A sudden shift in the wind blew back Miller’s words as clearly as if he were speaking in Frank’s ear. “Don’t you hate the way the fucking wind blows stuff around. Pardon the language … but blowing sand everywhere … trouble with living in the desert. Not a bad place to die, though. Most of the stuff has a head start, right? All that dying goin’ on out there, and no one to see it. Makes you stop and think, don’t it?” He turned toward Linda, his head almost in profile. “Ol’ Frank should be showing up pretty soon, huh?” Miller raised an arm and glanced at his wristwatch. “Sort of a homebody, far as I can tell. Doesn’t party much. And here we are to say hello when he comes home.” One of the ravens strutted along the roof of the caboose, making a sharp, staccato rattling sound.
Miller glanced over at the bird. “I hate those damn crows.” Linda shook her head. Why the hell was she shaking her head? He was still trying to puzzle it out when the trill of his cell phone suffused the stillness. Miller reacted sooner than Frank, immediately throwing himself to one side, then rising to one knee to steady the M1. Frank had less to do; the .45 was already in his hand. His shot caught Miller high on the right side of his chest, tossing him backward with the impact, the carbine still clutched in one hand.
The phone trilled again, insistent and absurd.
Frank tried to step forward, but his left leg collapsed. He was conscious of the warmth of his own blood running down his leg, soaking into his sock. He watched as Miller managed to raise himself on one arm. The empty face turned away as Miller brought the carbine around in a slow arc, bringing it to bear on Linda. Frank fired from the ground, raised up on his left elbow. His second shot flipped Miller sideways onto his back. He waited, the .45 pointed at Miller’s head.
A dull ache throbbed in the wounded leg. Very soon, it would become worse. He pulled the uninjured right leg up and managed to stand long enough to hop over the ground to where Miller lay, arms flung up, as if in greeting. He tried to kneel and lost his balance, falling across Miller’s body. The acrid smell of blood and sweat filled his nostrils. He pressed the .45 into Miller’s neck with one hand and patted him down with the other, twisting his torso from side to side so he could check the front pockets. He found a 9-mm Baretta in the right-hand front pocket and flung it over his shoulder. Then he grasped the M1 by the sling and sent it to join the Baretta. Miller gave a soft groan. Frank looked at the .45 pressed against Roy Miller’s neck. He felt his hand tighten on the grip disabling the automatic safely. Just a small squeeze and the evil would be eradicated, gone. He could make up for his mistake. It would be so simple. He felt as if he were tumbling into a void. Linda’s muffled cries seemed to be coming from a far-off place, from down in the dark mine shaft where Hickey lay.
He reached up and tore the sunglasses away from Miller’s bleached face, exposing the pink-rimmed paleness. “Why Mitch and Shawna? The couple in the motor home, the Robertsons, why them?” Miller’s pale eyes crinkled with the ghost of a smile. Frank could barely hear his voice, rustling softly, like dead leaves blowing in the wind. “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?” The pale blue eyes dimmed, flat as plastic buttons. Stretched out in death, Miller’s lanky body seemed diminished, shorn of menace, the animus of evil dissipated in the wind.
Frank turned away from the empty face, dragging himself toward Linda. He needed to get the gag out of her mouth. He hated it, the idea of the gag, stopping her breath. He pulled himself high enough to remove the gag and untied her arms. “Why were you shaking your head?”
She rubbed at her face where the cords had left red welts. Her mouth creased into a crooked grin. “They’re ravens, not crows. The dumb bastard.”
“Give Meecham a call, okay?” He fumbled in his pocket for the cell phone. Just before he passed out, he remembered saying something about the damned thing finally being useful.
34
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea.” Frank watched Eddie’s old Ford come to a sliding stop behind Jan’s Gremlin, a dust cloud wafting ahead in the early-summer heat of late afternoon.
“Sure it is.” Linda squeezed Frank’s hand.
He shook his head in self-reproach, frowning at the small figure emerging from the truck.
“Come on, Frank. He wants to make it up to you. How else is he going to come even, look you in the eye and feel like an hombre?”
How does she know the way men think? he wondered. Being raised mostly by her dad and her adopted uncles had seeped into her thinking. She knew. He wished he knew more about women, but maybe not. He liked their mystery.
Jimmy Tecopa’s shiny new Cherokee slipped past Eddie’s truck and came to a stop well away from the other cars. He popped out of the Cherokee and ran around to open the passenger door for Susan Funmaker.
“Hey, Frank.” Eddie waved up to where Frank and Linda sat at the end of the caboose, Frank with his bottom cradled in soft pillows carefully placed on a folding chair. “Ms. Reyes,” he offered in tones unusually subdued for Eddie.
“Just Linda will do fine.” She rose and came down the narrow steps and gave Eddie a hug. “We’re glad you could come.” He stood straight as a pole, his eyes wandering about, as if searching for help.
Frank laughed. “She’ll let go in a minute. Just bear up, Redhawk.”
Eddie exposed his bad teeth in genuine relief.
Jimmy and Susan came up to stand next to them. “You can hug me anytime.” Jimmy’s hundred-watt smile flashed in the waning afternoon sunlight.
“You don’t need a hug, but if it’s okay with Susan, I’m hugging you, too. This is a good time for hugging.” She threw her arms around Jimmy’s neck and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “I admire your taste in women, too,” she whispered close to his ear.
Jan came out on the platform. “So here’s the rest of the gang.”
Frank rose to his feet, listing slightly to his right. “Jan, you already know Jimmy. This is Susan Funmaker, and this is Eddie Laguna.”
Jan’s mouth opened and then closed. “Eddie Laguna. Aren’t you the tribal spokesman for the Nopah Shoshone?”
Eddie beamed. “That’s right. How come you know that?”
“Jan’s an anthropology instructor at Arroyo Seco College, Eddie. She knows lots of stuff about our people.” Jimmy explained.
“Frank’s told me many good things about you, Susan, and your mother, about growing up in the valley.” She turned to Eddie. “Maybe one day you’d both come and speak to one of my classes, and perhaps Mr. Laguna could come and speak about some of the problems Native Americans are still experiencing. Would that be possible?”
Eddie shuffled his feet back and forth, grinning with pleasure. “Sure, just name the time, ma’am.”
Frank thought Eddie would give some answers that Jan hadn’t counted on. “Why don’t you folks go on into the yard. Linda and I will be right there.”
The aging International crew-cab truck belonging to Jack Collins came bounding down the dirt road and pulled up near the end of the caboose. Bill Jerome unfolded himself from the front seat and Ben Shaw lurched out from the back, cursing the cramped quarters.
“If you were trying to cripple me up back there, Jack, you succeeded. You aim for the bumps, or is it just that you’re an incompetent?”
Jack waved at the growing group. “Howdy folks, the Joshua Tree Athletic Club West is upon you.” He turned back to his companions. “Come on, let’s get the bar set up.”
They untied a couple of folding sawhorses and two two-by-twelves. “Over here by the table okay?”
Linda preceded Frank down the steps of the caboose and waited as Frank carefully placed his feet, taking care not to jar his weight onto his injured left leg. She handed him a stout stick, and he made his way to the end of the near bench and sat carefully, leaning on his right buttock.
“How about the pillows?”
Frank winced. “Yeah, okay, maybe I better sit on the chair.”
The shot from Miller’s carbine had entered Frank’s leg about six inches above the
knee, traveled up the femur, and exited out his left gluteus maximus. No major arteries cut, minimum nerve damage, but a lot of muscle tissue had been damaged. His doctor kept telling him that he was a lucky man. He’d suffered no more than what was referred to as a “flesh wound” in the movies, a rare occurrence in the real world of gunshot wounds. In any Western, he’d’ve just tied a bandanna around his leg and ridden into the sunset. Real life was different. Just sitting upright was damned uncomfortable and something he’d been able to do for only a few hours at a time. The doctor had told him it would be a long time before the tenderness disappeared.
Other than short visits from friends, this was the first time he and Linda had had company since the shooting. His personal time had been taken up by BLM officials, Sheriff’s Department investigators, county officials, and officials and investigators from various law-enforcement agencies around the state. The San Bernardino Mercury had dubbed the departed trio of thugs the “Miller Gang,” lending a sort of ersatz glamour to their activities, and now lots of unsolved crimes were being laid to rest with Roy Miller’s death. Frank pondered on the neat conveniences of death. Dead men didn’t talk, but they seemed to be vulnerable to postmortem confession, sort of like the criminals’ Congressional Medal, awarded posthumously.
He glanced over at the place on the ground where Miller’s blood had drained the life from his body. Linda was right about one thing: He couldn’t seem to go out in his yard without thinking about it, without the image of Miller lying on his back, the light going out of the pale eyes and the black exultation that had gripped his heart at their dimming.
Jimmy lifted a large Dutch oven from the fire and carefully removed the lid. The smell of tamale pie wafted into the evening air.
Linda and Jimmy had rented a large propane two-burner cooker, which Susan was busy using to cook fry bread. She gripped a huge blackened frying pan full of hot lard, into which she dropped bread dough. Tiny globules of crackling fat spat up and winked into flame. She flipped the dough with tongs, let it bubble for a few minutes, and lifted it out to drain in a large wire basket before setting it inside a stainless-steel pot.
The popping of beer tops came with greater frequency as the boys warmed to their task, handing out cold bottles of Mojave Red and Sierra Nevada from a galvanized tub filled with ice. Frank turned his head at the sound of another vehicle crunching its way up the dirt road.
“You didn’t say anything about Dave Meecham coming.”
“He wanted to come. He’s been worried about you.”
Jesus, the whole damned valley seemed to be worried about him. He gave Linda a dark look.
“Nothing I said. Frank, you don’t say two words to people. Your butt’s healing, but the rest of you isn’t doing too well.”
He glared at her and turned away.
Meecham came across the yard, nodding to Jimmy. “Dr. Rockford. How’re things at the college?”
“About like they are at the BLM—here a problem, there a win.” She came around from behind the table, where she was helping to set things up, and shook his hand. Meecham ambled over to Frank, who was sitting canted to one side on a patio chair. He looked down at his fellow ranger, a slight smile on his face. “How’s it going, podner?”
“Good, Dave. I guess you could say I got the ass, but other than that, fine.” He forced a crooked grin. “I don’t know whether you know everyone. That’s Eddie Laguna over there by the ice chest with Jimmy.”
“We’ve met couple of times.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right, the inquiry.”
Meecham stood looking around, not quite knowing what to do next.
“Sit down, Dave. We’re about to eat some good food.” Frank gestured with his hand toward the table, where Linda and Jan were making preparations.
“Thanks, Frank. You sure everyone’s going to be comfortable with me here?”
“It’s my place, Dave. Anyhow, I’m glad you’re here. I’m not much into this healing-ceremony stuff.” Frank lowered his voice. “Eddie’s a good guy, means well, but hell, dancing and singing ain’t going to make my butt feel better.”
Meecham grinned. “You know, Frank, I was thinking about the nature of your wound. It looks like you were right all along.”
Frank raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? How do you mean?”
“Well hell, now you have a distinctive butt print, looks like a whole new method of criminal identification is in the making.”
“Thanks, Dave, thanks a lot.” A rueful smile played across his face. “Like I said, it’s the way to identify the real assholes.”
“What’s Laguna going to do?”
“After we eat, he’s going to perform a healing ceremony. He says that Miller’s spirit is still hanging around because he died here.” Frank gestured to the place where Miller had died. “He thinks Miller’s still trying to get me, give me ghost sickness.”
“Can’t do it very easily. His remains, as they say, are in a county plot with an aluminum number tag. I haven’t seen those guys walking around much.”
Frank grinned. “Naw, having a number is a disadvantage.” He thrust his arms in front of him in the traditional zombie pose. “Beware Inyo County four three eight seven. Doesn’t sound very scary.” He laughed a bit too loudly. He was suddenly glad he didn’t know Miller’s plot number.
“Anyhow, stick around, Dave,” he said. “Another rational mind is needed. They all seem to be into it one way or another. Linda says it can’t hurt. Jan says cultural anthropologists have learned to be less skeptical about the ‘efficacy of curing rituals.’ That’s the way she puts it. Jimmy and Susan don’t comment, just give knowing looks. And hell, Eddie’s a full-fledged nut. So stick around. It should be interesting. Who knows, maybe I’ll throw down my stick and start dancing.”
Linda came up and gave Meecham her hand. “Welcome, Dave. And by the way, Eddie’s not trying to heal Frank’s leg, just the butt hook that it’s attached to.”
Frank shrugged. “Guess my voice carried a bit too far,” but inside he felt ashamed.
After a few beers, Eddie shed his earlier shyness like an old coat, at least when it came to the eating and drinking part. Frank watched as he squatted near the empty Dutch oven, wiping out the last of the tamale pie with the remaining piece of fry bread. It was a good thing they had used the twelve-quart oven. How could such a skinny little guy eat so much food? On the other hand, real food must have tasted pretty good to a person who lived on bologna sandwiches, Vienna sausages, and soda crackers. He smiled to himself. He was feeling better than he had in a long time. The talk, even if he wasn’t taking much part in it, warmed him like an open fire.
For a while, the dull ache from his leg and buttock receded from his consciousness. Linda had been right about having friends. He just wished that he wasn’t at the center of this healing ceremony. He wondered what Eddie had in mind for him. When he thought about it, he wanted to disappear into the caboose and watch from the cupola. That would be just fine.
He turned his head at the sound of a vehicle door slamming, and pretty soon Eddie emerged into the ring of lantern light coming from the kerosene lamps placed on the table and hanging nearby from Coleman sky hooks. Frank noticed that Eddie had dressed up in moccasins, clean jeans, and a faded denim shirt pressed for the occasion.
“Uh, Frank, can I use your place to get ready?”
“Sure Eddie, go on in.
“Thanks, Frank.” Eddie nodded. The shadows from the fire and the lanterns made his face seem chiseled and grave. He headed for the caboose, calling over his shoulder, “Jimmy, throw some wood on the fire, okay? No lamplight.” He disappeared into the caboose.
Giving Jimmy Tecopa orders? Frank couldn’t believe it. But Jimmy rose obediently from the table and began throwing wood on the fire. Then he went around and cut all the lamps but the one on the table. The smell of burning juniper and piñons perfumed the evening air. The laughing and conversation died away and people murmured in lowered voices, awaiting Eddie’s e
ntrance. Frank sat outside the ring of firelight, his chair in the shadows.
Eddie emerged from the caboose wearing only jeans and moccasins. Streaks of dark paint that suggested feathers covered his torso and arms. His face was covered in black paint, with a white stripe running down the middle, tracing the contour of his nose to its base. He wore a cloth headband decorated with black feathers. The feathers hung loosely about his ears and the back of his head. A line of smaller feathers stretched in a crest from the front of the headdress to the back. They waved back and forth in unison as he walked. Everyone waited in hushed expectation, watching the slight figure made large by the firelight.
Eddie bent down to examine the ground in front of the fire. “Is this the place?” His face was shadowed, his eyes directed on Frank.
“Yeah, that’s where he fell.”
Eddie squatted closer to the ground. Grasping a handful of dirt, he brought it near his face, sniffing carefully. Then he let the dirt slip from his hand. He produced a small rattle from his front pocket and shook it at the ground, the dry sound of the rattle and the crackle of the fire filling the sudden silence. He rose and backed away, his body cupped inward, arms thrust forward.
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