by Baxter Black
“How will I recognize him?”
“If you’re a private detective, it won’t take you long.”
“Thanks,” said Valter as he and Pike headed out the door.
“By the way,” she called, “what’s your name?”
“Paul Valter.”
“Shoot,” she said with exaggerated disdain. “I jis’ hate it when people name their pitiful kids after Olympic events.”
Valter started to say something but Pike took him by the arm and swept him outside.
Exactly six minutes later, Valter and Pike stood by the cashier counter surveying the after-breakfast crowd at the Stockmen’s Casino restaurant.
“That must be him,” said Valter, nodding toward the only person in the restaurant wearing a coonskin cap, buckskin jacket, and powder horn.
“Very perceptive,” confirmed Pike.
“Mr. Boon?” Valter asked the coon-tail.
Daniel Boon turned and, in a heavy Australian accent, said, “Righto, mate.”
“We’re looking for some missing persons and have been told that you might enlighten us as to the weather north of here last week.”
Boon gave them a slit-eyed squint. “Maybe, maybe not. Yew buying?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Valter.
“Folla me,” Boon said, swooping up two paper napkins off the counter and pocketing them as he stood up.
“Not with the spoon, ya don’t, Daniel,” warned the waitress.
He returned the purloined instrument.
Ensconced in a booth in the corner of the gaming room, Daniel Boon asked, “What’ll ya have, mates?”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee.”
Daniel spoke to the bartender: “Two coffees and a Tooheys.”
“Mr. Boon,” Pike began, “we’re looking for a young woman.”
“My gosh, at your age, you should be lookin’ for a sheila who’s a bit more seasoned, wouldn’t ya think? More worldly, someone who’s had her shots,” advised Daniel Boon.
“No, she’s gone missing. Along with her plane. Last week, Wednesday or Thursday, we think. We were told there was a storm—”
“Storm!” interrupted Boon again. “Storm! I thought Wild Horse Reservoir was ’avin’ a typhoon! That Mountain City was ’avin’ a hurricane! That Duck Valley was ’avin’ a dance! It was the highest winds recorded since the spring of 1612 when the Nez Pierce was workin’ their way ta Grangeville! Yessir, mate, it was a real main’sel snapper!”
Valter dove into the conversational gale when Boon took a pull on his Tooheys. “Any chance a small plane would’ve crashed between here and Mountain Home during that storm?”
“The royal question is, Is there any chance a small plane would have NOT crashed?” Boon stood and raised his beer can. “Therefore, my inquisitive friends, if you’re lookin’ for a plane that HAS crashed, you would be wise to hire a scout or explorer, a man knowledgeable of every canyon and cranny, every path and puddle, every buckaroo, beehive, Basko, and mo-bile ’ome between”—he paused dramatically, then lowered his voice—“heah and theah.”
“Dare I ask,” said Pike, “where one could find such a person?”
“Yes, yew dare!” replied the eloquent Boon of Owyhee County, formerly of Goondiwindie, Queensland. “And, kind sir, I . . . am your man! I ’ave the intricate network of contacts with their eye, ear, nose, and throat to the grindstone on the lookout for the dane and the mundane. If a plane crashed between Bruneau and Bangkok, Nit Creek and North Fork, Riddle and Reykjavik, Grasmere and the Ganges, these eagle-beaked, ever-vigilant nostrils of the American outback will know.
“I rest me case.” Boon upended his beer can and sat back down.
15
DECEMBER 3: THE CHASE BEGINS
As luck would have it, and sometimes does, Busby was hovering his blue-and-white Bell Ranger Model 3346 four-seater helicopter fifty feet above the wreckage of Teddie Arizona’s Piper Cherokee by half past the noon hour.
With the expert guidance of the self-acclaimed Owyhee Wilderness Guide and Crocodile Nabber, aka Daniel Boon, the search party had worked its way north along Nevada State Highway 225, continuing up Idaho State Highway 51, staying to the wild country on the east side. It was less populated in that direction and, according to their calculations, the wind would probably have blown any planes off course to the east. The search route took them over the edge of the Humboldt National Forest, then along the Bruneau Canyon.
“That’s Mrs. Pantaker’s plane, all right. NC 1077. It’s a match,” confirmed Paul Valter.
“Oi tol’ ya we’d find her,” said Daniel Boon, buckaroo guide and loose cannon. “Yessir, there she is, bashed into the side of the canyon, upside down, tits up, bajo arriba, belly to the sun, he sure is a sunfishin’ sun of a gun!” he concluded, singing the last line of that classic cowboy tune “The Strawberry Roan.”
“Can you set down here?” Valter asked the pilot.
“Nope, Colonel, I need a flat spot. Too rocky and steep. Maybe down by the river or up on top.”
“Okay,” said Valter, considering. “Take her up.”
Busby lifted the helicopter away from the canyon. By his altimeter they rose 310 feet and crested the rim. He rose up another 500 feet to look around. It was a bright, sunny afternoon. The top of the mesa was rocky and bare of trees. Sagebrush and patches of yellow grass spread out for miles. Eroded arroyos and small washes ran toward the canyon’s rim like capillaries. Occasional water holes sparkled in the sun.
“Pandora’s Thumb,” said Daniel Boon. “A seventy-square-mile peninsula formed by the Bruneau River on the east and Goat Creek on the west. A natural cow pasture as long as the water holes stay full. You can see this last storm filled ’em up. A couple miles west is a cow camp. Usually has a cowboy or two on it in a good winter.”
“Really,” mused Valter. “I wonder if we should check with them first.”
“It would sure be easier to ride down to the wreck if they’d lend us a couple of horses,” said Pike.
“No horses!” said Valter, a little too quickly. He had an unnatural fear of horses, having fallen in front of a merry-go-round as a child. He still had dreams of being run over by a calliope stampede. “It’s just a short walk down there. Besides, I’m wearing my hiking boots.”
Pike looked down at his own brand-new ostrich-skin cowboy boots. “Maybe it would be wise to see if there’s any cowboys there. They might have seen something.”
Valter thought a moment. “No,” he said. “Busby, land right here next to the edge. We’ll go down and check the wreckage, then go from there. We might find a body or the baggage. No need to bother the cowboys.”
Pike spoke up. “Remember, the boss said if we find anything, to call him first. ‘Quarantine the site,’ he said.”
“Well and good,” said Valter. “We’ll reconnoiter the site, then decide our next course of action.”
“Where did you leahn to talk like that, mate?” asked Daniel Boon.
“Twenty-five years in military intelligence,” answered Valter. “Succinctness and clarity are essential for good communication.”
“That’s wot Oi look for in a wine,” said Daniel Boon, ever the connoisseur. “That and a low price.”
“Set her down, Busby,” ordered Valter.
“Aye, aye, sir,” the pilot replied.
When Lewis Ola made his regular Wednesday morning visit to bring supplies to the camp, Teddie took her baggage and hid in the brush until he left at about ten forty-five. She’d persuaded the old man and Lick that she was in grave danger if anyone found out where she was. She’d exaggerated by saying the people she was running from would kill her—at least, she hoped she was exaggerating. She told Lick and the old man that she trusted them, but the less people that knew, the better. “Even Lewis,” she entreated. “I’m sure he’s a good man, but why place him in danger, I mean . . . he’s probably got a family, that is . . . I mean, the two of you don’t have . . . well . . . you know me. I feel safe with
y’all. If I can only lay low for a few more days, the people looking for me might back off, go look elsewhere.
“Besides,” she added, “it’s so isolated here, the chances of them finding me are next to nothing.”
None of these explanations seemed to faze the old man, but Lick took pause to consider the deep end of the pool they were wading in. Someone wants to kill her? he thought.
After Lewis departed, they ate lunch, and then they all lay down for a postprandial snooze. They were startled awake by the distinctive thumping of a helicopter’s rotors.
Teddie ran to the window in a panic and peered out. Lick and the old man ran outside and stood in front of the trailer, watching a helicopter hover over the edge of the canyon less than a mile away. It was easily visible on this clear, unusually calm day. It stayed aloft less than a minute, then descended below their horizon.
“It’s them,” she called out from behind the doorway, shaking uncontrollably. “I’ve got to get out of here. They’ll search the wreckage and discover I’m missing and come right here. Right to your camp.”
“I’d say yer exactly right,” said the old man agreeably.
“Well, shoot, Al, give her a break!” commiserated Lick.
“It’s true,” the old man said, shrugging his shoulders. “She’s dead meat unless we do somethin’.”
“Al’s right,” T.A. said. “Let’s see. They, uh . . . I’ve got . . .”
“Listen,” said Lick, “take your suitcases out into the sagebrush behind the camp and hide. Maybe farther out than this morning ’cause your friends’ll be comin’ in from above and will be able to see farther. Just wait till we give you the all-clear. We’ll shape up the camp. If they come, we’ll tell ’em nuthin’.”
“You wait here with the ship,” Valter instructed Busby. “C’mon gentlemen, let’s check it out.”
In forty-five minutes, Valter, Pike, and Boon were standing in front of the wreckage.
“Will you look at that,” said Daniel Boon. “It’s a wonder we found this at all. They must ’ave bounced and flipped.”
The Piper Cherokee was upside down, pointing north. The tip of the right wing was torn off. The propeller and nose were a mass of twisted metal and prop. The rudder was sheared off, yet the fuselage was surprisingly intact.
Valter looked in through the open door. “This looks like blood. There’s a women’s magazine here.” He carefully stuck his upper body into the cockpit. “No luggage,” he noted.
Pike added from the back, “The luggage compartment’s empty, too.”
Valter backed out of the cockpit. “So, whattaya think happened?” he asked.
“Well,” observed Boon, “she’s gone and taken her luggage. Obviously this was not her planned destination.”
“You see any tracks around here, horse tracks in particular?” asked Pike.
“No, but that trail down to here is still bein’ used. Rain and wind since the wreck. ’Orse tracks? You thinkin’ she was found—rescued, maybe?”
“Maybe we should pay a visit to that cowboy camp after all,” said Valter.
“Here they come,” said the old man. “I can hear it getting closer.”
The helicopter landed thirty yards away from the trailer with a thunderous noise and whoosh, sending sticks, dust, and rocks pinging against the trailer wall.
“That low-life lit right out there by my car!” cursed the old man. “He’ll ruin the paint job.” He pushed through the door, saved his hat from blowin’ off, and stomped out toward the visitors, stopping just beyond the edge of the prop while it coasted to a stop.
The door opened. Valter stepped out, crouched down, and walked toward the old man. He stuck out his hand.
The old man ignored it. “You low-down, blood-sucking tourists! Ain’t you got no respect for a feller’s domicile! Blowin’ in here with that egg beater scatterin’ rocks all over, sand blasting, seriously damaging the paint job on my classic vehicle I paid thousands of dollars for! Wuz you raised in a barn? No, I can see that ain’t the case. You ain’t got the sense of a country boy. You must be some kinda dude. Did your mommy buy you that little pair of brogans . . . and that looks-like-a-prison-haircut?”
“Al!” shouted Boon coming up behind Valter. “Al, hold on a minute.”
Al peered at the man standing off to the side. “Well, Davy, as I live and breathe,” said the old man. “I thought you died at the Alamo!”
The rotors went quiet.
“I didn’t,” Boon replied. “And the name’s Daniel, mate.”
“Well, you should have.” The old man levered a shell into his Winchester Model 94 .30-30, still holding it across his chest and pointed skyward.
“Just a minute, sir,” said Valter, backing up a step. “We’re looking for someone. I apologize if we startled you. We’ll pay for the damage to your car.”
The old man didn’t move.
“We spotted the wreckage of her plane in the canyon, but she’s gone. We just thought you might have seen her,” continued Valter.
The old man still didn’t speak.
“Have you?” asked Valter.
“What?” asked the old man.
“Seen her.”
“Who?”
“The woman.”
“What woman?”
“The one from the wreck.”
“What wreck?”
“In the canyon.”
“What did she look like?”
“Pretty woman, twenty-eight, blonde hair, five foot six or seven— Wait a minute! How many women have you seen out here taking a stroll on this godforsaken rock in the last week!” said Valter, exasperated.
The old man swung his rifle around toward Valter. It now pointed at his head.
“What’s the matter with you, Al!” said Daniel Boon. “These guys are just tryin’ to find a sheila that’s missin’, that’s all. They got money, mate. If you’ve seen her.”
At that moment, Valter swept out his right hand and caught the barrel of the rifle, deflecting it. Accidentally, the old man pulled the trigger and the rifle boomed.
Back at camp, Lick was saddling the horses when he heard the shot. He led the horses behind the windbreak shed and tied them out of sight, watching from behind its cover as the procession marched toward the trailer.
He could hear the old man cussing his three captors. They were pushing him and talking roughly. Lick had grabbed the old man’s .22 caliber nine-shot revolver and an aspirin bottle full of bullets from his sock drawer. He slipped up behind the trailer to better hear the interrogation transpiring inside.
“I don’t know why you’re being such a bonehead,” Valter was saying. “We’re only concerned for the woman’s welfare.”
“I never seen no woman,” said the old man stubbornly.
“What’s this, then?” asked Pike, striding back from the bedroom. He held up a bottle of mascara.
Al studied it. “What is it?” he asked.
“Mascara. Midnight Black. It doesn’t look like your color, Al,” said Pike.
“Must’uve been one of my dates that left it here,” Al surmised.
“The bedroom and bathroom smell a might pretty for a cowboy outfit,” added Pike.
“I try to keep a tidy camp,” said the old man.
“No doubt she’s been here,” said Pike to Valter. “Or at least some woman, and recent, too. That back bedroom, the sheets don’t smell like this rank ol’ boar has been sleepin’ in’em. Matter of fact, I’d bet that she slept in’em last night. Am I wrong, old man?”
“I’ll bet she’s hidin’ out back somewhere. Just ducked out when she saw the helicopter,” said Valter. “Let’s go take a look.” Then he turned to the old man, “You here alone, ol’ pardner?”
Suddenly Daniel Boon, who had been standing in the doorway watching them, pitched forward facedown and crashed into the crowded living room. His head hit a wrought-iron divider with a heavy clunk.
Lick vaulted into the trailer, stepping in the middle of Boon’s
back, pistol leveled at Valter, and said, “Nobody move!”
“By cracky, kid, I knew you’d come,” cackled Al. “These snake bellies were fixin’ to pull out my fingernails! By the way, they found your mascara.”
Lick was looking back and forth at Pike and Valter. “Git your rifle, Al. And you,” he said to Pike, “git your hands up. Cover ’em, Al.”
Lick frisked Pike, then Valter, then Boon, who still lay facedown. Valter was carrying a standard army-issue Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol. Pike gave up a snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver. Boon was unarmed.
“Listen, boys,” said Valter, “I take it you know about the girl. If she’s dead or hurt, we don’t hold it against you. If she’s here or you know where she is, there’s a big reward. Let’s be reasonable.”
“What girl?” asked the old man. “And if we did know her, she might have just stayed the night and moved on.”
“Walking?” asked Valter.
“Sure, she could have been an experienced hiker,” answered the old man, reasonably. “We have ’em hike through here all the time. We have an apostle here.”
“A what?” asked Pike.
“Apostle, one of the places like in Europe where hikers stay, like a bed-and-breakfast.”
“Was she wounded?” asked Valter, the sly interrogator.
“Who?” asked the old man.
“The hiker. We saw a lot of dried blood in the cockpit of her plane,” countered Valter.
“Not so she couldn’t travel, that is if she came here, which, she just might not have. I’m just apostulating,” said the old man.
“That’s enough, Al,” said Lick.
“You got it right, cowboy,” said Valter, meanly. “You two boys are in over your heads. You’re just inches—”
Pike interrupted, thinking this could still be done with sugar. “The other thing is that her husband is real concerned about finding her. He’s not gonna quit till he finds her, and I, personally, would not want to be standing between him and her when he does.”
“I’m too old to threaten, young feller. You forget who’s got the upper hand,” said the old man. “You boys are just lucky we don’t tie y’all to a sagebrush, cover you with cream of mushroom soup, and feed you to the coyotes. As it is, I think we’ll just tape you together. Hold on a minute.”