Will Stutely (sly_stutely) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2021-03-16 21:53:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | arthur a bland, much the miller's son, will scarlet, will stutely |
WHO Will Stutely, Will Scarlet, Much the Miller’s Son; eventually Arthur a Bland
WHEN Tuesday 16 March
WHERE A forest in northwest Wyoming
WHAT We’re going on an Arthur hunt
WARNINGS TBA
The snow had started falling overnight, silent feathery flakes that covered the clearing in which they’d parked the van in a pale blanket. Back home in New York, spring was slowly creeping in, but here in the rugged mountain country of Wyoming, winter held on with an iron grip. Their first port of call, when they’d arrived late Sunday afternoon, had been the forest ranger’s cabin. He’d been off the clock, as it turned out, but the nearby township only had two bars, and by a stroke of luck they’d discovered the man in the first one they tried. His amiable smile had faded as they’d described the friend they were searching for. “Oh yeah,” he’d said. “I’ve seen him, the crazy sumbitch.” The ranger had not been enthusiastic about giving them directions, evidently foreseeing some messy confrontation down the line that he’d either be blamed for, or have to clean up after. But Much had a talent for softening people up – Much, and the copious drinks they were paying for – and when they’d left the bar that evening, it had been with a freshly annotated map, a rough circle indicating the area Arthur tended to frequent. It wasn’t quite as simple as ‘X marks the spot’. The circle that seemed so small on the page easily spanned twenty miles of dense forest, and in that first day of searching they’d turned up nothing except an alleged moose sighting (Stutely was dubious) and the discovery that their coats were not as waterproof as they’d thought them to be. Still, when the fading light had forced them to call it a day and they’d trudged back to the van with lungs aching from the bitter cold, Stutely had found that the worry didn’t sit so heavily on his shoulders as it had back in town. It wasn’t Sherwood, not by any stretch of the imagination, but roaming the forest with Much and Scarlet at his side, he breathed just a little easier. (‘Course, that could also be the relief at not having to spend another ten-hour day trapped in the car with the two of ‘em carrying on like pork chops. On Saturday afternoon, his phone had lit up with a succession of delectably filthy photos from Clio, which he’d had the misfortunate to open while taking his turn as navigator. Conscious of Scarlet sitting not a foot away, Stutely’s ears had flushed a bright red, which unfortunately had signalled to both Scarlet and Much that something was up, and they’d ribbed him mercilessly for the rest of the drive.) The snow continued steadily throughout Tuesday morning, but it was a light fall – inconvenient, but not restrictive. More of a bother was the snow that had already fallen, the white sheets obliterating any tracks that might have offered a clue as to Arthur’s direction. It was coming up on midday when Stutely stopped and fished the map from his jacket pocket – he still favoured the tangible security of a paper map, despite all Scarlet’s talk of Google and GPS. He frowned at it. “Reckon we’ve veered too far south.” |