“Oh, no!” Conner protested. “That stinky mutt isn’t coming along.”
“Hey, he’s behind us. He’ll be downwind the whole time,” Travis said. “And look at him. How could you say no to that face?”
“You’ve gone soft in the head over that mutt!” Conner started the engine. It caught with a deafening roar.
“Lordy, I hope the neighbors don’t complain,” Travis said. But Conner, he realized, couldn’t hear him over the engine noise. There wouldn’t be much conversation on this ride, but Conner had studied the map, and he seemed to know the way. He was headed along the boundary of the property toward the west end at the base of the hills, a part of the ranch Travis had never seen. Last winter, after his arrival, it had been all he could do to get the house livable and stay warm. With the coming of spring, the hay crop had kept him too busy for exploring.
The rugged vehicle seemed to eat up the terrain, its knobby, oversized tires bounding over rocks and shooting through hollows. Conner had been right. The big ATV could go anywhere—especially with Conner driving it like he was on a blasted bucking bull.
He touched his friend’s shoulder. “Slow down, damn it!” he shouted. Conner only grinned. Travis glanced back at the dog. Bucket was balanced on the rear seat, eyes half closed, tongue lolling like he was in heaven. Travis hung on and tried to relax. Maybe he’d been a highway patrolman too long and seen too many bad accidents.
They were moving into a line of low, scrub-dotted hills that stretched like a ripple from north to south across the Texas plain. Travis had been aware that the hills ran along the west edge of his property. He’d watched the sun set over them almost every night. But only now did it sink in that this wild section of land—this small piece of the earth—was really his.
Motor roaring, the ATV climbed a low ridge. At the top, the machine came to a sudden, silent stop with Conner staring down into the hollow below. “What the hell is that?” he muttered.
Travis was staring, too. Below the ridge, covering a piece of ground that Travis estimated at a little over an acre, a patch of dark, vibrant green stood out against the faded autumn landscape.
“Have you got somebody growing weed up here?” Conner wondered out loud.
“Nobody who could get away with it.” Travis shaded his eyes against the bright sunlight. “No, it’s trees. A whole damned forest!”
“Let’s check it out.” The engine roared as Conner started the ATV and gunned it down the hill. They stopped at the edge of the trees. Bucket jumped to the ground, trotted over to a spruce, and lifted his leg on the trunk. A blue jay scolded raucously from a branch.
“This is unbelievable,” Conner muttered as they wandered among the closely spaced evergreens. “It’s like coming across an alien spaceship in the middle of nowhere.”
“There’s got to be some explanation.” Travis studied the lushly green pines and firs, their uniform height—averaging about eight feet. There were no old trees here, although there were a few small trees mixed in with the larger ones, as if they might have sprouted from seed. An undergrowth of yellowed grass and weeds covered the ground, hiding the pattern that became clear only after a few minutes of walking.
Travis swore in disbelief. “This isn’t a forest,” he said. “It’s a Christmas tree farm!”
“You’re kidding!” Conner said.
“Look around! The trees are growing in rows, and they all look to be about the same age. Somebody must have planted them.”
“But who? They didn’t just fall out of the sky!”
“The ranch was leased to those people about ten years ago. They were here for about five years before they went broke and left. They could’ve planted the trees, thinking they could sell them when they got big enough. But when they moved away, all they could do was leave them to grow.”
“But why plant them clear out here?” Conner demanded. “Why not closer to the house?”
“It’s higher here, cooler nights and summers for the trees. And maybe—” Travis paused
as a faint sound reached his ears. “Come on.” He strode ahead, with Conner and Bucket following close behind.
The spring was little more than a trickle, flowing out of a rocky outcrop. The shallow trench dug from the foot of the rock was all but eroded away, the black plastic hoses leading from the trench cracked with age and buried by grass and weeds.
“The young trees would’ve needed water,” Travis said. “But by the time the people left, the roots would’ve been deep enough to get it out of the ground.”
Conner was silent, his forehead creased in thought. Suddenly he burst out laughing—laughing so hard that he had to bend over and clutch his sides.
“What is it?” Travis stared at him, wondering if his friend had lost his mind.
Conner took a deep breath, bringing himself partway under control. “I just figured it out, Travis,” he said. “Those folks weren’t just growing Christmas trees. The trees were camouflage and cover for the real crop. In between those trees, they were growing illegal weed!”
“And when they moved, they harvested the crop, hauled it off, and left the trees!” Travis shook his head. It was a crazy idea, but it made perfect sense. He should have figured it out himself.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Conner asked.
“Uh-huh.” Travis smiled. “You said something about finding a gold mine out here. I think maybe we just found one.”