“How’s it look?” Elvin’s tone was nonchalant with an undercurrent of terror.
It was against Patrick’s personal credo to lie to patients. Especially to one who was going to have to endure a hellish trip down the mountain. He paused from cleaning to make eye contact. “I’m sorry, Elvin, but it’s not good. There’s not much I can do for you except stabilize it and get you to a hospital. It’s going to hurt more than I can imagine.”
“I figured as much. Think I’ll lose it?”
“I’m afraid that’s likely.”
“Can you take it here?”
“No. Or I would try. I’m sorry.”
Elvin sucked in a deep breath. “So, what’s next?”
Again, Patrick considered the possibility of fire. The risk was so low that he still thought it was better to stabilize the ankle before he moved Elvin. “I’ll be gone for a while to go get the materials to build a box around your ankle. And a travois to transport you on. Then we’ll get you out of here.”
“We leaving tonight?”
“If we can.”
“You have any more water?”
“Not with me. But I have food here. And a sleeping bag, too.”
“I am a little cold and hungry.”
Patrick got him a PB&J from the bags. While Elvin wolfed it down, Patrick draped the sleeping bag over him. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
Elvin’s eyes fluttered closed. “I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered.
Chapter Thirty-three: Battle
Middle Little Goose Trail, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 5:30 p.m.
Perry
Perry tried his best to hold it in, but vomit spewed from his mouth anyway. It landed on the wet ground between his hands. Or mostly between them, and a little bit on them. He wiped the slime from his mouth with the back of his hand. The acid burned his nose and throat and made his eyes water. It didn’t smell so hot either. But none of that mattered. What he cared about was that Mr. Cardinale and Juice and the other guy didn’t find him and Trish. Had they heard him? He’d been as quiet as he could be. He listened carefully, but the men didn’t seem to react.
A sigh eased out.
He felt like his brain was stuffed with cotton. Nothing was making sense. The horses had run away. And John . . . John had been shot, for no reason at all. His best friend was hurt and bleeding and Perry couldn’t help him because the bad guys were threatening them with a machine pistol. He wasn’t even sure what a machine pistol was. Something for mobsters in the movies, or special operations guys in foreign countries, he figured. Not for people in the mountains of Wyoming.
Mr. Cardinale’s voice rang out. It sent shivers up Perry’s arms and neck. “We know where you are, Mr. Nichols. We heard your voice.”
Perry saw someone moving to his left. Trish? No. It was too big to be his sister. One of the bad guys? He squinted. Caught a glimpse of hair blonder than his sister’s but short. A man. George. Where was he going? He was hunched over moving uphill like Perry’s dad whenever he did his dumb fox walk, trying to be as quiet as an Indian. But it seemed to be working for George, because the bad guys were still staring at where he had been, and he was fifty feet away from there now, heading up the steep trailside. They didn’t know where he was.
Mr. Cardinale said, “Youse all got until the count of three to come out. Then Juice makes Swiss cheese out of everything within fifty yards.”
George climbed faster, crawling on all fours with his butt up like a bear crawl now. To Perry, it was like he was watching this on a TV show where George was the hero, and he wanted to cheer. Taking the high ground to fire down on an enemy. It was sound military strategy according to all the shows he’d watched. That is, if George had a gun. He’d told Perry’s dad that he did. But was it with him? George reached a rock ledge and scrambled onto it. It was the perfect perch for a mountain lion to pounce from. Or for a soldier to defend. George stretched out on his belly. He pulled a handgun from inside his jacket—yes!—and extended his arms. He sighted down toward the trail. He cocked the thumb hammer.
And then his trigger finger drew back.
The shot George fired wasn’t nearly as loud as the ones earlier, but it must have been just as effective. A man grunted. Then there was a loud thud and the sound of a horse sprinting away.
“Big mistake.” Mr. Cardinale’s voice was really, really mad.
Bullets began firing from a gun, but so fast and loud that they were like popcorn on a hot stove, or a raft of firecrackers going up from one fuse. Perry flattened himself onto the ground and inched backwards. He barely noticed the puddle of sick as he dragged himself through it. He put his hands over his ears and glued his eyes on George. Come on, George. Come on. George had scooted off the rock and was crouched behind it. He was safe, and so far, so was Perry. But he hadn’t heard a sound from Trish. His stomach started to churn. What if she’d been shot?
Finally, finally, the bullets stopped. The lingering gunpowder smell was so strong, even from a distance, that Perry could taste it. This was no TV show or dream. This was real, and it was happening to him.
Mr. Cardinale spoke again. “How do youse guys like the MAC-11?”
The silence after his words was complete, and that’s when Perry realized the storm had stopped. Sunlight spilled through the tree branches and dappled the forest floor. There was no wind, no rain, no sleet, no hail. Just total stillness, without even the chirp of a bird. The shooting had probably scared every animal within a hundred miles, like it had scared off their horses.
Up the hill from him, he saw movement again. George was crawling back out onto his rock. Then Perry heard something. It was soft, but he was sure something was behind him, down on the trail. His heart lodged into his throat. If one of the men came from that direction, they would see him for sure. He had to see what it was. And he had to be ready.
If only his dad believed he was old enough to carry a gun—which he was—he could protect Trish and himself. Or if he hadn’t lost his pocketknife last spring. He had a feeling his parents were giving him a new one for Christmas, but that didn’t do him any good now. He dug his hands into the pine needles on the ground, digging under them until his fingers found a rock. It wasn’t big. No more than half a palmful. But it was all he had. He clutched it and turned, ever so carefully, just enough that he had a view down the trail.
Two men were crawling up from the trail. He’d been right!
But it wasn’t just any two men. It was Henry Sibley and Ben Jones. Perry’s heart soared. For a second, he wondered why Ben was there and where he’d come from. But only for a second, because he was too glad to really care.
Henry and Ben were climbing on a diagonal now, aiming toward rocks at a higher elevation than George. Perry’s eyes flitted from them to George and back again. A new worry had surfaced. What if George shot them, thinking they were the bad guys? Henry and Ben started spacing themselves out, so that one of them was above George on his right, and the other to his left. Perry cut his eyes back to George, afraid he’d see him taking aim at their friends.
Perry held his breath.
George nodded. First at Henry, then at Ben. He’d seen them.
A man’s voice said, “Boss, I don’t like this. It’s too quiet.”
Mr. Cardinale answered. “Nonsense, Juice. This is the sound of death. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Suddenly, George, Henry, and Ben opened fire. Their cadence didn’t rival the machine pistol, but it got the point across. Mr. Cardinale and Juice were up against multiple guns, from three separate locations.
The men on the trail screamed bad words.
Mr. Cardinale yelled, “Back. Get back up the trail.”
Hooves clattered. George, Henry, and Ben stopped shooting. Hope rose in Perry. They were going to survive this. They were going to survive!
George shouted after them. “Your people aren’t with me. And only cowards shoot children. If you come bac
k, we’re going to take you out.”
There was no answer. The sound of the hoofbeats faded away.
Perry crawled to his knees. He whispered, “Trish? Are you all right?”
Her voice shook like she was crying. “I’m okay.”
He jumped up and headed toward her, running, but not as fast as Ben, who came down the slope like a downhill skier, dodging trees and mowing down all the bush and brush in his way.
Trish’s voice shook. “Ben? What are you doing . . .”
Ben disappeared behind the boulders Trish had been using as her hiding place. Perry didn’t want to see them now anyway. They’d be making out, which was gross. Trish had Ben now. She didn’t need him.
But John did.
He changed course. George and Henry were ahead of him, working their way down the slope.
Perry lunged toward them. “George. We have to help John.”
George shook his head and put his face in his hands.
Chapter Thirty-four: Construct
Base of Black Tooth Mountain, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 5:45 p.m.
Patrick
Patrick found Eddie sitting against a rock at the far edge of the wreckage, exactly as he’d left him. The blowing cash was nowhere in sight now. Gone, or picked up and stuffed in Eddie’s clothes? Patrick glanced at his waterproof watch. Had it really only been twenty minutes since he’d arrived at the plane? He’d worked lightning fast on Elvin. But, the crush of urgency had spurred him on. He had to get them all off this mountain, ASAP.
Eddie didn’t look up.
Patrick was tired. Tired of Eddie’s deceit as well as physically, mentally, and emotionally wrung out. The man had done nothing but lie to him, and he hadn’t lifted a finger to help Bruce or Elvin. Patrick could guess why now. Eddie hadn’t wanted them to live, because he was planning on coming back for all the cash himself. Patrick remembered the modifications he’d seen Bruce making to his fuselage at the airport. A deep sadness settled over him. He’d been creating the storage space for the money. How much money was stuffed in the false skin in the plane? If it was all twenties, it could be hundreds of thousands of dollars. Bruce must have been every bit as broke as Ernie had told Patrick the day before to take a sketchy job like this.
Patrick remembered the bundle of twenties in Eddie’s shirt pocket. And he pictured the man’s sagging jeans—probably weighed down by more bundles in the pockets. He’d obviously tried to take some of it already. But not all of it. And he’d risked it being discovered by leaving the plane himself. Why?
He didn’t have a way to get it all down the mountain, Patrick realized.
But now he did—the horses.
Patrick had walked into a trap of his own making by insisting he and Eddie come back to the plane with the two strong animals. Eddie now had the motive and opportunity to kill off everyone that stood between him and the money. But did he have the means? Patrick hadn’t seen a weapon on him. But the man was clever and amoral. Patrick would have to keep his wits about him and his own gun in reach.
He slipped his hand inside his jacket and rested it on his holster, near the hand grip of his revolver. “I need your help, Eddie.”
Eddie stood. His movements were stiff. “Is he all right?”
“He who—Bruce or Elvin?” Patrick’s kept his face neutral.
“Bruce?”
“The pilot.”
“You knew him?”
“You could say that.” Emotions bubbled up, and Patrick pressed his lips together. When he had recovered, he said, “He was a friend of mine.”
“Oh, uh, sorry, man.”
“And he died on impact. Before you left.”
Eddie held eye contact with Patrick. “Yeah, so?”
“I just want to be clear now what the truth was, and how far you were from telling it to me.”
Eddie smiled at him. “I didn’t owe you the truth.”
“You were taking my help.”
“I didn’t ask for it, though, did I?”
The conversation was going nowhere good and wasting time they didn’t have. Patrick ended the tangent. “Elvin will live, probably. But we’re going to have to take that plane apart to get him out. And getting him down will be a nightmare for all of us, most of all him. What he needs first is fresh water.” He handed Eddie the canteens. “I have a boiling pot in the bags down with Reno. What I need you to do is go find running water, boil it, and fill our canteens.”
Eddie shrugged. He didn’t say no.
Patrick pointed toward the boulder fall. “After you.” He wasn’t turning his back on Eddie Blackhawk.
“Where are you going?”
“I need materials to build a travois and a bracing box for Elvin’s leg.”
Eddie started climbing down. “Is he conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Talking?”
Patrick started down the mountain. “Yes, and he had a lot to say.”
“Did you tell him I went for help?”
“You can lie to him yourself.” Patrick wasn’t about to admit he already had, in the interest of maintaining order between the men.
“Man, I was going for help.”
Help to get the money down. “That’s why you didn’t tell me about him?” Patrick snorted.
Eddie didn’t reply.
“He would have died, you know. By the time you got back.” He was gaining on Eddie, so he slowed down. “By the way, we have to hike out tonight. Now that I understand what your Chicago friends are really after, and just how motivated it will make them.”
The silence was heavy for a few seconds.
Then Eddie turned to him and sneered. “You don’t understand anything.”
“Help me, then.”
Eddie started back down the boulders. “For starters, it wasn’t my idea.”
Patrick drew in a soft breath. It? What was “it?” Eddie must think Elvin had spilled more than he did to Patrick. If Patrick wanted to learn more from Eddie, then his best course of action was silence.
He kept hopping down the rocks, but he stayed mum.
“Fine, don’t believe me. But I was happy with the local poker games. I didn’t need any more than that. Elvin was the one who wanted to expand. Bring in the high rollers. Satisfy more of their expensive tastes.”
That explained the money. Some of it, anyway. But not the Chicago mafia involvement. Patrick held the uncomfortable silence as long as he could, hoping for more. “It’s none of my business anyway.”
Eddie’s laugh was malignant. “A little late for that now, don’t you think?”
Patrick did, and it wasn’t a comforting thought.
Chapter Thirty-five: Tumult
Middle Little Goose Trail, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 5:45 p.m.
Trish
Trish stood behind her little brother, her arms crossed over her chest. The two of them were off to the side of Little Goose Trail, turned away from the others. George, Henry, and Ben were a few feet up the trail, standing over John’s body and talking softly. She leaned the front of her legs against Perry’s back where he was sitting on the ground. She needed the human contact—a hug would have been even better—and she suspected he did, too, although he always complained when anyone hugged him.
She looked over her shoulder at John again. As much as she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help it. Had to keep trying to convince herself this wasn’t just a bad dream. Her brother’s best friend was dead.
She closed her eyes, but she could still see John. It wasn’t like she’d never seen dead people before. She’d witnessed some awful things, including the death of Ben’s father. She’d been through trauma, more than her fair share. But John dying was the worst thing she’d ever experienced. His body was curled up on the ground like he was sleeping on his side. He looked almost peaceful, except for a single hole in the side of his head with a little trickle
of blood that had already dried. He had been spending the night at their house nearly every weekend for the last two years. He used to stare at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, his eyes big and focusing on her chest. Younger boys were so goofy. But she hadn’t really minded. She’d miss it now. She’d miss him.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she ignored them. She had to stay strong for Perry. If it was this bad for her, she knew it was ten times worse for Perry. There was so much more that he would miss. He and John had done everything together. All he’d done since he’d learned John was dead was stare at nothing, not speaking, not crying. She was worried about him. Without her parents here, he was her responsibility, and she didn’t know what to do to help him.
She leaned more weight into her legs against his back
Hooves sounded on the trail, coming toward them. Trish’s mouth dried in an instant. They’re back. She grabbed Perry’s arm. “Run, Perry. We have to get out of here.”
He was limp. No reaction at all.
She jerked at him. How could such a short boy be so heavy? “Come on. Come on.”
“Everyone off the trail,” George yelled. “Into the trees.”
“Perry, please. Please.” She pulled with all her strength.
Perry fell over onto his hands and knees. She dragged him a step. A large body appeared beside her. Tall and strong. Her boyfriend. Ben.
Ben took Perry’s other arm. “Move, Perry. Now.” His height gave him a better angle, and his strength made Perry’s resistance futile. Ben jerked Perry so far in the air that he landed on his feet.
Together, Trish and Ben dragged Perry behind them a few feet into the woods, without a moment to spare. A horse rounded the bend in the trail, barreling toward where they’d been. Trish dove behind a tree. Perry landed on top of her. Ben crouched behind them.
“Yeti!” George jumped back into the trail in front of John, waving both arms over his head.
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