As he was watering the horse and mule at the creek, Jim stretched and tried to get the kinks out of his body. Eight hours in the saddle. He was due back in camp but, heck, he thought,  he needed a break. Chores could wait. He sighed and took a swig from his canteen.

        The Big Horns were awesome. He was enthralled by the mountains, loved the beauty and peace he always found there. The beauty of the wilderness and the companionship of his horse were keeping him sane, took his mind off his troubles.

He took in his surroundings while the sun warmed his back. They were about twenty yards off the Solitude Trail and ten yards below in a tangle of moose brush. The creek sparkled in the sunlight as it rushed unstoppably in the iron grip of gravity, taking melt water down to the arid plains miles below. Thickly wooded ridges hemmed him in and up slope sheer cliffs and granite, snow streaked peaks loomed, watching in their majestic indifference. He and the animals were puny, like ants, in this huge, wild organism, their needs and worries and lives meant nothing here.

        He listened to the rush and gurgle of the creek and the slurping of the animals drinking.  A breeze made the aspen leaves rattle and wafted the scent of pine pollen. A ditty ran through his head making him chuckle. Something about summer breeze and jasmine, whatever that was. One of those old sixties songs his dad kept playing over and over until they stuck in Jim‘s brain.

        Suddenly the animals stiffened and looked up from the rushing water. What? He looked around, saw nothing that would alert them. Then Jim heard it too, the high pitched whine of small engines.  The sound augered through his head like a dentist’s drill, shattering his reverie. “What the heck?”

He had never before heard the sound of engines in this wilderness zone.  All engines, even chainsaws, were prohibited by the Forest Service.  He shook his head and grimaced. Jim looked at his horse, Buck, who had turned his head toward the noise, ears pricked, eyes alert.

        “Crap.”

  The horse blew a raspberry, spraying water on Jim.

 “Nice, thanks for the shower.”

Engines in the wilderness were more than an intrusion. Pollution was more accurate. To Jim it was like somebody leaving dog poop on his front steps.

He wondered if this intrusion could be the protesters the sheriff warned about, but no, driving machines into the wilderness didn’t fit with environmental consciousness. What then?

        Jim peeked out when the machines swept past. He thought about confronting them. Six of them, ATVs, one guy on each with a load of gear strapped behind, rifles slung across their shoulders. “Oops.” Not a wise move. Reminded him of drunk flatlanders from Chicago invading the north woods of Wisconsin during deer season, tossing bottles and cans where ever they went, shooting at road signs, trespassing, and generally acting like jerks who thought nothing of fouling a pristine place. The world was their trashcan.

        He grimaced. “Nuts, armed jerks. What’s going on?”

        Jim, Buck, and the pack mule were almost back to Bob Lundsten’s wilderness camp. The pack mule was loaded with the supplies he had been sent to get.  Camp was about a mile up the trail, across Clear Creek, and tucked away on a pine covered hill.  Bob was at camp with the Stevens party.

        He felt a tingling between his shoulder blades. Jim sensed some primitive part of his brain go on full alert. Six guys with rifles driving through the wilderness. Hunting season was months away and those machines would scare game off anyway. Dang flatlanders. They were somebody’s bad news.  Maybe they were tied into the protest. Guns at a protest could end in disaster. He needed to alert the sheriff and he should warn Bob.  But camp was up the trail in the same direction that the machines were headed.

        He mounted up.  “Buck, time to get moving.”

        The horse turned his head, looked Jim in the eye, and snorted.

        “Yeah, we’ve got to, you get to rest and eat at camp.”  

        He decided to keep his distance. He’d head for camp but not on the trail. He hoped the men would just pass on by the camp. He would call the sheriff and then he could forget about them just like he was trying to forget about everything else. The last thing he needed was a bunch of armed yahoos buzzing around and fouling this paradise.

  They went up and over the trail, leading the pack mule. Jim let the horse pick his way up a slight slope to the top of a small wooded ridge, twenty yards on the other side of the trail. Buck found a game trail that paralleled the trail the ATV’s had taken. They could easily hear the engines ahead.  

        It was gloomy under the pines. The game trail meandered around the trees. Jim had to look back to make sure the mule followed the same line as the horse so she wouldn’t take the wrong way around a tree and snag the lead rope and yank it out of his hand. Mules could be perverse and he didn’t need the aggravation right now.

        About half way to camp the gloom got gloomier. The sun disappeared, the sky blackened. Buck twitched his ears. Jim shivered in a sudden drop in temperature. First a hiss, then rain drops through the gaps in the trees, then a steady rain. Storms came quickly in the mountains. Jim halted the horse, turned,  and got his duster from behind the saddle. He shrugged his way into it and hunched down under his hat.  

         When they got even with the camp, Jim stopped Buck. They could no longer hear the engine noise. Just as they started to relax, they heard shouting up ahead. About a hundred yards through the pine woods was Deer Lake.

          “Oh man, Buck. I bet Bob took the campers for some fishing at the lake. We better take a peek.”

        He tied the mule to a big tree and he and Buck followed the game trail towards the lake.  When they got near the edge of the trees, they halted. Jim nudged Buck a couple of paces to where they had a clear view of the lake but stayed within the tree line. He mentally shrugged at his caution.

        The lake stretched before them for about a hundred yards. The near shore was deserted, but there were figures at the far end of the lake where the trail passed its outlet to the creek. Jim got his binoculars out of the saddle bag.

He picked out Bob and several of the campers. The ATVs had stopped there. The rain was coming down hard. One of the campers, Chet Stevens, was waving his arms at the men on the ATVs, making shooing gestures. Bob was about ten yards back holding onto the two children. Eve, the nanny, hovered behind. Dave, the Stevens’ assistant was moving to get between Chet and the men.

        Buck gave a low grumble.  

        “Yeah, Buck, this is trouble. That idiot Stevens. He’s going to tick off this bunch. What a idiot.” One of those rich guys who thought their wealth gave them immunity from harm.

        Chet Stevens must have really lipped off. One of the men shoved him and Stevens stumbled backwards, arms windmilling, and landed flat on his back. Jim saw Dave gather himself. He’d wondered about Dave. Chet and Stella Stevens called him their assistant, but he didn’t seem to do any assisting. Muscular, crew cut, always wearing mirrored shades, Dave just seemed to watch. Hadn’t said five words the whole time they’d been in camp.

        Dave jumped forward and grabbed the guy, twisted, and threw him to the ground.

        Jim muttered, “no, no, no.”

        Another of the men took his rifle off his shoulder and clubbed Dave on the back of his head with the stock. Dave lurched forward and collapsed in a heap.

         Everyone seemed to pause for a few seconds. Jim could hear nothing except the hiss of the rain. He relaxed a little, hoping that this would be the end of it and the strangers would get on their machines and leave. Chet and Dave could lick their wounds. Chet would rant and rave over dinner. Jim would struggle to hold his tongue.

        Then the  man, big, burly, and bald, walked over to Dave and kicked him in the side. Dave crawled a few feet and then got up on his hands and knees trying to get up. “Just stay down. They’ve got guns. Don’t be stupid.“

        The big, bald guy slowly raised his rifle and fired at him point blank. Dave collapsed. The kids screamed. Then the man fired again.

        Man and horse flinched. The shots echoed off the cliffs on either side of the valley.

        “Holy shit,” Jim shuddered. “This can’t be happening.”  As much to reassure himself as the horse, he stroked Buck’s neck and whispered “you’re okay, you’re okay. They don’t know about us.”  

        The big guy turned and pointed the rifle at Bob. Bob raised his hands, palms out. The guy gestured toward Chet who was curled on the ground. Two of the others picked him up and set him on his feet.

        Jim and Buck watched as the killers herded Bob, Stevens, and the kids toward the camp at gunpoint, leaving Dave’s body where it lay.

        Buck looked back at Jim. Jim slowly shook his head. He swallowed and took a deep breath.

        “Okay, Buck, let’s see what they do.”

        Jim had Buck jog trot back to the ridge. From the cover of the trees, they watched the campers wade across the creek, Bob and Eve carrying the kids. The killers drove their machines across. Then they all went up the hill to Bob’s camp.

          The rain came down harder.