Chapter 19 - The Shadow on the Creek
We thought it was over.
By Wednesday afternoon, the court transcripts had been published in the county herald. The water consortium’s application was quietly withdrawn from the state board’s docket following an emergency session called by two reform-minded town aldermen. Vivian was sitting in a county holding cell awaiting transport to the state penitentiary in McLoud.
The farm had settled into an easy, peaceful rhythm. The autumn air was crisp, scented with pine smoke from Owen’s wood stove. Ellie sat on the porch steps after school, doing her algebra homework with Buster resting his gray-muzzled chin on her knee.
I walked down to the south pasture fence line with a pair of fencing pliers to finish repairing the cut wire from the week before.
The afternoon sun was sinking low, painting the blackjack trees in deep shades of crimson and copper. The Cimarron River was a ribbon of silver half a mile through the bottoms, its current sluggish in the dry autumn cold.
As I tightened the top wire with the come-along winch, Buster suddenly bolted from the porch.
He didn't bark. He ran low to the ground, his ears flattened, sprinting down the drive toward the creek culvert with terrifying speed.
"Buster!" I yelled, dropping the pliers into the red dirt. "Buster, heel!"
The dog ignored me. He plunged straight into the thick willow scrub bordering the creek bed, snarling with a ferocity I hadn't heard from him since he fought off a coyote two winters ago.
I ran toward the culvert, pulling my pocketknife from my jeans. "Buster!"
A sharp yelp cut through the trees.
Then the sudden, heavy roar of a high-displacement diesel engine revving violently in the dry creek bed.
I burst through the willow branches just in time to see a heavy, unmarked black Ford F-350 with blacked-out windows accelerating through the gravel wash, throwing twin rooster tails of wet stone and mud into the brush.
Buster was lying in the weeds beside the water, clutching his front leg, whimpering in pain.
"Owen!" I screamed, dropping to my knees beside the dog. "Owen, bring the truck!"
The dog’s leg was broken, bent at an unnatural angle where the front bumper had grazed him. But as I lifted Buster’s trembling body into my arms, my eyes caught something lying half-submerged in the shallow creek water where the black truck had been parked.
It was an open military-grade Pelican case.
Inside, resting on waterproof gray foam, were not tools or surveillance cameras.
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Inside were six glass vials of clear liquid, sealed with red rubber stoppers, a veterinary syringe, and a waterproof map of our land—with our primary spring source circled three times in red ink.
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