Arthur looked at his trusty steed. “I only drive what I know I can still fix. Besides, me and this old truck go way back. Getting rid of it now would be like saying goodbye to a vital organ.”
Fasthorse laughed. “Come inside. My wife has food ready. You must be hungry.”
The inside of the main house was a warm contrast to the deepening cold outside. The business office was sequestered in a room off to the right, and in front of them, two couches and two chairs, all of mission design, formed a U beneath the elk-antler chandelier before a big stone fireplace. To their left stood tables and chairs, where guests could play cards and have a drink while swapping yarns about the day’s hunt.
The outfitting shop filled the rest of the expansive downstairs. It was packed with now mostly-empty clothing racks that had carried the usual hunting and fishing attire, along with some Western and possibly even some traditional Blackfoot clothing. Several fly rods and creels hung on one wall, and the rustic glass-and-oak display case still held fifty different wet and dry flies and a dozen kinds of fishing and hunting knives. A stand-alone three-tiered table had the expected Native American trinkets and souvenirs of a visit in the Blackfoot Nation, which the guests eagerly purchased as mementos of their time roughing it.
Arthur’s eyes went to the many calibers and loads of boxed ammunition stacked neatly on the shelves behind the display cases. “You seem to have done well for yourself,” he said as Fasthorse took his jacket and slung it on a peg.
Fasthorse smiled. “It keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. When I came back here to live after that mess at the Crow’s Nest, I saw again the poverty I had left behind, and decided to create something that would help my people.” They sat down at one of the tables. “When I got back to the rez, it was suffering from a tribal police force banking some serious overtime and giving the people very little to show for it. The poverty level was around sixty-seven percent, so I got some people together, and we built this place.” Fasthorse looked around the big, open room. “We bought this house, renovated it into what you see now, and built those cabins you saw as you drove in. I employ a staff of twenty-five during the season.”
“And a staff of one the rest of the time,” said a female voice behind them.
Arthur turned in his chair to see a slender middle-aged woman who had emerged from what must be the kitchen, carrying a big oval tray. The food smelled good. Really good, Arthur realized. A lot better than the biscuits and gravy that had worn off two hundred miles ago. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail that swayed across the back of her red blouse as she walked and stopped just above the long khaki skirt with a turquoise concha belt.
“Annie, meet the infamous Arthur Nakai. Arthur, meet the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
She smiled and set the tray on the table between them, expressing to Arthur her knowledge of the sadness that had brought him to their home for the first time, and the expectation that she would soon meet Sharon as well. She smiled and said, “I’ll leave you two alone to talk,” then kissed her husband goodnight and vanished up the stairs next to the fireplace. Arthur heard a door close somewhere, and there was silence again.
He turned his attention to the tray of food and took care not to drool on the fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes, corn, baked beans, and creamy brown gravy.
“Looks good,” he said.
“Let’s find out,” Fasthorse replied.
It was as good as it looked and smelled. They ate in silence.
After they had thrown a sizable dent in the feast, Arthur said, “Been a while since we last chased down some of those evildoers Bush Forty-Three always talked about.”
Fasthorse put down the chicken leg and gave a fond smile. “No shit. But we had some good times in the Wolves, didn’t we? Damn shame that the jackasses up the food chain wouldn’t let us catch them after we tracked them down.”
“I don’t know about you,” Arthur said, “but what always bothered me were all those times the Mexican troops crossed over back then. Two hundred and eighteen incursions onto US soil, and you never heard anything about it on the news. Not a word.”
“That is because the news media are the pawns of the false world, brother,” Fasthorse explained. “They only tell the people what they want them to hear. If everyone really knew all that was going on in this country, they would shit their pants.” He sipped his coffee. “You think they ever heard of the Mexican paramilitaries that crossed over in January of oh-seven and ran into the National Guard at their surveillance posts? Hell no. And those dudes were packing automatic weapons.” He shook his head in disgust. “What really pissed me off was that the Guard had them cold and the AIC ordered them to pull back and not engage.”
Arthur pushed away his empty plate and grinned. “Speaking of Assholes in Charge, there’s an FBI stiff heading up this case who thinks he knows what to do and doesn’t want me getting involved. Well fuck ’im. This time, the Shadow Wolves aren’t answering to some suit. This bastard, we get to catch.”
“I meant what I said to you earlier, old friend.” Fasthorse always had a way of bringing the conversation back to point. “Do not let your rage blind you, or the fire will consume you.”
Arthur looked over the rim of his coffee mug. “Is that what you would do if it were Annie?”
“Every man needs to have something he will fight for,” Fasthorse said. “Or someone. But we are not talking about me. And I can say this to you because I can be objective. I am looking at this from the outside, and I see the rage building within you. And I am afraid it will get you killed.” Fasthorse put his mug down on the table. “And how would I explain that to your wife once I’ve rescued her?” He grinned. “For that matter, how would I explain it to mine?”
“He’s already hurt her,” Arthur reiterated. “He said she was already bleeding. I spent my entire time driving up here with all kinds of scenarios floating around in my head.” He stopped talking, took a deep breath, and blew it out. “I just keep thinking about her being scared. And here I am, so close to this bastard, and I can’t even do anything to stop him.”
“And you do not think he knows that?” Fasthorse said. “He knows all he has to do is threaten to do something to her so you’ll back off and buy him some more time. Look at how you are acting right now.” Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the table, curled the fingers of his right hand, and tapped the wood with his middle finger. “You cannot allow yourself to lose focus. You will not be of any use to her if your head is not clear. And you will need a clear head if we are to take her away from this man.”
Arthur considered that statement and even allowed himself to acknowledge its wisdom, to a point. He could not let his emotions rule his thoughts and jeopardize Sharon’s safety. In an earlier time, in another part of the world, this would have been a mission. And that mission would have needed him to be razor sharp and 100 percent focused. Lives would have depended on it. This was no different.
“You’re right,” he conceded finally. “I just hate this waiting around for someone to spot him so we can get moving.”
Fasthorse gave an understanding nod. “Do not worry, my friend. If he is out there, the Brotherhood will find him. We are scattered across this land like the dust upon the wind.”
“I hope you’re right,” Arthur said. “But I can’t help feeling that we’re just wasting time.”
Fasthorse sat back in his chair. “Where would you look?” he asked, waving a hand around them. “This is a big, open country, with too many places to hide. Where would you begin? You tell me.”
Arthur let out a jittery breath and looked across the table. “I’ve come this far, haven’t I?”
Fasthorse stood up and said, “Come.”
Arthur followed him, coffee in hand, across the empty lower level, to a room off the outfitting shop. Fasthorse opened the door and felt for the light switch
in the dark. The room lit up, Arthur stepped inside, and Fasthorse closed the door behind them. Arthur looked around the room. Canned corn over here, canned beans over there, cartons of toilet paper stacked to the ceiling in a corner.
Almost immediately, his eyes narrowed in on the two six-foot white plastic tables in the middle of the room. Positioned end to end, they held an impressive array of knives and handguns and rifles, most of which Arthur recognized. In the center was a large black compound hunting bow, with six razor-edged arrows fastened to its quiver, and its black plastic carrying case on the floor beneath it. Boxes with several choices of ammunition were stacked around each of the weapons, and at the end of one table were two sets of insulated white winter hunting suits, with two pairs of snowshoes tilted against the table’s edge.
Arthur looked at Fasthorse and grinned. “What did you do, raid a Quentin Tarantino movie set?”
“I did not know what you may have brought with you, but I wanted to make sure we had every advantage.”
Arthur pointed with his coffee mug at the bow. “Think you’ll need that?”
Fasthorse smiled. “That little gem is the Bowtech Carbon Overdrive,” he said, picking it up off the table. “It has three tensions of draw weight and can launch an arrow downrange at three hundred forty-two feet per second.” He paused, letting that fact sink in, then added, “That’s two hundred and thirty-three miles per hour to you desert dwellers.”
“Hey, now,” Arthur retorted.
Fasthorse stiffened his left arm as he pulled back on the string until it locked into place, gave Arthur a sideways glance. “The draw length is up to thirty inches, and with the binary cam system, this baby creates enough kinetic energy to take down a bull elk.”
“I’ve always favored things that go bang, myself,” Arthur said.
“That is because you desert dwellers do not live in the mountains where there are heavy winter snows. One shot from your rifle can bring an avalanche down on you. A bow is quiet. It kills in silence.”
Fasthorse eased the tension and let the cams slowly rotate back into position, then set the bow down on the table.
“Have you ever shot a bow?”
“No,” Arthur said, setting his mug of cold dregs on the plastic table.
Fasthorse grinned. “What the hell kind of Indian are you?”
“Fuck you,” Arthur said politely. “The kind that can hit a fly in the ass at five hundred yards.”
Fasthorse smiled. “You were always the best shooter.” He walked over to a black triangular case leaning against one wall. “Why didn’t you try to make sniper before we were in-country?”
Arthur thought briefly. “Because there’s a difference between killing a man in a firefight and killing him from a mile away. At least he can face death with honor and hear the bullet that takes his life.” Arthur paused, contemplating his next thought. “What if every man you killed, even under the flag of war, was a mark against your soul? And what if every one of those marks took away a little more from your soul until you had no soul left?”
“That is deep reflection for a man such as yourself,” Fasthorse said. “And one that cannot be answered here tonight. So let’s try to focus on the present, shall we?” He laid the case on the table, popped the latches, and hefted the small crossbow in his hands. “Here is what you will need. The Barrett Ghost Three-Fifty. Only weighs about eight pounds and can fire an arrow at three hundred fifty feet per second, give or take.”
Arthur looked at the contraption of strings and limbs. “Reminds me of one of the weight machines in the Border Patrol gym, except the weight machines didn’t have high-powered scopes. “Think I’ll stick with my three-thirty-eight Win Mag.”
Fasthorse shrugged and returned the crossbow to its case. “See anything else you might like?”
“Aside from the snow-whites and the shoes,” Arthur said, “not really. If this snow turns into something big, we’ll need them to keep the element of surprise.” He glanced down at the pistols holstered under his left arm and in his right waistband. “I’ve got the two Glocks. I think I’m good. And the Winchester’s in the truck. All the Brotherhood needs to do is tell us where he is, and we’ll do the rest.”
The ring of telephones sounded from the outfitter store, the main lobby, and the desk in Fasthorse’s office. The two men looked at each other and followed the sound to the phone sitting on the glass counter case. Fasthorse picked it up and answered, then listened. Then he said something in Blackfoot to the voice on the other end and hung up.
“One of the brethren found a brown Yukon and followed it to where it turned off the highway, headed into the wilderness toward a hiking trailhead. There were three people inside. He’ll wait for us.
He turned to Arthur. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Yukon rolled to a stop at the far end of the snow-covered clearing. Any other time of year, this pristine landscape would be filled with the quiet beauty of snowberry and thimbleberry bushes showing off their white and red berries. Now the bushes were bare, and the tall ponderosa pines swayed heavily with their burden of new snow.
The truck’s engine continued to idle in the falling snow that was already covering the tire tracks. A few windfall trees lay about the clearing, their ripped-out root systems looking as if they were trying desperately to reach through the snow and reseat themselves back in the now frozen earth. The engine stopped, and the clearing was quiet again.
“Get out,” Kanesewah ordered. “We walk from here.”
Gloria opened the door and climbed out, and Sharon followed suit. The blood that smeared her face was now dry. She filled her hands with snow and rubbed her face carefully, letting the pain guide her. Looking into the SUV’s side window, she used a corner of blanket to dab the skin clean. Now, standing in powder that was already ankle deep, the two women watched Kanesewah slam the door and walk around to the back of the Yukon. Gloria went to join him.
Sharon stood shivering in the woolen blanket, her bruised face numb from its snow bath. An icy gust tossed the bottom of the blanket and stung her freezing face with needles of blowing snow. One fist pulled the blanket under her chin as her other hand reached behind and pulled the end over her head. Keeping her hands wrapped in the blanket, she pulled it close against her trembling body for whatever warmth it could provide. As her two captors talked in low voices at the rear of the SUV, she reconnoitered her surroundings. Trees were all she noticed—nothing but snow-covered evergreens and high mountains above them. And the only way out was the track they had taken in from the road. She chided herself for not paying attention when she had felt the truck jerk into a right turn and drop off the frosted highway before heading into the woods. Arthur’s chances of finding her were getting slimmer with every minute that ticked away.
Kanesewah opened the rear hatch of the truck and pulled Gloria to him underneath it. They kissed passionately in a way that made Sharon uncomfortable. Then she heard the snap of the switchblade. She turned in time to see Kanesewah drive the knife upward into Gloria’s stomach, watched her legs buckle beneath her, and saw the look of disbelief on her face. Kanesewah continued to hold her upright with the strength of one arm while he slid the blade diagonally across her belly, its angled path slicing through pancreas, colon, and small intestine. Then he moved her farther under the hatch and sat her on the edge of the cargo area.
Gloria’s blood spilled freely now, coloring the snow. She sat slumped, her head hanging down and her breathing labored. Her fingers gripped the shoulders of her lover’s parka, losing their strength as the last seconds of her life slipped away.
Kanesewah leaned in and whispered softly, “Let it go. Just let it go.”
Gloria struggled to raise her head and said through tears, “Wh-why?”
Kanesewah glanced at Sharon, then turned back to Gloria. “Her, I need; you, I don’t.”
And there i
t was: that final, shuddering sound. He closed his eyes, reveling in the pleasure of it. Sharon watched as Gloria’s last breath clouded briefly and then vanished into the falling snow. Her arms now hung motionless at her side, and her dark hair spilled from under the hood of her parka.
Sharon’s panic made her immobile. Her lower lip quivered. Kanesewah ordered her to the rear of the Yukon. Was the same fate about to befall her? Was this the end? Would she be slaughtered and stuffed into the back of this truck along with Gloria and left out here in this frozen forest, to be found when the spring thaw melted the snows that had buried the truck, the snowberry bushes, and the dormant grasses?
With each reluctant step, she moved closer to Kanesewah. His expressionless stare revealed nothing as he wiped the blade of his knife on Gloria’s pant leg. After smearing her blood into two long crimson stripes on the blue denim, he folded the switchblade and returned it to his coat pocket. After removing the .38 revolver from Gloria’s coat pocket, he said, “Put it on.” Then, looking down at her shoes, he added, “Take her boots, too. You’re about the same size. And make it fast—we need to move.”
Sharon stood still, saying nothing, respecting the Navajo taboos concerning the departed.
“Don’t tell me you believe in that chindi shit,” Kanesewah said.
Sharon nodded slowly. “We should not be near her. I will not wear the clothes of the dead. Everything that was bad or unbalanced in her body has left, but it lingers still. I can feel it around us.”
Kanesewah’s eyes locked with Sharon’s. “Then you’ll die right here.”
Sharon swallowed and began to unzip Gloria’s parka, taking care not to look upon the emotionless face and staring eyes. She fought back tears as she removed the dead woman’s body from the coat and laid her down in the cargo area of the truck, her legs dangling. She slipped the coat on and zipped it up, hoping the spirits that had left the body after death would not torment her.
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