In The Dark of the Night

By LeRoy Schuring

After the death of his father, eighteen-year-old Terry Wheelington travels from Canada to Utah to live with his uncle Ted Wheelington, Aunt Cora, and two ranch hands--Burt Foster and Jed Wolfe--on his uncle's cattle ranch. Receiving a chilly reception from his estranged uncle, Terry wonders if perhaps the move had been a big mistake. Then duri

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brilliant Books Literary
• Release date: Feb 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889454823

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Copyright © 2024 by Leroy Schuring. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published in the United States of America

Brilliant Books Literary

137 Forest Park Lane Thomasville

North Carolina 27360 USA

ISBN:

Paperback: 979-8-88945-481-6

Ebook: 979-8-88945-482-3

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Author’s Note

About the Author

PROLOGUE

AS I ABRUPTLY awoke, roughly startled up out of a deep, pleasant dream, I instantly noticed a drastic change in the movement of the yacht. The gentle, lullaby rock that had guided me down into sleep had turned to a violent, pitching roll, nearly throwing me out of my bunk. I quickly sat up, my heart jerking with fear, and pushed aside the curtain over the porthole above the bed.

A ferocious storm dumped its rage down on the yacht, tossing the boat about on the churning waters of the Saint Lawrence River. A blinding burst of lightning briefly illuminated the dark interior of the cabin with an eerie glow that prickled the skin. Pellets of rain struck hard against the glass of the porthole like a handful of tossed pebbles, and thunder reverberated through the air in sharp cracks. As I squashed my nose up against the chilly glass, I saw at the very edge of my peripheral vision a bright flicker of orange slightly to the left of the circular window. The shrill howl of the wind quickly drowned out the unsteady throb and thump of the craft’s engine.

I am a lover of storms, but I didn’t like the feel of this one, as if it deliberately intended to destroy the yacht under its vicious attack. I realized, with a sharp intake of breath, just how vulnerable the light craft was on the deep black waters of the open river. As I watched a flare of lightning brighten the raindrops to threads of quicksilver, my fear suddenly kicked up a notch, chilling the blood of my heart.

The cabin door suddenly opened behind me, and I quickly turned away from the porthole, tightening my grip on the metal frame of the bunk as the yacht rocked crazily like a deranged cradle. A tall, broad-shouldered figure, darkly silhouetted against the harsh red glow of the emergency lights in the passageway, paused for a brief moment on the threshold and then stepped briskly into the room.

Terry? a familiar warm voice asked.

Yes, Dad, I answered, my voice trembling slightly,

What is it?

Good, you’re awake. He stood next to the bunk, towering over me. Here, son, put on this life jacket.

I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but I heard the clipped, urgent tone of his voice, and my heart lurched coldly in my chest, spilling chilled blood into my veins. I slipped the cumbersome life jacket on over my pajama top and fumbled blindly at the fastenings with fingers suddenly gone numb. I tried to swallow, but my throat closed up.

Something has happened, hasn’t it? I asked, and my voice rose an octave in alarm. Dad, what’s going on?

Crouching down next to the bunk, Dad pressed his fingers lightly to my lips. Hush now and ask no questions. I want you to listen to me carefully, son, and do as I say ‘cause this isn’t one of our usual run-of- the-mill drills. Lightning has ruptured one of the spare gasoline tanks, and there’s a damned fire burning out of control on the stern. There was some hope that the rain would douse the flames, but that doesn’t seem to be a likely possibility now. A distress signal has already been sent out, and with a little luck and the help of God, aybe the Coast Guard has picked up on it. In any case, I want you to be prepared.

His words chilled me to the bone, and I suddenly felt my pulse quicken, painfully pumping the blood jerkily through my veins. He reached down and buckled the bottom strap of the life jacket tightly, his warm fingers brushing lightly against mine. I wanted to say something, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my lips refused to form the words.

Okay, Terry, now this is where you come in, my father went on in a quick voice. There probably isn’t any real immediate danger, but I want you off this yacht as soon as possible anyway. It’s only a safety precaution, and I’ll feel better knowing you’re out of harm’s way. Now listen up, son, ‘cause this is important. There’s a rubber dinghy floating just off the port bow. You’ll have to jump ship in a matter of speaking and swim for it. We’re only several miles out of Quebec, and if our luck’s in, the Coast Guard will be here in no time at all.

What about you? I asked, swallowing dryly as the fear pounded deep in my heart. Aren’t you coming with me in the dinghy?

Don’t worry about me, Terry. I’ll be helping a couple of the men keep the fire at bay. The captain must go down with his ship, you know, and all of that other damned nautical rubbish. Anyway, if things get too hot to handle topside, we’ll join you in the dinghy

Isn’t there something I can do to help?

No! he said adamantly, startling me as he grabbed me by the shoulders. I won’t hear of it, so you get those fool notions out of your head right now, Terry. I want you safely off this yacht, understand?

Yes, I said, sounding more than a little shaky, but, Dad, I’m scared.

So am I, son, Dad said huskily. So am I.

He suddenly pulled me close to him, embracing me clumsily because of the inflated vest. Both of my parents had been deeply affectionate, Dad more so since Mom had passed away, but the intensity of this hug surprised me, as if he’d never let me go. I could feel the cold, stiff plastic of his wet slicker against my cheek; smell the mellow, apple-like scent of his pipe tobacco and the faint aroma of mint; and hear the hollow beating of his heart like the sound of a distant drum. The bright red glow of the light behind him streaked his damp hair with dark crimson like tiny rivulets of fresh blood. I clung to him desperately and burrowed my head tightly against his shoulder, as if I could somehow absorb myself into his whole being. I fervently wished this moment would go on forever.

I love you, Terry, Dad whispered hoarsely in my ear.

No matter what happens, don’t you ever forget that.

His words rang alarmingly through my head, like a dark omen, and I said, Dad, I

Hush now. There’s no more time for talk. We’ve got to get you out of here. He relinquished his tight hold on me. Come on now, give me your hand.

Taking my hand in his, Dad quickly guided me out of the dark cabin and into the harsh red light of the passageway. For a frightening moment, it seemed as if we’d stepped into the fires of hell. The crimson glow was hazy with thin tendrils of gray smoke, the sharp, acrid odor burning smartly in my nostrils and stinging my eyes into a blur of tears. I stumbled half-blindedly in Dad’s wake as he pulled me along the tilted crazy house floor of the narrow corridor, tripping up the steps that opened out onto the deck. The yacht belly-rolled on the water, and a framed print dropped from one of the walls behind us, crashing heavily to the hardwood boards with the sound of an exploding firecracker. I jumped, my heart slamming madly into my ribs, and crowded closer to Dad.

As Dad struggled to shove open the door at the top of the steps, his grip tightened on my hand, painfully crushing my fingers. He pulled me up out onto the deck, and I quickly caught my breath in sudden surprise and shock. The cold rain drenched me immediately to the skin, soaking rapidly through the thin material of my pajamas, and I felt as if I’d been thrust completely naked under the full cascade of a large waterfall. The yacht rocked and swayed wildly, and I nearly lost my footing on the wet, slippery floorboards. The wind whipped around us, tearing almost savagely at our clothes and lashing our faces with ropes of rainwater. A broken deck chair tumbled and bounced across the open space in front of us, smashing up against the starboard rail. Lightning forked out of the clouds with a hard white brilliance, throwing peculiar objects into sharp relief, and a tremendous clap of thunder slapped the air with a deafening roar. A hunched figure darted hurriedly by us, shouting something unintelligible, and swiftly disappeared into the dark, as if swallowed up by the night.

I followed Dad as carefully as I could across the deck as he practically dragged me to the port rail of the yacht, ducking my head against the slashing rain. My bare feet slipped on the slick wet boards, and I tripped over a thick coil of rope, falling heavily to my knees. Dad helped me to my feet, pointed down over the narrow width of the rail, and hollered something at me, but the noisy howl of the gale like wind swept his words away.

I gripped the soaked wood of the rail with both hands and, blinking the rain from my eyes, looked down over the side. Fifteen feet below the deck of the yacht, I could just barely make out the dark form of the dinghy through a crackling flash of blue-white lightning, flipping and jerking around on the churning, black water at the end of a stout rope. The wind slammed foamy white-capped waves roughly up against the small rubber boat, filling it with water. It danced and shimmied at the end of its tether perhaps no more than ten feet from the side of the yacht, but the distance from where I stood on the deck seemed a far deal greater. I turned back to Dad, swallowing hard as my heart beat thickly in the hollow of my throat, and nodded so he would know that I understood what was expected of me. He lightly cupped my face between his cold hands and kissed me fleetingly on the forehead.

I reached out my hand to touch him, but he had already turned away, and my fingers slipped numbly off his dripping sleeve. Shivering coldly, I watched him disappear into the dark bulky shadow of the wheelhouse, his wet slicker a brief, momentary gleam in the black night. I now saw the yellowish-orange glow of the flames shimmering through the rain at the back of the yacht. Bright lightning crystallized the glistening sheets of falling water into dazzling shards of liquid glass, and the scene before me appeared almost surreal, like something out of a distorted dream.

But it was real, as was the bitter, coppery taste of fear in my mouth. My heart pounded heavily in my chest as the deck tilted portside, and my hand clenched the rail tightly until I thought that the narrow strip of wood would surely crack under the pressure. The wind cruelly slashed the ice-cold rain into my face, scraping it harshly against my skin, and I felt as though I might drown with every breath. I watched the convulsive flicker and flare of the fire behind the wheelhouse with a captivated fascination that bordered on the hypnotic, too scared to move.

Thunder exploded over my head with the sound of a bursting bomb, breaking me free of my trancelike state, and I turned quickly to the rail. Cold and numb with fear, I carefully climbed atop the slippery strip of wood, precariously straddling the narrow bar, and looked down over the side of the yacht once more. As I squinted through the rain at the black water below, I couldn’t see the dinghy, and for a brief, heart stopping moment, a frightening thought flashed through my mind: it had broken loose of its moorings, drifting helplessly away on the choppy waves of the dark river. A bright flicker of lightning licked at the rain-drenched night, and I caught sight of it again, floating upside down on the heaving water, its rubber underside glistening dully like the belly of a small dead whale.

As I took a deep gulp of air, nerving myself for the long drop to the river, another alarming thought raced through my mind like a streak of bright light. I realized, as a dawning horror seeped coldly up from the depths of my bowels, that I wasn’t that good of a swimmer. What if the waves were too strong for me? What if I couldn’t make it to the dinghy? What if the undercurrent of the river dragged me downstream? Clutching hard to the wet slippery rail between my legs, like a limpet, I didn’t know if I could summon up the courage to do it.

Abruptly, the matter was quickly taken out of my hands. A thunderous roar pounded painfully against my eardrums, and a rushing blast of hot, dry air gusted over me. The yacht jumped and bucked violently beneath me, like a wild mustang, suddenly catapulting me from the rail out into space as the boat splintered and shattered apart, as though it had merely been crafted of thin balsam wood.

As I plunged into the dark cold water of the Saint Lawrence River, like a stone, something hard and heavy struck the side of my head, and I instantly blacked out...

CHAPTER 1

AS I TURNED my car off the main highway several miles south of Bicknell and onto the dirt road, the midsummer sun slowly slipped behind the mountain range in the west. Long bright ribbons of yellow gold, orange, and ruby red rippled and shimmered across the cloudless azure blue sky in a soft distant haze like streamers of colored smoke. The scarlet light, silhouetting the tall jagged peaks with the mellow glow of smoldering embers, quickly faded to the harsh, metallic silver-blue luminescence of the evening. Abruptly, the dazzling crimson-gold sunset vanished.

The tires thumped loudly over a flat wooden bridge spanning a wide smooth flowing river, and I slowed the car down to a crawl, watching the shifting change of light just beyond the windshield. The silver-blue sky glowed softly around the tall black peaks of the distant mountains, like the cold sheen of pale silk. A large lake to the right side of the road, which I had noticed as soon as I had driven out of Bicknell, glistened under the hard sky, reflecting the harsh shine from above like a huge expanse of sheet metal. Tall cattails, slender reeds, and the long, narrow tips of marsh grasses protruded darkly out of the bright water. Staring at the amazing beauty of the breathtaking scene, I almost wished I hadn’t packed away my sketch pad and box of colored chalks in the trunk and mentally shrugged my shoulders ruefully.

After a couple of miles of slow creeping, I finally guided the car off to the right-hand side of the road and braked it to a stop, delaying my arrival at Wheelington Ranch. Getting out of the cramped interior of my Corvair, I sat on the warm hood over the tire on the passenger side and lit a cigarette, slowly exhaling the smoke. I realized that the hour had to be growing late, but I didn’t feel quite ready to meet Uncle Ted and stared out over the hard sheen of the lake. If only Dad could be here, I thought and quickly bit my lip as a deep pain washed through my heart.

I suppose when it comes right down to the basics, I could count luck as being on my side. I had survived the explosion of the yacht, getting of lightly with only a few minor bruises and a rather nasty knock on the side of the head. The quick arrival of the Coast Guard had saved me from drowning in the cold dark water of the Saint Lawrence River, but three people died that stormy night, my father one of them. At the age of eighteen, where one steps from adolescence to the shaky ground of adulthood, I suddenly found myself alone.

When Mom had died two years ago from cancer, it had been a devastating blow, and my world had been tilted askew out of its safe, secure orbit. And now with Dad’s tragic death, my crystal globe, created out of pure love, lay shattered at my feet, like fragments of broken glass. I had been loved unselfishly by both of my parents, and I had returned that love in kind, but now a sharp killing pain filled my heart. The jagged shards cut deep.

The shock of Dad’s death had hit me hard, and I had moved numbly through those first days in the manner of a robot, responding to the few people close to me only when it seemed necessary. One day blurred swiftly into another like a reoccurring bad dream, and time had no bounds. Even the funeral, a quick, simple ceremony, felt almost unreal, as if happening to someone else.

When I had sufficiently recovered to understand the implications, Dad’s lawyer read to me the contents of my father’s will. The small legal formalities had been rapidly passed over in which Dad had bequeathed generous gifts to friends and assorted charities, and the main body of the document, concerning me, quickly referred to. It simply stated that in the event of his death before I became of legal age, I was to go and live with Theodore Wheelington, his brother and my new guardian. I had also been left a substantial sum of money from which a monthly allowance would be drawn.

Dad’s brother. The words had snapped me quickly out of my grief and depression, and I had grasped this new bit of information the way a small child would grab a shiny coin. I had no idea that such a person existed, for Dad had never before spoken of any living relatives, and Mom had been an orphan at the age of three. I had cried into my pillow that night until the pale light of dawn creeped in through the bedroom window, and the loneliness in my heart slowly seeped away like liquid in a cracked vessel. I would not have to stand alone in a cold, harsh world, and maybe now I could recover some of the love I had so suddenly lost. I knew that I might perhaps be pinning too much hope on this stranger who’d unexpectedly come into my life, but it seemed to be better than having no hope at all.

Although I had been brimming with questions about my uncle, Dad’s lawyer, a kind and understanding man, had been unable to supply the answers. Apparently, Dad had been tight-lipped when it came to his brother and the information he had parted with had been scanty to say the least. Uncle Ted was Dad’s younger brother by four years, he was married to a woman named Cora, and he owned and operated a sizeable cattle ranch just outside of the small town of Bicknell in the state of Utah. Other than that, the lawyer had been in the dark as much as I; therefore, I was clearly on my own. The bare- boned facts left little doubt in my mind that something had happened between the two brothers to create a wide chasm, and now it would be up to me to find a way to bridge the gap. One thing I didn’t quite understand: if something terrible had occurred to keep Uncle Ted’s identity a secret all these years, why would Dad appoint him as my guardian? A strange little mystery indeed, but one with no easy, available answer.

The arrangements for my departure had been worked out between Dad’s lawyer and Uncle Ted via telephone, and a few days later, I was free to leave Quebec. Hurriedly, so as to escape the many memories painfully crushing in on me, I packed my belongings into my Corvair, waved a sad goodbye to my small circle of close friends, and, with a detailed map in hand, started my long lonely drive in the direction of Utah. Now that I had finally arrived here at last, having traveled across the biggest part of a whole continent, I suddenly felt apprehensive about meeting Uncle Ted.

Snubbing out my cigarette, I dropped the butt into the tall grass at my feet and looked up at the sky, now a pale, hard gray like polished steel. An off-keyed melody of chirping crickets, deep-belching toads, and the soft buzz of night insects harmoniously filled the air. The faint crackling of the cooling engine behind me had a calm, soothing effect as I lost myself in the comforting sounds of a warm summer evening, my feet dangling in the thick grass at the lake’s edge. Staring out over the pewter-coated water, I suddenly noticed, with some surprise, a barbed wire fence strung up between crude pine poles directly in front of me, the sharp barbs sparkling in the silver-gray light.

Hello, there! a pleasant voice suddenly called out, startling me.

Snapped out of my contemplation of the fence, I realized I hadn’t heard anyone approaching and quickly looked in the direction from which the voice had come. In the silver-burnished twilight, I could see a young woman coming down the road on a horse. Nearing the car, she reined the horse to a stop and dismounted, walking over to where I sat on the hood of my Corvair. Long dark hair framed her oval-shaped face, and the pale light glinted from her green eyes. She appeared to be almost as tall as I and, though I’m not a good judge of character, I guessed her age to be pretty close to my own. She stared at me for a moment or two, as if I might have been a strange alien being that had abruptly dropped out of the sky, and then slowly smiled.

Have a breakdown? she asked, raking the fingers of her right hand through her hair.

If you need help, I can give you a lift so you can telephone for a tow truck.

No, no breakdown, I said. I just stopped to look at the view.

I see that you have a Canadian license plate, she remarked, peering at the metal plate attached to the front of my car. Are you a tourist who’s maybe lost his way?

No, not exactly, I answered, kicking my foot through the tall grass. I’m on my way to live with my uncle on Wheelington Ranch.

Oh yeah, I know the one. My father works there. She laced the leather reins around her fingers. And your parents? Are they coming down too?

A sharp twist of pain corkscrewed through the middle of my heart, and I said, No, they’re both dead.

Oh, I see...

Neither of us spoke for several minutes. The horse snorted softly into the long stretch of silence, and his bridle made a slight musical-like jingle. I shamefully realized that I had suddenly created an uncomfortable situation, placing us both in a position in which we didn’t know exactly what to say, and quickly decided to change the subject before the problem in hand got any stickier.

Looking at the platinum-colored water, I said, This is sure a beautiful lake you have here.

Oh, that’s just the Bicknell Bottoms, she said, gesturing toward the huge expanse of water with her arm. It’s really not a lake though, it’s actually a water- covered swamp. It has a circumference of about twenty miles.

My god, that’s a lot of water for a swamp! I exclaimed, deeply impressed. Is it just a stagnant...ah, pool?

She laughed lightly, exposing the tips of her teeth, and said, Oh no, there’s fresh water flowing through it constantly. It’s one of those odd phenomenons that’s difficult to explain, but the Fremont River enters into it on the far side near Bicknell and exits on this side down near the bridge.

You mean that flat wooden structure I crossed a couple of miles back? The strange water-covered swamp really fascinated me. Why is there a barbed wire fence around it?

It’s to discourage people and animals, mostly cattle, from going into the swamp, she supplied easily. There are sinkholes out there under the water, and most of them have quicksand. Dad once told me that a long time ago, some cows had wandered into the Bicknell Bottoms to eat the shoots of grass poking up through the water and had been sucked below the surface, never to be seen again. Of course, everyone around here knows that cattle are short on intelligence, but in my opinion, I think it was most likely just an old-fashioned myth to scare people. Anyway, you might say the fence was put up to keep the ‘fools’ out.

Well, I’m no fool, so you won’t catch me skinny- dipping in such dangerous water! I said, and we both laughed.

It’s starting to get dark, so I’d better hurry on home. Dad will skin me alive if I’m not there to help him with the chores. She grinned, and a spark twinkled brightly in her eyes. He’s probably out for my hide now as it is ‘cause I played hooky today and went fishing. I just live up the road aways in that white house on this side of the bridge.

Sorry, but I really didn’t notice, I said. I was watching the sunset.

Oh yes! It really was a gorgeous sight, wasn’t it? It’s one of the best things about Utah that I’ll always love! She paused for a moment and then said, We haven’t been properly introduced yet, have we? Since we’re practically going to be neighbors, I think we should remedy the situation right now. My name’s Sharla Emery, and this handsome beast I call Jumpiter.

It’s a very pretty name—Sharla, I mean, I said, kicking myself mentally for being an idiot. My name’s Terry Wheelington.

Well, it sure has been nice talking with you, Terry, but I’ve really got to be going now. She swung herself lightly up onto Jumpiter’s back with a slight creaking of old leather and, leaning a little sideways out of the saddle, said, This might sound a bit presumptuous of me, but if you like the idea, I could come over to your uncle’s ranch one of these days soon after you’ve gotten settled in and show you around the country

Okay, sure, I’d really like that very much, thank you.

It’s a date then. Good night, Terry.

Good night, Sharla.

As Sharla and her horse slowly trotted down the road, disappearing into the thickening dusk, I felt a soft, warm glow spreading through me. It was nice to know that I had at least one friend—or so I hoped—in this strange new land that was to become my home. No other vehicles could be seen in either direction, and for the time being, I had the narrow dirt road to myself. I turned back to stare at the silver-streaked water of the Bicknell Bottoms, postponing my arrival at Wheelington Ranch a little longer.

I had learned from the owner of the service station in the town of Bicknell, where I had stopped to refuel my car and to make sure of my directions that Wheelington Ranch was on the southwest corner of this water-covered swamp. The large two story house, about one hundred yards back from the edge of the Bicknell Bottoms, had been built facing the east. A huge wooden barn, a big cinder block garage, and a pair of small cabins formed a semicircle out behind the house. A couple of ranch hands, Burt Foster and Jed Wolfe, resided in the cabins because Uncle Ted usually hired most of his help from the nearby towns of Bicknell, Teasdale, and Torrey. The bunkhouses of the old romantic west no longer existed in these modern times. The warren of corrals was beyond the cabins and barn, but at this time of the year, Uncle Ted’s cattle, as well as those from other ranches, were out grazing in the hills. Later, toward the end of autumn, the herds would be gathered together in a roundup and moved back to the ranches to spend the winter.

A profound darkness now blanketed the sky, smothering the last traces of silver-gray light, and a pale moon painted a cool, satiny sheen over the smooth surface of the water. The black silhouettes of the cattails and tall marsh grasses stood sharp and clear-cut against the bright background like a simple Chinese etching. A great multitude of tiny stars like a scattered shovelful of crystal dust sparkled across the inky vault of heaven. A soft breeze, no more than a faint breath of stirred air, gently caressed my face, and in the distance, crickets chirred sleepily. Something slithered through the grass near my feet with the sound of brushed silk, but it quickly disappeared out of sight before I had a chance to see what it could have been.

Taking a deep breath of cool, sweet air, I climbed back into my car and headed toward Wheelington Ranch, unable to delay my arrival any longer.

CHAPTER 2

A HUGE WOODEN sign with the words Wheelington Ranch scored deeply into it, arched between a pair of tall stone pillars, marking the entrance to Uncle Ted’s property. The quarter-mile-long driveway, stretching to the north, bordered the western perimeter of the Bicknell Bottoms. I stopped