The Deadly Hatch

By Michael Hamilton

The Deadly Hatch weaves a story of remorse, revenge and redemption, with a little time left over to fly fish. Set on both sides of the Cascade Crest, in Washington State, investigative reporter, Miles Cavanaugh and Cascade County Sheriff, Clayton Tweedy, are drawn into deadly game of cat and mouse with the Wolf Pack, a far right

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Hamilton
• Release date: Aug 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798869145185

Book preview

Prologue

I

f history counts for anything, you can be damn sure the dust on your boots is the same grit that clung to the footsteps of drovers, ranch hands, grifters, gamblers, and penniless widows busted flat, selling themselves to survive, who walked into Big Judy’s Saloon on Cascade’s Main street, the muggy night of June 30th, 1900.

The story rambles around cattle rancher, Wade Wesley Barksdale, playing five card draw with town Mayor Davis Tweedy, Jonathon Tinkham, owner of Tinkham’s Livery and Stables, Willard Flank, a professional gambler, who ran a terrible temper when he drank shotgun whiskey and my great grandfather, Miles James Cavanaugh. The sweet stench of horse lather, manure and hay, mingled with the pungent yeasty odors of green beer, woodsy whiskey, rotting teeth, and unwashed bodies, were the night’s perfume. A blue haze of tobacco smoke from slow burning cigarillos, hand rolled cigarettes and a few imported cuban cigars, clung to the stale air above an ornate mahogany bar. Hand carved from rosewood and burnished with hues of dark browns tinged with red, the triple arched back bar was shipped from Philadelphia when Cascade was not much more than a dusty cow town in the 1880’s. Deeply sculptured three dimensional horse and buffalo motifs adorned the columns. A hand crafted antique mirror was inset between the arches. It served as a silent witness to the night’s reflections. Three poker tables dominated the center of the saloon. Dark green felt covered their tops.

Wade Wesley Barksdale was holding four kings. He kept raising the bet. Madeline Creech, one of Big Judy’s prettiest painted ladies, watched his play. She leaned in over Barksdale’s right shoulder. After each raise, Flank would gulp down a shot of double jack then shake his head in disgust. The others threw in their cards. The pot grew close to five thousand dollars. Flank could raise or call. He was holding a full house, jacks over eights. He figured Barksdale was bluffing. He reached into his gold embroidered vest. He withdrew the deed to five hundred acres of flood plain, sage and desert scrub. The acreage ran along the banks of the Cascade river. The tract bordered Barksdale’s spread in the Cascade river valley. Three months before, Barksdale offered to buy it. Now he had a chance to win it. Flank dropped the deed into the pot to call. Barksdale laid down four kings. Flank threw his cards in the air, drew out his colt 45. He meant to shoot Barksdale point blank. Instead, the bullet grazed Barksdale’s temple. It tore through Madeline Creech’s heart killing her dead.

Twelve men were quickly sworn in to decide Flank’s fate. Flank’s wife, Jennie May, begged the court to spare her husband’s life. Her pleas were so noted then promptly ignored. Flank was the last public hanging in Cascade. The whole town turned out. Businesses closed. Watchers dressed in their holiday best. Respectable women with babies in arms joined the throng. Truant school boys jostled for the best view. The pleasure of watching someone hang was akin to the excitement of a tented minstrel show rolling into town. Flank quivering at the end of a rope more than satisfied the hordes morbid curiosity. The site of the gallows is marked with a plaque near the old Northern Pacific railway station at the edge of Cascade’s city limits. Sagebrush stretches eastward like a big empty. It bears the names of Tweedy, Barksdale, Tinkham, Cavanaugh and Flank. Words are etched beneath Flank’s name.

The evils of drink push men to the brink to commit murderous acts.

Little has changed since Big Judy’s batwing saloon doors swung open in the spring of 1884. The place still buzzes. Breakfasts run from seven to noon. Lunch goes through the afternoon. Dinner ends at ten. The bar opens at eight am and closes when last call pushes the other side of one thirty am. Bloody Mary’s and Boilermakers are as popular as bacon and eggs.

Original owners, Tobias Zimmermann and his sister Julia, immigrated from a small village in the Black Forest of Baden-Wurttemberg in Southwest Germany. They arrived under sail in the port of Baltimore in 1875. Zimmermann was a master carpenter. Julia was determined. Drawn by the dream of religious freedom and new wealth, they headed west, following the railroad. They settled in Cascade. Tobias was shortened to Toby, Julia to Judy. Toby purchased an empty lot. Walls went up. The front facade rose to form a parapet. Judy was a daily fixture. She hired her girls as she called them. Madame Claudette’s special rooms were added upstairs. She kept the whores clean and the gambling games of faro and poker honest. Judy hired a piano player. She replaced rot gut whiskey with genuine east coast spirits and served cold Budweiser beer. She stashed a rolling pin behind the bar. Patrons knew she wasn’t afraid to use it. Judy was, as the locals would whisper, a full frame woman. Thus, naming the place, Big Judy’s was an easy choice. Grand in scale to any competitor in the territory, which was often no more than grimy dust covered circus tents or flat sod roofed dimly lit rooms. Big Judy’s quickly became the big shebang. It was a magnet drawing politicians, grifters, gamblers, cowpokes, lumberjacks, businessmen, and a growing menagerie of humanity. Eventually, Zimmermann morphed into Zimmer. The former being too Jewish for the fast growing Cascade. Handed down through three generations, Martin and Marion Zimmer are the current owners. Martin’s son, Zeke Zimmer, runs the place. Big Judy’s is listed on the state’s historic register. It still serves as a default beacon for anyone needing a stiff pour of double jack, a cold beer, and the best Black Angus beef burger in Washington State.

Over a century later, the kin of those playing five card draw in Big Judy’s, on that sweltering summer night in 1900, would once again be drawn together into a tangled web of revenge and lies. Only this time, they all would be gambling with their lives.

Chapter 1

R

ain pummeling the aluminum roof of the canal pump house rattled his memories. Silence inside the control room was unsettling even for Tinkham. Finally, he spoke to the bound man lying atop a table across from him.

It’s a hard rain falling tonight, don’t you think? Making small talk, Tinkham continued, I heard on my truck radio that the river is already up over ten thousand at Bitter Creek. That’s a frickin’ lot of water. If it’s not a damn flood, it's a wildfire.

Tinkham sat stock still. His body was stiff as a used paint brush that never saw a drop of turpentine. Slack jawed and pimply, his sunken face wore a permanent scowl. Loose fitting dentures clicked whenever he talked, emitting sounds of grasshoppers rubbing their back legs together. Beneath a sweat stained stetson that he seldom took off, he wore a sullen, bitter expression full time. Tinkham worked for Wade Barksdale, third generation owner of Cascade River Ranch. Vast herds of Black Angus beef, rolling acres of Timothy hay, orchards of honeycrisp apples, and hillsides of sun blessed vineyards, along with the fabled Green Drake Feather and Hook club, sprawled over 30,000 acres.

On the afternoon of the incoming storm, ominous black thunderheads turned daylight dark. Yellow tinged streaks of lightening flashed along the eastern flanks of the Cascade range. A loud crack of thunder rattled windows.

Tinkham had lured the man to the canal pump house under the pretense of meeting other members of the Wolf Pack. Tinkham stepped away to make a cell call. The man stared intently at the bank of wall mounted circular dials. Black arrows inside the dials were jiggling upward. They measured the level of water behind the canal floodgates. A red needle indicated the PSI or pounds per square inch.

A sign read, If black meets red an alarm will signal a breach.

Tinkham moved silently behind the man. Holding his breath, he raised a small pry bar. The force of the blow to the back of the man’s skull splattered blood and small pieces of bone. The man slumped into his grasp. He pulled the limp body onto a wooden table. Taking no chances, Tinkham injected five cc’s of morphine into the man’s neck. He used rope to bind the man’s arms, chest and legs. He stuffed a piece of cloth into his mouth. He tore off a piece of gray duct tape. Ran it from ear to ear securing the gag. The bound man grimaced and moaned. Tinkham stepped back. He poured out a cup of black coffee from his thermos. He took a sip. Held it in his mouth. Savored the bitterness before swallowing hard. My life used to taste like this coffee, but not anymore, he smiled inwardly.

He stared hard at the man. I guess you never know who people really are, huh partner?

He paused his talk. Tinkham checked his watch. Munson was overdue. Tinkham sat in a chair across from the dazed, immobile man. He stared down at the backs of his hands. Thin, white scars crisscrossed deeply sun tanned skin, stretched tight, revealing raised blue veins, resembling rivers on a moonscape. The texture of the skin brought to mind water stained pages of discolored parchment in discarded paperbacks. These hands have seen a lot, he thought. Bent fingers, numb and tingling, swelled from rheumatoid arthritis. His thumbnails, black around the edges, protruded from stubby scabbed knuckles, marking his decades as a cattle drover and jack of all trades.

He’d never left the Cascade River Valley. He dropped out of high school his senior year. When he tried to enlist in the army, he was rejected 4F.

Kid is as dumb as a rock with an IQ to match, he overheard the recruiter say.

But his family roots ran deep in the valley. His great grandfather, Jonathan, had owned the local livery. The original black and white sign read, Cascade Livery and Stables. Weathered and faded, the hand-painted letters were barely visible above a one story wooden building, two blocks off Main Street. The centuries-old structure now housed a local business, Troutbum Brewery and Grill. Buildings in old west towns were often reborn like new generations.

One of four siblings, he was the second oldest. His brother James, was first born two years older. His younger sister Ethel, was born two years behind. Another girl named Louise, was still born. Tinkham’s father Ronald, owned Cascades’s only car and truck dealership. He died driving drunk when Tinkham was nine. Raised by his mother, Irene and her sister, Agnus, he was always in some kind of trouble. His offenses were mostly petty stuff. Stealing cigarettes from the Red Barn Market, buying beer with phony ID, or breaking into the Sutter home after Mable Sutter had died of cancer.

Until a heat stained August night changed it all. The red hues of a hazy moon, called a Sturgeon Moon by Native Indians, who hunted the giant prehistoric fish in the estuaries of the Columbia River Basin before they were harvested and almost driven to extinction, was waxing larger each night.

Tinkham’s brother owned a glistening, fez red 1950 Ford coupe convertible. James was sitting in the drivers seat. His right arm was draped around Sally Stackpole. They were engaged and planned a fall wedding. Curtis was alone in the back seat. It was supposed to be a double date. But Janice Duprie changed her mind at the last minute. He would hear later that she told her girlfriends he smelled funny. James had chugged a six pack of Pabst and was half drunk. Curtis had drunk one beer. He would stop whenever he felt lightheaded.

Near midnight, the double feature ended at the Starlight Drive-in. Sally pleaded with James not to drive. Reluctantly, James handed the keys to Curtis. A record snow pack in the Cascade mountains the previous winter had filled the canals and flumes with cold runoff. Farmers and ranchers were giddy and feeling flush after two years of near drought and water rationing. Curtis pressed his foot against the gas pedal. He could feel the power of the coupe’s V8 engine surge.

Slow down little brother, slurred James. We want to get home in one piece.

Out of nowhere, a white tail deer jumped into the headlights. From the backseat, Sally screamed. Curtis swerved to miss the animal. The rear tires of the coupe caught the loose shoulder gravel and went airborne. The coupe landed upside down in a mosquito infested irrigation flume. The current in the channel was swift. The Ford’s engine was still running. Front tires were spinning. The radio was blaring out a tune by Tammy Wynette. The sweet tangy vocals of Stand by Your Man ricocheted off the slanted, concrete walls. The music drifted over the heads of several Black Angus cattle. The beefy animals stood nearby grazing in the open range. Unperturbed, the small herd bore silent witness to the broken bodies trapped inside the twisted wreckage. Curtis hardly spoke after the funerals of James and Sally. He blamed himself for their deaths. His grief gradually turned to anger. It would consume him.

Sheets of windblown rain lashed against the windows of the canal pump house. Tinkham’s wheezy breathing filled the room with the faint smell of stale whisky. The bound man drifted in and out of a cloudy daze. The crunch of oversized tires on the gravel driveway signaled Munson’s arrival. A chilling gust followed Munson into the control room. With Munson’s help, Tinkham tipped the table on its side. Munson hammered off the legs. Righted the table. Stood it up against an inner wall. It resembled a raft. Tinkham retrieved a bucket full of cold rain water from outside. He threw it into the bound man’s face jolting him awake. The man stirred looking up through glazed eyes. Munson and Tinkham came in and out of focus. Tinkham took a photo of the bound man. He hit send. He moved in close and reached into the man’s coat pocket. He withdrew a cell phone. Their eyes locked. Tinkham knew the look of terror. Munson ripped off the piece of duct tape. The bound man sputtered and coughed, spraying spittle. Munson stepped back. He reached for the blow torch. The blue flame ignited. Hissing sounds filled the room. Tinkham looked away. The answers they were seeking came quickly.

Tinkham and Munson struggled to drag the table top outside the front door of the canal pump house. The wind swirled and howled. Munson’s baseball cap blew off his head. It lodged against the table top behind the bound man’s back. Munson quickly groped for his hat. He pulled it down tight. He failed to notice that his signature green drake fly pattern, stuck above the bill, was missing. The barbed hook had snagged on the rope binding the man to the table.

Lightening crackled overhead. Thunder boomed. Torrents of rain pelted the ghostly figures. Munson stood above the moaning man.

Partner, you really fucked up.

They slid the body over the edge of the canal. The jerking form on the wood slab strained against its bonds. Tinkham and Munson watched the bound man sink beneath the swirling torrent of mud and foam. Tinkham whispered aloud, "Adios Amigo."

Chapter 2

M

y name is Miles James Cavanaugh. I’ve never met another kid named Miles. Walking hand in hand to my first day of kindergarten, my mother, Maddy, told me that I was named after my great grandfather.

He was a promising young attorney. He lived in eastern Washington, honey. I bet you two would have been peas in a pod.

It had to be total guess work since they had never met and the undisputed fact that he had passed on a hundred years before. But that was Maddy. She relied on her hunches rather than facts.

When I don’t have a fly rod in my right hand, I write freelance. Mostly investigative stuff if I think there’s something worth investigating. Occasionally, I get hired as a private investigator. My career as a PI, if you want to call it that, is more off than on, mostly by my own choosing. I also teach at North Star University. I always tell my undergraduate students that investigative reporting is a lot like fly fishing.

You never really know what the day will bring. You have expectations. You imagine all kinds of scenarios. Yet the outcome still remains a total mystery. You keep trying to figure it out until something works. Same applies in reporting. You can’t give up when you run into a wall. Trust me you will. The investigative part of a story can be lonely, tedious, frustrating, and boring. It will lead you to one dead end after another. Just like chasing a hatch of bugs but having the wrong pattern. You have to keep digging even if the hole gets deep enough to bury you.

My family tree is firmly planted on both sides of the Cascade Crest. This wasn’t always the case. Growing up, it was me, Maddy and Uncle J. I believed I was Swedish because I was born in Swedish Hospital. Maddy set me straight on that one.

You’re not Swedish honey. The Cavanaughs come from Scotland.

Maddy was a bit of a wild child. She wore fresh flowers in her hair. She smelled of musk, patchouli oil and marijuana smoke. She wished she lived in Marin County instead of King County. She never married. My birth father remains unknown to me. However, whoever he was deserves a brief moment of elucidation.

Flo and Ruby were two pinochle playing twin sisters. They came over every Saturday night to play cards, smoke Pall Malls, drink whiskey sours and gossip.

His hair is red, giggled Flo.

He has freckles. He’s going to be tall," quipped Ruby.

Flo said next what they were both thinking.

He looks like Father Bishop, St. Patrick’s principal. Maybe we should start dropping hints?

Maddy returned to the table from her bathroom break. The noise of the flushing toilet drowned out the two women’s tête-à-tête, but Maddy did catch the word hints as she sat back down.

What are you two spinsters hinting at now?

Flo and Ruby exchanged a quick smirk.

"We were hoping for a hint on how many clubs you are holding dear."

I overheard the whole conversation. I was eves dropping behind double doors in our tiny five room bungalow, hidden behind a dense privacy hedge of English laurels, with a peekaboo view of Greenlake, a long admired treasure of a public park, smack in the middle of Seattle. You can bet from then on, I began thinking of Father Bishop in a whole new light.

The Saturday nights multiplied into months, then years. I grew straight, red freckled and tall. I was a gangly, carrot topped eighteen year old teenager. I soared a foot taller than Maddy. Unfortunately for Flo and Ruby, they never found out the true identity of my father. Coming home from playing pinochle, a hit and run drunk broadsided their 1959 Edsel. It tumbled down, end over end, into a forested ravine crawling with ivy and brambles. Two days and two chilly nights passed. A gaggle of neighborhood kids playing army games along a skinny trail covered in blackberry vines discovered the wreckage. The following morning, I sat at the kitchen table crunching spoonfuls of frosted flakes. Maddy was sobbing softly. She was reading aloud from the article in the Seattle Sentinel detailing the tragedy.

The coroner determined the cause of death was from numerous compound fractures. In all likelihood, both women never regained consciousness.

Maddy laid the paper down on the table. Her hard stare above my head made me turn to see if Flo and Ruby had reappeared on the ceiling above the refrigerator. After a moment, she looked directly at me and whispered, They were my best friends, Miles, my only friends.

As for Father Bishop, I never got the chance to ask. He was mysteriously reassigned to another parish out of state. Easy to guess why these days. Sadly, Maddy passed soon after the deaths of Flo and Ruby. Cancer stole her from us.

Miles, she whispered hoarsely. You listen to your Uncle Jack. He’s your family now.

Those were her last words. She slipped into a coma. Wheezed her last breath. I left Seattle. Moved east of the Cascades. I settled in Uncle Jacks’s cabin. He was known as Uncle J. to the locals. He’d labored for years to build the two story home at the head of the Cascade River Canyon. A wonderful specimen of log and river rock, it sat atop hardened layers of volcanic ash. The gritty mix of sand and rock spewed from countless eruptions across the Cascade Range. Battered by millenniums of ice, wind and fire, the soil covers much of the land surfaces of eastern Washington State. The rich nutrients act as natural fertilizers for endless acres of cash crops.

From then on, it was me and Uncle J. He was cocky and a bit too prideful. He was almost ordained a Jesuit. He loved to fly fish. He guided part time. He was a skilled carpenter, handyman and hunter. He was also my life savior on more occasions than I could count. Best of all, he taught me how to fly fish.

When you cast the fly line, sport (he always called me sport) say coca on your back cast. Then pause and say cola on your forward stroke. Coca, Cola. Coca, Cola. Got it? Think about the face of a clock. Stop your back cast around two in the afternoon. Come forward and stop your front cast close to ten in the morning. Allow the line to land softly on the water. Can’t loose sport.

Watching Uncle J. cast a fly line was a vision of pure rhythmic beauty. With the grace of a ballet dancer and the accuracy of an archer shooting an arrow into the bullseye, he delivered his artificial imitation dead on target every time. He bought me my first fly rod. A two piece, nine foot fiberglass beauty. It was made by Fenwick. Loved the name. I vowed if I ever owned a dog, I would name him Fenwick. I still have the fly rod. I don’t own a dog.

Standing six-feet, eight-inches, he was one tall drink of water. He would wade out hip deep above a ripple. Peer downward into a deep pool. He would spot trout holding on the bottom, flashing belly-sided to feed.

"See that one? There’s two more moving right.

I couldn’t see a damn thing except the glare of the sun off the water. Uncle J. was always looking to uncover an unknown creek or small stream.

Getting damn harder to find sport, he would complain.

But there was one he cherished the most. The cost of admission to our secret patch