by Baxter Black
“Listen, Boon. I’ve got a deal for you. You give me your boot and I’ll keep walking. You can build yourself a fire here and wait till morning, or till springtime, for all I care. We’re this close and I’m not about to let her make an escape.”
Boon said, “My best guess is that we’re still twelve miles from Scotland, which is the direction they’re headed as best we can tell. That’s a lot of walking in minus four degrees centigrade.”
“I’ve got no time to argue with you, Boon. I’ll give you fifty dollars for your boot.”
“These are . . . this is a White’s lace-up packer. Cost me an arm and a leg. How do I know that I’ll ever see you again?”
“Boon, I’m outta patience and you’re outta time. Pull that boot off before I have to pry the precious lace-up packer off your foot. And I will likely damage the ankle in the process. Permanently.”
Boon tried to see Valter’s features in the thin starlight.
“Do you doubt me?” Valter said with menace.
Boon waited a split second too long. Valter lashed out with his bare right foot and caught Boon a solid kick in the stomach. Boon went down with a whoomp and a whimper.
Valter unlaced the calf-high boot that covered the hapless Boon’s right lower leg. It took a lot of unlacing.
“Build your fire, lightweight. Maybe the Salvation Army will be doing maneuvers in the area and they’ll find you.”
Boon tried to look up but his stomach was aching.
Valter stood up and tested the boot. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s been swell.” He turned and began jogging up the road in the direction of Scotland.
Paul Valter had intense concentration, a fanatical dedication to authority, a high pain threshold, and a boss with the integrity of a magpie. At 0530 hours he trotted into the firelight of Busby and Pike’s camp wearing two right shoes.
“On your feet, doughboys!” ordered Valter. “We’re movin’ out!”
“Oh, man,” whined Busby, “you scared the bee pollen outta me! Where you been? The horses—where are they? And Boon?”
Valter ignored Busby. He spoke to Pike. “They ambushed us. Stole our horses . . . and our boots.”
Pike and Busby looked at Valter’s feet. He was wearing a size 9½ Sierra Club–approved right flat-heeled hiking boot with mud-and-snow-grip tread on his right foot and Boon’s size 12½ calf-high lace-up right White’s packer boot with 1½-inch riding heel on his left foot. He stood at a slight angle.
“I figger they’re headed out to the highway, either to catch a ride or to call from that store Boon says is there in Scotland,” Valter continued. “They think they left us stranded, but if we dogtrot all the way, we might catch ’em. If not, at least we’ll be able to call and get a vehicle.”
“How far is it to the highway?” asked Busby.
“Shouldn’t be more than five miles,” answered Valter, dismissing the subject of the missing horses. “I’ve been counting my steps and I’ve come approximately twenty-one miles in six hours. Boon said it was twelve miles from the Goat Creek fork.”
“How many steps was it?” asked Busby, more amazed than curious.
“I can cover four feet per step if I’m striding, and I was striding. Thus, at my striding pace, that equals thirteen hundred steps per mile. I have twenty-one rocks in my pocket, one for each mile. I was at seven hundred forty-two when I cut off the road to get you.” Valter looked around at their little camp. “I take it they must’ve snuck around you. I could see your fire a mile out.”
“Didn’t take much sneakin’,” said Busby. “They stole our horse.”
Pike cut his eyes at Busby. Valter saw the look.
“What happened?” he asked.
“They came in, caught us nappin’, and took the horse. We had him staked out at the edge of the light,” Pike explained.
“Was the girl with them?”
Pike glanced at Busby, then spoke. “Yeah, she was. It was a sorry horse, anyway.”
“Well, you’re an impressive bunch,” said Valter with disdain. “I would’ve had better luck with a troop of baboons.”
“I see you’re afoot,” said Pike in a neutral tone of voice. “I assume Boon is barefoot.”
Valter looked at him coldly. “Put out your fire and let’s go, I don’t want to lose her.”
In five minutes the three of them were trotting north along the frozen dirt-and-gravel road toward Scotland. The ground was too hard for them to leave a track, but it would have been a puzzle for a tracker if they had. Was it three men, one of them with two right feet, or four men, two jogging and two hopping on one foot, or two one-legged men, or a three-man sack race? Well, the possibilities are endless. Suffice it to say they left no track.
22
DECEMBER 4: THE GOOD GUYS ARRIVE AT SCOTLAND
At 6:30 a.m. Lick, the old man, and Teddie Arizona rode up on the Scotland Stage Stop store and bar. The predawn light cast murky shadows on this cold winter morning.
The proprietor, Fusion Byfull, was standing on the step of his rickety mobile home behind the store, shaking the dew off his lily. His diurnal hangover pounded in his head. A weak light shone through the open door behind him.
Fusion was typical of the pioneers on the Western outback: selfsufficient, suspicious, and not groomed in the social graces. These traits would have qualified him to be a prison guard, an NBA All-Star, or a clerk at the Motor Vehicle Bureau, but he preferred the isolation, loneliness, and lack of human interaction offered at the corner of Going and Gone on Highway 51, long miles either way from a traffic light or tanning salon.
“Fusion, you sorry excuse for a fellow human,” greeted the ever-congenial old man. “Have you got the coffee on?”
“You boys are up early,” said Fusion. “I assume something’s wrong. I don’t know why I feel that, but three cowboys”—he stopped and counted—“leadin’ two ponies, ridin’ outta the dark up to my busy intersection, seems to portend some dastardly deed in progress.”
“You are absolutely right,” said the old man. “An astute observation from someone so overestimated, yet . . . you have not answered the million-dollar question.”
“Which is?” asked Fusion.
“The coffee, my slovenly friend.”
While Fusion opened up the store, got the propane heater kicked on, and the coffee going, Lick unsaddled the horses and put them in a small old board corral amongst the disintegrating out-buildings. Fusion kept a few bales of hay, for which he charged ten dollars a bale, and a frozen water tank. Lick broke the ice in the tank and threw a bale in the corral for the tired horses. The old man scrounged up some scraps for his dogs. They watered with the horses.
Once the animals were taken care of, the old man tried to call Stone Roanhorse, who lived down the road in the burg called Shanghai on the Goose Valley Indian Reservation.
Fusion had the phone number of the tribal police office.
“You have reached the Goose Valley Indian Reservation Tribal Police Headquarters. Chief Highfoot is not here. But he may be at any time. If this is, uh, an emergency, please call Sherrill at three seven four two. She may be home then. You may leave a message, but I don’t think anyone will, uh, hear it for a while because the answering machine is CRACKLE, SNAP, BEEP, DIAL TONE!”
The old man dialed the number. “Sherrill?” he said. “This is Al up here calling from Scotland store and I’m tryin’ to find Stone. You wouldn’t know his whereabouts, would ya?”
“Well, uh, I know he went to Glenns Ferry to a roping but that was three weeks ago, and I, uh, saw him at the reservation office, last week, I think. He was trying to fix his car. I think he must have done it because I, uh, saw him last night at his cousin’s on my way home from work.”
“I wonder if he’s still there?”
“Just a minute and I’ll look,” she said and clunked the phone down on the night table. Tick tock tick tock. “It’s still dark down here but the, uh, yard light is working and it looks like his pickup is still there.”
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“You reckon you could go get him? I’d sure be beholding. I need him bad and there’s some money in it for him.”
“Yeah, well, sure, I dunno, maybe, I guess, uh, because he could sure use the money, specially the part he owes me. You wanna hold the phone?”
“Yup. I do,” said the old man.
Twelve minutes later, the old man heard a door slam through the receiver. Footsteps, clanking . . . “This is you, Al?”
“Stone!” answered the old man. “Sure glad you came to the phone. I hope I didn’t get you outta anything.”
“No. No, I was just visiting at my cousin’s house. We were talking and having a glass of wine and, uh, playing cards.”
“You reckon you could come and pick me up at Scotland store? I’d gas up your tank.”
“Okay, I think I can come. We’ve just got a few more hands and she’ll win. Then I can come. Where are you staying?” asked Stone.
“I’m calling from Fusion’s right now. I’ll ask him to make you some scrambled eggs if you get here for breakfast. I’ll even buy.”
“Humm, let me go see if the car’ll start. If it won’t, maybe I can borrow Sherrill’s. You want to hold the phone?”
“Yeah. You go see if the car’ll start and come tell me.”
Fifteen minutes went by.
“Al, is that you?”
“Yup.”
“This is Sherrill. Stone left already. He says you’re buying him some breakfast.”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe you could bring a box of donuts or something when you come down. That would, uh, sure be good.”
“I’ll see what I can do, you little dumplin’.”
“See you soon, Al.”
“Okay,” he said, and hung up.
“My goodness,” said Teddie Arizona, who had witnessed the extended phone call. “So, is he coming to pick us up?”
“Yup. But it’s gonna cost us.”
23
DECEMBER 4: CONFRONTATION AT THE SCOTLAND STORE
The dim morning preview of sunrise lit the sky weakly. Inside the snug little store at the Scotland Stage Stop, the smell of coffee filled the air. Fusion had made a mess of eggs, toast, hash browns, and sausage.
The old man ate sparingly while Teddie Arizona ate like a horse.
“Just out for a morning ride?” asked Fusion, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“Yup,” replied the old man. “This lady here is a Hollywood movie star and she’s scouting locations for a new Western movie starring an older experienced cowboy such as myself who is attacked by aliens trying to rustle cattle for cloning experiments. She plans on using locals for bit parts as well and I told her about you. How you had acting experience, and all.” The old man winked conspiratorially at Fusion.
“Oh, sure,” said Fusion taking the hint, “I’ve done lots of it.”
The old man continued, “I know, and I’ve suggested she could model the aliens after you—take out yer front plate and show her that face you make where you look like a shark.”
Fusion realized he should have left well enough alone. He furrowed his brow. “More coffee, anyone?”
Lick was staring out the window.
“Sit down and eat something, Lick,” encouraged T.A. “Mr. Roanhorse will be here soon. It’s already been nearly an hour since Al called him. You might as well eat while you can.”
Lick was buzzing from exhaustion and caffeine. He paced back and forth from the stove to the window that looked out toward the road, nervously patting Valter’s automatic pistol, which was still tucked into his belt.
“Like tryin’ to talk to a post, ma’am,” opined the old man. “He never listened to me none, either. I believe he could live on Vienna sausage and macaroni. Me, I prefer filet mignon with champagne, maybe some duck pâté like I had in France. I developed a discriminating palate over there in the big war. Lick here never had no chance to have a cultured tongue.”
“I don’t remember you havin’ duck pâté, or duck soup, or duck nothin’ in Elko. Seems like we mostly had Jack Daniel’s and beer-nuts,” answered Lick, a little surly. “Y’all don’t worry ’bout me. I just wanna get outta here. You sure this Roanhorse is comin’?”
“He’s comin’,” said the old man. “He’s comin’.”
Suddenly a rock crashed through the front window. T.A. stood up, pushing the table back against the old man, who went over backwards. Lick raised the automatic pistol toward the front door, but before he could squeeze off a shot the door behind him exploded open, hitting him in the back.
Valter and Pike rushed into the room. “Stay right where you are,” shouted Valter. “I don’t want to see a muscle move or an eyelid blink.”
T.A. froze, hugging herself, and spied Busby slipping in the back door. Fusion slowly set down his coffee and put his hands in the air. The old man was still sitting in the upended chair, flat on his back with his legs up in the air. He rolled his head straight back, smashing his hat, and looked up at Valter.
“You,” ordered Valter, looking at Fusion, “I need some strong cord. Right now, or you’re gonna be trying to get bloodstains outta the floor for the next twenty years.”
Fusion looked at the old man and shrugged. “I’ll see what I can find. Prob’ly baler twine is the best I got . . . but it’s out by the hay pile.”
“Go with him, Busby,” Valter ordered. Busby followed Fusion outside.
“Soon as we get ’em tied up, I’m gonna call Mr. Pan taker,” Valter told Pike. “Then we’ll make some arrangements to transport her back to Vegas.”
“You coward,” T.A. spat. “You suck up to him and he takes advantage of everyone around him. Even you. I’ve heard him talk about you. Yeah, you. Calls you Robot Head. Thinks you’re dumb.” She wheeled on Pike. “And you, Pike. You think he enjoys your company. Huh! Bozo the Hayseed. He got you those ostrich boots ’cause he thinks you’re a dodo bird.”
“That’s enough, Mrs. Pantaker,” said Valter.
“Listen, you thick-headed screwloose. He’s just using you the same way he’s using me.” T.A. paused, a little embarrassed. “I don’t mean to cuss you guys. You both always treated me okay. I just had to get away. I’ve got no life there. It’s like I’m a prisoner. I’ve got nothing he wants. He’s just mad ’cause I can’t stand him.”
“Mrs. Pantaker, we’re not gonna hurt you,” said Valter. “He said to bring you back safe and sounds and that’s what I’m doin’. I hope you don’t do anything to make us accidentally hurt you. That’s the last thing anybody’d want. Why”—he paused and slowly looked down at Lick and the old man—“I’d sooner cut off these two cowboys’ fingers one at a time with a dull pruning tool, or pin their ears to the bar with tenpenny nails. I’d torture them within an inch of their life before I’d harm a hair on your head.”
Lick’s ears pricked up. For the duration of their hair-raising escapade, he’d been laboring under the impression that these men were going to kill T.A. if they caught her. The slippery thought slid by his wrinkled brow that maybe there was more to the story than met the eye.
Fusion and Busby came back in the store, stomping their feet and shivering.
“I can’t believe we spent the night out there,” said Busby. “It’s cold enough to freeze antifreeze.”
“Pike,” ordered Valter, “tie her to the chair. Make her comfortable, but I don’t want her to escape again. Then tie the old man to his chair. What about you, cowpoke?” he said, tapping his pistol barrel against the back of Lick’s head. “You gonna give me any trouble?”
Lick didn’t speak.
After T.A. and the old man were secured to their respective chairs and scooted up to the table, Valter enlisted Pike’s aid to hog-tie Lick facedown on the floor, hands behind his back and legs flexed, boot heels in the air.
“Do I need to tie you?” Valter asked Fusion.
“Not if you want some breakfast,” he answered.
Valter went to the wall phone behind the cou
nter and dialed. Shortly he began, “Mr. Pantaker . . . Valter here. . . . Yes, we’ve got her right here. . . . North of Elko. In Idaho, I think. . . . No. No town. A place they call Scotland. . . . In a store in Scotland. . . . No. No police involved. . . . Nope, none. . . . Nobody knows. You’re the first contact we’ve made since we discovered her whereabouts. . . . Yes, she’s fine. Seems to be. . . . Not very happy, no. . . . Yes, I guess you could. I’d have to hold the telephone up to her ear. . . . Well, we had to restrain her. She’s quite disturbed.”
“Disturbed?” screamed T.A. “You sicko lizardskin dog pile! You ain’t seen nuthin’! Your scam is—”
Valter held the phone out toward her. She lunged at him, rising up, the chair coming with her, shouting, “F. Rank, I know what you and that wildlife weirdo are up to—”
Pike grasped her shoulders from behind and pushed her back down. Valter pressed the receiver into her ear. “You’ll never see your money again,” she continued. “I’ve got it hid. . . . You cancel the hunt, you get your— You do and you can kiss your cash— You wouldn’t dare! Once the press gets— Even if you stop me— Tell ’em, I’ll go to jail. . . . You can’t—”
The blood drained from her face as she listened to his threats. Her eyes opened wide as the air seemed to go out of her.
F. Rank’s voice was audible, though his words were not discernible to the others in the room. He was ranting. Finally the phone went silent.
“You’ll never get away with it F. Rank,” T.A. said quietly, but by then Valter had removed the receiver from her face.
Valter spoke into the phone. “Yes. Yes, I understand. . . . Oh, yeah, well, the helicopter had mechanical problems so we’re going to find alternative means. . . . If all goes well, we might be back as soon as this evening. . . . No. I don’t think that will be necessary. Surely Pike and I will be able to do the job. . . . Right. We wouldn’t think of it.”
Valter listened for a while. Then he said, “The nearest airport would probably be Mountain Home or Elko. A helicopter could pick us up right here, I guess. . . . Listen, let me get Busby on this. He can call from here and see about arranging another helicopter. Soon as we have a plan I’ll call you right back. Maybe within the hour. . . . Okay, yessir. Within the hour.”