by Bart Paul
“The voters in the south county won’t tolerate another damn bloodbath up here,” he said. “Now step off that animal.”
I spun Dan’s horse around and broke him into an easy lope, heading down the logging road into the dark.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I sat in a chair in Sarah’s Reno hospital room the next afternoon checking on flights back to Hartsfield. Jack came in and pulled a chair up next to her bed. She reached out a hand and he took it for a second. He told her how, a couple of hours before, he snuck a six-pack into a guarded hospital room in Gardnerville and interviewed the surviving Miller brother, as he said, Indian to Indian.
“The guy’d been ambulanced north to the nearest emergency ward from Dave’s yard where Tommy and Burt left him,” Jack said. “His legs were pretty messed up, but it’s a long way from his heart. Once I got a couple beers in him, he told me whatever I asked about the stuff he’d done for Kip over the past year—since before you married him, Sarah. Then all the stuff with your dad.”
Jack said the Miller boys weren’t on the ranch when Dave was taken, but the big weightlifter told the surviving one all about it—how Dave was knocked down in his own kitchen while he was cooking breakfast. Sarah had been close when it happened, so close she almost caught them. Dave was unconscious when they tied him up and threw him into the bed of his own truck. The big weightlifter drove the truck away from the Reno Highway toward the Monte Cristos while Kip followed in his Ram. Delroy had the red Cessna waiting at the Marine airstrip out in the sagebrush at Monte Cristo Summit, along with both the Millers. The guy told Jack how they’d stuffed Dave into the plane and Delroy had flown him two hundred miles south to the airstrip below Lone Pine, then waited for the Millers to meet him. Kip figured that would be far enough away from any law enforcement looking for Dave in the first few hours. The Millers piled him into their GMC and drove him back north that night, circling east through Hawthorne, then north to the Frémont Lake Rez where they stashed him for the next couple of days. Kip had gone back to Dave’s to play concerned husband with Sarah but had snuck out to the Rez to check on her dad. That’s when he killed Randy Ragazino.
“I couldn’t get a good answer about when they took Dave back to the old pack station,” Jack said. “But they were all pretty busy guys.”
Sarah turned her face to the window, just staring, taking it all in, knowing how close they’d come.
The guy told Jack he and his brother weren’t surprised when maybe a week later Kip told them to bring saddle horses and meet him out by Dave’s cowcamp. The guy said Kip went nuts when he’d found out we were heading out to gather cattle. He’d wanted to see us all frantic, running around looking for him, which is how I figured he’d react. The Miller boy said Kip went full butcher-shop mode then, and they all figured Sarah and I were dead meat. By then even his boys were afraid of him.
“Usually, folks want something when they skip the traces like that,” Jack said. “Money or dope or some damn thing. I never seen anything like this in twenty years with the department. All this for revenge.”
“I think it was more than that. I think he kept Dave alive in that refrigerator box on the outside chance he could still get that water money going.”
“Could be,” Jack said.
“He always thought he was smarter than the rest of us. Still does.”
“Do you have Mitch straightened out yet,” Sarah said, “so he doesn’t jail my—” She turned back to look at us with a funny look on her face. “—boyfriend?”
“Oh yeah,” Jack said. “After Tommy galloped off last night, Agent Fuchs set Mitch straight.”
“I thought Mitch was gonna start shooting at me.”
“No way,” Jack said. “He’s too afraid of Sarah. Mitch knows he got nothing on you. You just piss him off.”
Even with a split lip and a shiner, that made Sarah smile.
“You ride that horse all the way back to Becky’s?” Jack said.
“No. I just sat tight in the pines till I heard Dan’s truck. I was so fried I almost passed out in the saddle.”
“You still look fried,” Sarah said.
Since the day I landed in Reno a week and a half before, I’d tied a big knot for us all to untangle. CID at Fort Benning had already called to say they wanted me back as soon as I was medically cleared to travel and to expect to make myself available for questioning when I landed. Otherwise, they’d be paying me a visit in California. They wanted to know why the captain was shot, and about the woman who shot her, and how the M110 made the trip from Georgia to California. Sarah made sure I had the gunshot wound to my leg looked at right there in the hospital, and told me she’d be going to Georgia with me if it wasn’t for her dad. My mom was out of the hospital now, and Dave was in it. For a cobbled-together family, we were starting out as pretty much a mess.
We were both dozing, Sarah in the bed and me in the chair next to it when her dad’s doctor came in. The woman briefed Sarah on the frostbite surgery performed on Dave’s right foot and left hand, and of the tests they had run on his heart. She told Sarah that Dave did have a second attack. The doctor called it an “event,” and said it was mostly because Kip had dragged Dave off without his meds before he put him through his week of hell. She said his strong constitution had saved him, and as he was back on his meds now, his prognosis was good.
“Between your father, the beating you took, and Sergeant Smith’s wound going untended,” she said, “I’ll say this for you people—you are all a pretty hardy bunch.”
“At least you didn’t cut off any fingers from his roping hand,” Sarah said.
The doc said Dave was still in the ICU, but we could go up and see him for a few minutes whenever Sarah was up to it. She warned Sarah that they couldn’t be sure how long it would take before he was out of the woods.
We were heading down the hallway on the floor above Sarah’s. We walked slow, she from the beating Kip gave her, me from the fresh stitches on the back of my thigh. We noticed two deputies from Washoe County sitting outside one of the rooms with the door closed. One of them was looking at his phone, the other was watching us, sort of amused. Sarah said hey to that one, and he said hey back like he knew who she was.
“What can I say,” Sarah said after they were behind us. “It’s a brotherhood.”
We didn’t say anything more until we got to the ICU. The two of them hugged and cried, and Dave wanted to know just what day it was. Sarah told him. She told him about Hoyt, the Marine Housing shoot-out, the deaths of his tormentors except for his son-in-law, and her plans to gather his permit. It would be his first year not running things, and she told him not to worry about anything, but I could tell that she was worrying. She told him that she wasn’t going to think of starting until he was in better shape. He started to argue, then just sighed and lay back. He was weak, but he still looked better than you’d expect, even lying in that bed with wires and IVs stuck all over him.
“We’ve got the Tyrees and Lindermans,” she said, “just like always. And Jack’s taking a day off to help us, too.”
“And Tommy?” Dave said after staring at me a bit.
“Yeap.”
“You getting out of the service for good, then?”
Sarah took my hand.
“I expect so.”
Dave’s eyes watered, and he tried to rub them with his bandaged hand. “Well, damn, girl. Damn.”
Sarah was eating some sort of mystery chicken when Jack came back to her room about five thirty. He told us that he’d been up to see Dave.
“Him and me’ll be team roping before you know it,” Jack said. “That mouse shit he ate must have put some lead in his pencil.”
Sarah asked him about departmental stuff, and if I was cleared to travel out of the territory. Jack told us that Fuchs had more talks with Mitch and the CID people at Fort Benning, and he’d got them all pretty much on the same page.
“As long as Mitch thinks his ass is covered,” Jack said, “he’s happy.�
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“If he’s happy,” Sarah said, “we’re happy.”
“Well,” Jack said, “I bet you’ll be glad to get out of this building and back to the ranch.”
“Sure thing,” Sarah said.
“I mean,” he said, “with Kip and all.”
“What do you mean?”
“With him being just upstairs.” Jack got a funny look. “Didn’t you see those Washoe deputies standing guard three doors down from Dave’s room? They got old Kip chained to his bed on a twenty-four hour watch.”
Our feet hit the floor at three forty-five, ten mornings later. We loaded horses, gear, and food, ready to start the gather of Dave’s cattle for real. Sarah cooked breakfast while I grained and saddled and packed outside in the dark, as some careless bastard had shot out the yard light. Harvey and May Linderman had picked up some battery cables at the NAPA at Piute Meadows the day before and driven out to Dave’s cowcamp to get Sarah’s Silverado up and running after Kip had disabled it, so we had her truck and gooseneck back at Dave’s ready to load.
We were convoying out to the permit by five thirty with Harvey, May, and Jack, who’d told Mitch he was taking a sick day. Becky and Dan had started the gather the day before. It was the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. There were three days left in the month of May.
I hadn’t booked a flight until I knew when we’d be finished gathering, and that all depended on Sarah feeling she could leave Dave for a few days. Becky said they’d do the whole job for us, but Sarah wouldn’t have it. Her cuts and bruises were healed and she was itching to get this done for her dad. Plus she didn’t want to give Kip the satisfaction of leaving any job undone, even if he was locked down under guard on his Reno hospital bed and so sedated he’d never know or care.
We got mounted by seven thirty, with Becky and Dan waiting for us, their first day’s gather already bawling in the pens. More cattle had followed and were spread close above the cowcamp on the meadows. The day before, while Harvey had worked on Sarah’s truck, May had straightened up and cleaned the cabin after the mess Kip’s boys had made. When we were ready to head out the next morning, Harvey asked Sarah if he could hold our horses for us while we stepped aboard, as he said we both were as stiff and slow as a couple of overworked yoga instructors. Sarah laughed and told him as nice as could be to go to hell. The day was warming up like summer.
The others drifted out toward the Dayton road. Sarah and I headed toward the Washoe Pass country. She was riding the bay mare, and I was on the sorrel just like before. We followed the road out past where I’d been trapped when her dad’s horse got shot and I’d killed the first Miller brother. Then we passed our campsite where Delroy crashed and burned. We didn’t look close at either place, but the dead had been carried away. The Cessna still sat upside down where it had burned black. Somebody’d get that hauled out soon enough. The spring snow from a couple of weeks before had melted off and the meadows were already grazed down. We headed up the wagon road toward some spring-fed willow and piñon against a bluff. We’d been riding without talking, each of us just processing the last few wild days.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Sure.”
“After Burt found Dad, you could’ve killed Kip and he would’ve deserved it. Why didn’t you?”
“If we end up together, I didn’t think it’d look right for me to be killing your husband just before.”
“If?”
“You know what I mean. Folks would talk.”
“Yes,” she said. “That is so like you, though.”
“After what he did to you, letting him live was about the hardest thing I ever had to do. Second hardest, anyway.”
Sarah just nodded, eyes on the road ahead.
“Can I ask you something, then?”
“Sure,” she said.
I rubbed the sorrel’s neck. “How come you quit riding this big old goof?”
“Because he reminded me of everything I loved about you,” she said. “With you gone, I couldn’t stand to be around him. I would’ve sold him but Dad wouldn’t let me.”
“Fair enough.”
Branches snapped then, and horses squealed. Our two guys spooked as the spotted mustangs we’d seen all those days ago out in the snow came busting out of the willows past us and rattled down through the rocks toward the meadows. Sarah’s mare reared. We laughed at how we’d flushed them without meaning to, and how close the mustangs had come. We watched the stallion circle and bunch his mares at a safe distance, halfway between us and the nearest cattle.
“Well, looky there.”
The dun mare who’d been scared away by Delroy’s plane was with the bunch now. She looked raggedy and bitten and kicked, like the other mares had tried to run her off—like she’d had a rough time.
“You’re not going to say something stupid, are you?” Sarah said, “Like ‘now she’s free?’”
We both laughed at the whole idea.
“No, I was going to say you should leave her out here ’cause she’s too stupid to feed.”
“An extra feral horse with Dad’s brand,” she said. “The BLM would love that. The meadows already look like crap. You can help me rope her when we’re done here.”
We watched them a bit longer. The dun drifted close to the stud.
“Make that two extra horses. Bet she’s already bred.”
I was half laughing, but Sarah got quiet.
“She might not be the only one.”
She had a look on her face I’d never seen. I started to say something, but no words came. She moved her mare out and we rode side-by-side toward the pass.
“Obviously, it’s way too early to know for sure,” she said. “But either way, whatever you say next, whatever question you think you need to ask, it’ll probably be the most important words that come out of your mouth for a long time.” She gave me a look. “Just sayin’.”
She rode along, serious as hell, but calm at the same time. I must have looked happier than I could remember.
“Then I guess ‘holy shit’ won’t cut it.”
She shook her head no.
“I dreamed about you every night of my life since I was twelve years old.” I reached my hand out. “And I’ve loved you since before I even knew what that meant.”
She stuck out her hand and hooked one of my fingers with one of hers. We rode that way until we hit the next bunch of cows. Then we got back to work.
That night all of us ate in the cabin. Harvey fired up a bunch of steaks on a grill out by the woodpile and Becky and Dan cooked fried potatoes and corn and sourdough garlic toast on the woodstove inside. May Linderman had brought salad fixings, some California red, and some ice cream. Without anyone saying anything and with one more hard day ahead of us, it was still like we were all celebrating, like it was the end of something. Afterward, May and I did the dishes and talked about Mom and Burt over the racket of the cows and calves out in the pens, and how I planned on surprising Mom with the pink slip to my Mustang, and such things as that. When we were putting the pots away, May dried her hands and said she’d see us in the morning. I looked outside. Harvey was already waiting in their truck, motor running and headlights on. Becky and Dan and Jack were heading for the door before Sarah really noticed.
“Where are you going?” she said. “You’re not leaving me alone with this guy, are you?” She was standing next to me with her arm around my waist. She kissed me in front of them, which wasn’t like her.
“My brother’s putting us up at his place,” Becky said. “We’ll make sure he’s got his pasture gates set for the cattle tomorrow night. Plus, Jack’s on duty at eight a.m., so he needs to get back to Piute Meadows.” She gave Sarah’s free hand a squeeze. “We’ll see you kids back up here about what, four thirty?”
“Coffee’ll be on.”
Becky gave me a wave, and they were gone.
Sarah didn’t say anything. The night was twenty degrees warmer than it had been the last time we were here. I blew
out the lamps and let the fire burn down and we lay in the bedroll once again, not the only two people on earth anymore. I knew I would remember everything now. The orange glow. The smell of piñon burning and the feel of the night spring breeze blowing between the chinks in the logs. The creak and clank of the cooling iron stove. The canvas tarp stiff against your cheek when you moved. Every last thing. We would have some time after all, more time than I had hoped. And for the first time we talked about not what had been, but what would be. And how we would ride that country one more time from dark to dark, and ride it until we were done.