fine."
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Sam woke the next morning to an empty room. He'd gotten used to sleeping through his roommate's early morning risings at Stanford, when first Zach and later Jess had had earlier classes than his. But he usually rose before Dean; his brother was emphatically not an early riser. However, Dean knew how to catfoot around a room, be quiet as a mouse when the occasion warranted. Like if he was avoiding something. Sam winced, remembered they'd barely said two words to each other after getting back from the hot springs last night.
Noticing a folded piece of paper lying on the nightstand between the two queen-sized beds, Sam reached over and opened it. "Decided to look at this with fresh feet. I'll be back with lunch. Go get your geek on. Dean."
Brief and to the point –so Dean.
Sam rolled out of bed and into the bathroom, letting his mind dwell on the case while he showered. The pounding rush of hot water had always helped when he was stumped on a term paper in college. He brushed his teeth, dressed and hauled out the laptop, placing it on the light pine dining table towards the back of the room, underneath its one window.
Sam microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal while waiting for the laptop to connect. Pushingthe colorful heavy curtain patterned to resemble Indian beadwork aside, Sam peered out the window to confirm the empty space in the parking lot below. Dean had taken the Impala, so his research would have to be conducted from the motel room. Fortunately, the Super 8's amenities, in addition to the microwave, mini-fridge, and substantial light pine furniture, included free internet access.
Sam considered where to start as he opened his search page and stared at the advanced search space. Finally he placed the antler on the table and typed in antler measurements and growth, determined to prove that what he said to Dean last night was true; their specimen wasn't a deer antler. He started flipping through the page results, clicking on the most promising-sounding matches. After perusing a few sites, he stood up and retrieved his notepad and a pen, sat back down and started taking notes.
Hours later, Sam's researching was interrupted by the creak of the door opening. He peered over the top of his screen to see Dean enter, a plastic bag of fast food dangling from his arm as he closed the door quickly behind him. Their room was on the third floor, and Sam knew the interior room entrance put his big brother on edge. Dean much preferred an unhindered, street-level exit. Dean had taken one look at the low-slung split rail fence and painted half- wagon wheels strategically placed at the Super 8 hotel's covered driveway entrance and snorted. "Tourist trap."
"I brought lunch," Dean said as he crossed to the back of their narrow room. The off-white walls could only do so much to create the illusion of airiness and space.
"I see that," Sam answered, watching as Dean plopped the bag on the other side of the table.
Dean extracted a wrapped package. "Southwest chicken salad, thought you'd eat that."
Sam pushed the laptop to the side, reaching across for the salad, in a covered black plastic bowl. "Thanks." He recognized it for the olive branch it was. Sam glanced at his watch, surprised to note that it was almost one. Definitely lunchtime.
Dean grabbed a bacon double cheeseburger and large order of curly fries from the bag, before crushing it into a ball and tossing it into the wastebasket underneath the free-standing coat rack on the adjacent wall.
"So." Sam snapped the lid off his salad and opened the package of salad dressing, squeezing it to dribble over the lettuce, chicken, cheese, tortilla chips and assorted vegetables. "How'd your morning go?"
"I talked to Deputy Hanson. He really is a dick, or close enough. He's firmly of the opinion that Greg just got sick of his job and quit—he's not really missing at all, more like a runaway. But Hanson figures Ferrin's a legal adult and, even if he did run away, it's not a crime.
"Then I went over to the visitor's bureau and asked about any abandoned ranch houses in the area. I remembered that you'd found a few sketches of abandoned ranches in Greg's sketch book, thought maybe he was using one of them as a hideout. I told Cynthia—the girl at the visitor's center—that I was looking for picturesque abandoned old homesteads to photograph. She was very helpful, gave me a map with a few locations to check out."
Dean grimaced. "More dirt roads, but all the sites were long abandoned; no one's been living there for the past fifty years, at least. No sign of Greg or evidence that anyone's been anywhere near those places, other than a few photographers. Then I drove back to town and got lunch. So, how's your research going?"
"I'm making some progress." Sam munched on a forkful of salad. "For one thing, I know way more about antlers than I ever thought I would. Did you know that the July moon is referred to as the full buck's moon, because the bucks' antlers are very prominent, halfway through their growing season? Since they're still growing, they are also coated in velvet, which is really a soft, protective skin that supplies blood and nutrition to the deer's growing antlers." Sam didn't need to remind Dean that their piece of antler was entirely velvet-free, further proof that it wasn't from a deer.
"Huh," Dean mumbled around a mouthful of bacon double cheeseburger.
Sam pondered their lack of progress. "If it was any other hunt, what would we do?" he asked himself, not realizing that he'd spoken the words aloud.
"We'd find out the history of the hou—" Dean broke off, and Sam couldn't tell if Dean also caught the echo of their conversation in Lawrence, back when they were investigating their childhood home, or not. Frustration colored Dean's next words. "But we don't even know where Greg disappeared from, dammit!"
"Does it even matter? This is Wyoming, chock full of ghosts of the Old West. Cowboys and Indians. Indians—now, that's something I haven't looked into, yet. "
Sam hastily finished his salad, and then drew the laptop back in front of him. After a quick search, he said, "Native Indians in this region are mainly the Arapaho, Blackfeet and Gros Ventres tribes." Sam flipped through a few sites as Dean chewed on his curly fries. "Arapaho seems like the most prevalent tribe in Jackson. I found the Jackson Historical Society's site, which tells about the founding days of Jackson. Town was named after—"
Sam glanced up and caught Dean in mid-eye roll. "Never mind, that's not important. There's a link to a couple of tribal information sites, though."
Sam was vaguely aware of Dean finishing his sandwich and bussing the table as he continued his online searching. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean pick up the antler and slip it into his pocket. Dean dumped the trash in the wastebasket and then walked over to Sam's side of the table, peering over his shoulder as Sam skimmed through the information on the page. "Listen to this! One of the most colorful leaders of the Arapaho tribe was Yellow Beaver, a fierce warrior who was also the tribe's medicine man, or shaman. He was vehemently opposed to the US Army's resettlement program, and attempted to thwart and circumvent it whenever he could. Tragically, he was killed during a raid on a local ranch, attempting to acquire horses for his tribe. His early death left a gap in the Arapaho's leadership, and the tribe suffered significant setbacks dating from Yellow Beaver's death in 1895."
"Shaman, huh?" Dean mused. "Y'think maybe he was a skinwalker?"
"Skinwalkers are more common in the Navaho and Nez Pierce tribes, further south of here. Besides, skinwalkers usually appear as larger animals, don't they? Closer to human-size like mountain lions, wolves or even bears."
"Okay, so not a skinwalker. How about your basic, garden variety pissed-off Indian spirit, then?" Dean asked. "The Indian chose the unlikely form of a mythical creature—a jackelope—to spy on his white man enemies. A neat choice, really, because who's gonna admit that they saw a jackelope? They'd be the laughingstock of the town."
The laptop emitted its 'you've got mail' tone and Sam idly flicked open another window, to scan his mailbox. The new post was from Zephyr, with an attachment, and Sam remembered the promised photos. He opened up the attached file, and flicked through a few photos, stopping at one showing neat rows of tin cabins with a picture-perfect mountain backdrop. "Camp Davis under the shadow of Beaver Mountain" was Zephyr's caption. Sam suddenly tapped the screen, tracing the sideways image of a beaver, carved into the mountain by centuries of roaring streams, giving the mountain its name. "Beaver Mountain, overlooking Camp Davis. One of the drawings in Greg's sketchbook was a bird's eye view of the camp, what d'ya wanna bet it was from Beaver Mountain? It's been staring us in the face all along."
"What d'ya wanna bet we found Yellow Beaver's Happy Hunting Grounds?" Dean countered.
"What did Keith Ferrin say? Our great-great grandpa killed an Indian trying to steal his horses?"
"Back in the 1890's. Yellow Beaver died in 1895. And Keith's great-great grandpa would be Greg Ferrin's ancestor, too."
Sam turned his head to face Dean squarely. "Dude, we need to check out Beaver Mountain," they said simultaneously.
To Be Continued