Corporal Todd Gilroy had moved and left no forwarding address. Neither team member had heard from or about Gilroy. Neither had heard that Gaicamo had been accidentally shot. Both were indignant and saddened by such carelessness and the loss of a friend. Clicker was gladdened that his men were safe, but there was no trail to be followed through them.
Maynard muttered, "You might have asked which one of those jar-heads pushed me out of the chopper." Clicker only grunted. He had heard the claim too often.
Bell continued his search for the shooters. He had examined every angle he could think of and guessed that the snipers had come from far away and fled never to return. At least, he hoped they would never return.
Clicker said, "I don't know where to look or who else to ask, Colonel. The state cops have stacked arms on it, although the case will remain open. I've visited every house from here to the South Dakota border and found nothing.
"I've looked into every shooting group from Sheridan down to Buffalo, and I've paid a call on every backyard mechanic who might have worked on or seen a pair of three-wheelers. Lord knows I've found enough of those trikes, but most were junked or the kids in the family ran them around the fields."
"I suppose you checked the gunsmiths and gun sellers, Click?"
"Got 'em all, Colonel, and I've spoken with everybody that looked half-way intelligent at every gun show east of here."
Maynard said, "You keep saying east of here, Clicker? Nothing to the west?"
Clicker was clearly startled. "Hell, Colonel, to get west you'd have to go all the way up to Sheridan or down to Buffalo, and.... ." Bell appeared chagrined. "You're right. I should have crossed the mountains." He appeared to consider. "I think I'll start with Greybull. That's the biggest place due west. Then I'll drop down to Worland checking everything in between."
Is this Ron or Don?"
"Hey, Tex, it's Ron. Where you been, man? We thought you might have dropped us. Pissed off about how things went an', well, you know."
"I been around, Ron. I was at your house a couple of days ago, but you weren't home."
"Hey, Tex, all you had to do was let us know you were comin' by."
"I'm calling about something else."
"You name it, Tex. We're waitin' to make up for what happened last time. Man, that still isn't believable, why we had everything figured to a gnat's eyebrow. We—"
"Forget all of that. Things past are better left buried."
"Gotcha, Tex. It never happened."
"Anybody asking anything these days?"
"Bell is still poking around, but he ain't found nothin'. Hell, there ain't anythin' to find."
Ron chortled with an absolute certainty that Tex did not share.
"You get rid of the vehicles like I told you?"
"They're in pieces an' buried, Tex. We're clear there."
"And we are square on the money end, Ron. I paid you well to destroy those things."
"Hey, Tex, they're gone."
"I believe you. I looked around and didn't see them."
Ron felt his skin crawl. Tex slipped in and out too easy for comfort, and the three-wheelers were not completely gone. Hell, those things were worth money, and once the shooting had faded into history they could ride them again. He and Don had disassembled the trikes and buried them under the hay pile in their barn. Even if they were found, the ATVs would just be old junk left over from who-knows-when.
"So, here's the latest deal, Ron. You reach under your porch steps, and you will find two packages. They are both money. The smaller one has your names on it, and it is yours right now for doing good service."
"Hey, man, that's real kind. We're obliged. What's in the other one?"
"The other one is also money, and it is a lot bigger. The envelope has Bell's name on it, and the money is for him. Don't you mess with his package in any way. Here's the deal.
"If Bell shows up at your place, you explain how it was all a mistake, and we are trying to make it right. Give him the envelope.
"Now, if he doesn't come around before two months are up, then Bell's money is yours and we will never talk again. That clear enough?"
"That's clear, Tex. Man, you think Bell might find us? Hell, I can't see that at all!"
"Bell is a very dangerous man, Ron. If you are smart, you'll just hand over the package, and Ron, Bell's package will not be yours until the two months are up."
"Got it, Tex, but he won't show up. It could work out that we can do other jobs for you. Tex We can use the money, and—"
"I know where you live, Ron." Tex hung up.
Ron felt his skin shiver. Whoever Tex really was, he was one cold bastard. Having him know all about you and maybe still lurking out there wasn't exactly comforting.
He called his brother, and they found the packages exactly where Tex had said they would be.
Hands shaking in eagerness, Ron opened their envelope. Whew, two grand. A grand apiece. Tex threw money around like it was newspaper.
Bell's envelope was a lot thicker.
Don said, "There's got to be a pile of dough in there, Ron. Maybe we just ought to kill Bell if he shows up here."
Ron's neck hairs stood on end. "Like hell, bro. That Tex would come down on us like a tornado. We'd get dropped dead right here in our own yard. He ain't nobody to cross, Don."
Then Ron smiled. "Hell it will be our money, anyway, Donny. Bell ain't never comin' here. It's only a couple of weeks till the two months are up. Then it'll be ours." He hefted the envelope. "I'll bet there's twenty or thirty thousand dollars in there."
"Have to be to buy Bell off. Man running a ranch like he is ain't goin' to settle for the kind of money we get."
Clicker turned his pickup north on Interstate 90 and drove the fifteen miles to Route 331 that would cut off some miles. He turned west on Route 14 and cruised down the mountains and onto the flat land. He was in Greybull in an easy two hours. The town was hot, dusty, and flatter than road kill.
Bell had friends who might give him ideas on where to start. The Brewers lived on 14th Avenue, North. Bob was away working the oil wells, but Rox Brewer had advice to offer.
According to Rox there was a long-range shooting club, and she knew of two places that sold ATVs. Bell started out. The businesses were easy but unproductive. Three-wheelers were around, but none of the people described appeared remotely probable.
The shooting club was tougher because no one was at the clubhouse. A neighbor knew one of the shooters, and Clicker finally ran the man down at a local eatery.
The man, who was older than sin but was blessed with eyes like a youth's, knew many things, and Bell could talk to him as an equal. First, they talked long shooting, and Bell enjoyed it.
The Greybull club used mostly thirty calibers for their thousand yard shooting, but there were a few 7mm's and one 6.5 with a case like a sewer pipe.
Clicker came on strong with talk of .50 calibers and, having captured the old timer's interest, he spoke of shooting up vehicles during the Gulf War using a .50 caliber Barrett semi-automatic.
Finally Bell said, "I'm over here trying to find two men who do some long shooting. All I know about them is that they shoot pretty well, and they sometimes use a couple of three-wheeler ATVs."
The old man's eyes glittered. "What'd they do, shoot somebody?"
Bell felt his muscles tighten. "Something like that. You know anyone who could fit the bill?"
"Might, but I doubt anybody else would remember. What exactly did these boys do?"
Damn! Clicker wondered ... Have I got a strike on the first cast? He could see no reason not to tell the truth.
"Maybe you remember that a rancher over in the Big Horns got shot nearly two months back?" His possible informant nodded. "Well, I'm looking for the people that did it."
The old timer relit his pipe and expelled a not overly fragrant cloud.
"Heard that shooting was accidental."
"I don't think so."
Clearly the old shooter wanted to ta
lk. Clicker figured he had no real choice, so he described some of his evidence and his speculations based on his discoveries.
Digesting the information took a few pipe puffs, but finally the old man said, "Your thinking sounds likely, and the men I've got in mind might just be your shooters."
Despite the dry high-country air, Clicker felt himself sweating.
Still the man had to digress a little. "You say they left a 7 x 61 Sharpe and Hart case?"
"That's what they planted, or at least I think it was a plant. The bullet that hit the Colonel was never recovered."
"Uh huh. We've got two men that shoot 7 x 61's. Your bad men could of picked up a case off our range. You might want to have your cartridge case checked against their rifles, but neither of these men would be involved. They're both salt of the earth, and have lived here in Greybull all of their lives."
Clicker waited.
Eventually, the long shooter got himself going again. "Pair of brothers is who I've got in mind. They showed up at the club, oh, maybe a year back. Came from back east, somewhere, as I recall.
"Men could shoot pretty good, but they were contentious and braggy. Nobody liked 'em much, and no invitation to join got sent out. Now that's unusual."
Clicker was assured.
"Fact is, we're always looking for club members. We can hardly keep going as it is."
Bell knew better than to interrupt, but his toes curled in his boots.
"These brothers had the same first name, or nearly so. They looked alike and nobody could tell which was which. Shot .308 Winchesters in Model 700 Remingtons that had been worked over pretty good. Both rifles identical. Had Leupolds mounted, as I recall. Big scopes. Objective lenses like trash barrels, and the elevation turrets stuck up like smoke stacks, but I never did know what models they were.
"Anyhow, after their first time here they brought along a pair of three-wheelers to run out to the targets. Nothin' wrong with that, but they were always wheeling and spinning and raising dust clouds that probably settled over in South Dakota. Annoying as hell."
Clicker couldn't wait. "They have a last name?"
"A'course they had a last name. They called themselves Wagner. Lon and John, or something like that, Wagner."
Bell felt it. He, by all the gods, had the bastards—shooters from somewhere else who rode three-wheeled ATVs and were unlikable. He could settle for that.
"They still come around?"
"Nope. Reckon they got the message. Ain't seen 'em for a long time."
There was a pause. "I know where they lived back then. If that's of interest." The old man's eyes gleamed with poorly hidden humor.
Clicker laughed aloud. "Yes, I am very interested in where they lived. Maybe they are still there."
The man pondered. "No reason they shouldn't be. As I recall they bought a place, and property don't change hands all that often in these parts."
Again Clicker waited, and again the old timer enjoyed the suspense.
"You know where Shell is, don't you?"
''Sure, just down the road, not more than a dozen miles, isn't it?"
"Well, them Wagners had a house outside of town aways. If you drive east on Route 14, just the way you came in most likely, you'll come over a small rise, and there will be Shell sitting down in the hollow. There's good water there, which accounts for the town.
"The first place on the left is a camp ground. What you should do is stop there and ask about them Wagners. Happens I know the manager. People can be clanny out there in the country, and they might not talk straight on to you. If you'd like, I'll call ahead and tell 'em you are coming. That way nobody will get excited."
He saw Clicker's alarm and quickly added, "I won't say nothing about why you are looking for Wagners. That'll stay between you and me—at least until you get 'em roped and tied."
"I won't be taking them in. That will be a job for the police."
The old man nodded and sucked on his empty pipe. "If you say so, Mister Bell. But me? I'd be after their scalps as personal as I could make it."
Clicker headed for Shell, Wyoming.
+++
The Wagner place lay in one of the countless hollows that formed the rolling Wyoming plains. From a half mile distance, the hollow could not be seen, and during the frontier days hostile warriors could swarm from such concealment with little warning.
Cottonwoods grew along the small seep that provided water, and Clicker had taken care to avoid disturbing cattle that clung to the shade along the dribble of water.
Higher ground surrounding the Wagner house was topped by low brush, and despite his care, Bell had failed to see a jack rabbit which burst from under a bush and darted away. Clicker cursed the rabbit, and sought tighter concentration.
From beneath a bush he studied the ramshackle homestead. There was a sagging barn and some sort of open equipment shed. The house was severely out of plumb, but electric wires ran in, and he saw a water tank and a shallow-water pump. On higher ground near his observation point a modern TV antenna pushed skyward. The Wagners were not without amenities.
Of great interest was a sturdy bench rest placed almost in the front yard with the legs driven deep into the earth. The Wagners fired down their hollow, and Bell judged that the furthest target holders were about one thousand yards out. A berm short of the furthest holders held an "E" type silhouette target, and Bell guessed that when measured that distance would match almost to the inch the range from which Greg Maynard had been shot.
He could see into the open-doored barn, and there was no car or truck on the place. There was an ancient farm tractor that, judging from the beaten-in tracks, was used to place and recover targets. Clicker wondered what the Wagners did for a living? Their few cattle would amount to little, and none of the land he could see was cultivated.
The question plaguing Bell was the absence of the three-wheelers. The machines could be hidden in the house, he supposed, or they could be in the back of the barn. He could see only part way inside that wobbly structure. Without the trikes, he feared his suspicions would remain unprovable. No vehicles probably meant no one at home. After an hour of unrewarding observing, he decided to go down and take a closer look.
The only approach providing even minimal concealment was straight up the shooting lane. The house had only a single window on that side, and a blind was drawn across it. Clicker began his stalk.
Once into the hollow, Bell kept the infrequent trees between himself and the house and moved bush to bush without undue delay. He was in the last one hundred yards before he noticed the footprints that in many places lay beneath his own.
Behind reasonably thick protection, Clicker paused to think about what he was seeing. It appeared to him that someone else had slipped across this same ground using the same brush and trees to keep anyone inside from seeing him. Now what did that mean, Bell wondered?
He studied the prints with care, but there were few other clues. The stalker was probably a man, or a woman with very large feet, of course. Certainly not a child and whoever had trod here knew what he was about. They had chosen the same concealment in too many instances for the mystery man to be untrained.
Bell judged the marks to be old, but he found himself wondering if the stalker might possibly now be an observer and was somewhere up on the rims watching his every move through a telescopic sight. Clicker's skin crawled.
What was he doing here, anyway? He should have backed off and reported everything he had found to the police, but he wanted to be more certain.
He had taken some precautions, however.
In movies, the hero always holds his scheme close to his chest, and before the second reel, he is about to die with no one else knowing what he has discovered.
Clicker had called the Sixplex ranch from his truck phone. He told the Colonel's personal answering machine all that he knew and that he intended to look closer but would check in later in the evening.
When he got to the house, Bell listened against a wall. He
aring nothing, he tried at a window. No sounds of life were detected. He stepped onto the rear porch expecting that a dog might rouse itself within the place, but nothing changed. Finally, he knocked vigorously, but received no response. He was alone on the place. Now what? The barn first. The trikes should be in there.
Except for a rusted-out horse-drawn manure spreader, assorted junk, and a push lawn mower, the barn was empty. The Wagners used the outbuilding for loose hay storage, but little else. There was no loft, and Bell saw that the roof leaked in many places. Not good for stored hay, he thought, and left the barn behind.
Clicker was half way to the house when a thought centered. There was no equipment around for hay gathering, and who stored loose hay anymore, anyway? The Wagners might store bales against a bad winter—but loose hay? Clicker's heart rate rose, and he turned back for a closer look.
His first glance pumped his pulse higher. Amid the hay was bailing twine. He could see that bales had been broken and tossed and kicked around, but in places the squared shapes still held. Bell waded into the mound. He found a broken-tined pitchfork and began moving hay around.
Clicker's first find was a wheel with a flat tire, but the tire was deep treaded, and looked almost new. He forked some more. Bell did not bother to uncover all of the three-wheeler parts. As soon as he knew he had two machines, he forked hay back in place and returned the pitchfork.
He had the right men; no question about it now. Still, Clicker wanted to see inside the house. What did he expect, an enlarged photograph of himself with the face shot away hanging above the mantel? That wasn't it, but once the police moved in he would be out in the cold again, and he would be given little if any information.
These bozos were not the entire answer. They might talk to their interrogators, or they might not. If he could just find the next step.... Clicker tried the back door.
Wide open. Well, that should not be unexpected. Country people were still that way sometimes. Made sense, really. All a locked door proved was that no one was home. Anyone wishing to enter could knock out a glass pane and be in within moments. The best defense for a home was the owner waiting with a shotgun. Lacking that, a pack of murderous hounds was good.
Sniper One Page 14