by Jeff Carson
It was humid, and dark clouds were popping straight up into tall towers in the southwest.
The cone of rock he’d known as Pyramid Peak—a steep geological formation hundreds of feet high, with no trees, and millions of years old—was close now, looming high above the pines just to the north.
He took off his backpack and crammed a nutrition bar in his mouth, then took a quick gulp of water and stood still in the freshening breeze. Wolf could smell the strange aftershave-like scent again, this time closer.
He stood dead still. “It’s David Wolf. I’m here to see you.”
There was no sound except the wind breathing through the tops of the trees, and the long chattering of a treetop squirrel.
Wolf set down the water and held out both his arms, palms out.
The voice came from behind him. “Turn around slow.”
Wolf did.
The first thing he saw was the muzzle of a rifle. The wood stock of it was tucked into the armpit of a dirty brown tee shirt, like how a little kid would hold a toy rifle. But the man holding the gun wasn’t playing. The hammer was cocked, his finger was white on the trigger, and the muzzle was still.
Wolf spoke quickly. “Sir, it’s David Wolf. Do you remember me? I’ve been here a couple times with my father, Daniel Wolf.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed and he looked Wolf up and down. “David Wolf?”
A waft of breeze hit them, bringing with it the faint thumping sound of the helicopter circling the sky to the southwest.
The pulsing of the rotor grew louder and the man tilted his head and gave it a glance.
Wolf didn’t move. He didn’t need to look. From the sound, he knew it was searching near the ditched motorcycle, miles away. Instead, he studied the familiar man before him.
It had been seventeen years since he last saw Martin Running Warrior. The old man’s skin was rougher now, looking like deeply tanned, well-worn leather. His eyes were dark coffee, wide and alert. Straight silver hair, wet with sweat around his ears, peeked out from underneath a dusty gray cowboy hat that had a band of turquoise beads around the crown.
Wolf remembered the rifle from seventeen years ago—a Winchester with engraved silver plating where the shoulder stock met the barrel. It looked well cleaned and oiled.
Martin flicked a glance towards the helicopter as the sound faded, then tilted his head again. “What’s my Navajo name?”
“I don’t remember.” Wolf watched him narrow his eyes. “I just remember what it means. Running Warrior.”
The man relaxed and lowered his rifle, then uncocked the hammer, shaking his head. “It’s Hashké Dilwo'ii” He leaned forward, emphasizing the syllables.
Wolf nodded.
Martin scoffed and glared at him. “There is nothing worse than forgetting who you are.” He turned and began walking toward Pyramid Peak. “I take it you aren’t here for a refresher course.” He gestured in the direction of the faint drone of the helicopter. “I take it you are looking for a place to hide.”
Wolf followed close. “I need help, and I need to use your phone. I’m in a bit of trouble.”
Martin stopped and looked him up and down for a second. “You look just like your father.”
Wolf nodded, unsure how to respond.
Martin’s house was a large shoebox design made from decaying wood. The corrugated metal roof was pieced together from smaller scraps of all shapes, sizes, and rust hues. No perimeter fencing or landscaping surrounded the house, but heaps of old tools, machines, and bones seemed to clearly mark where Martin had decided his property ended and nature began.
Behind the house was a tall outcropping of granite and, beyond that, the towering Pyramid Peak cinder cone.
There were no roads entering the property, and Martin looked like he still didn’t have a car, but there was an ATV under a tree, covered by a tarp.
Wolf wondered how many visitors Martin had on his property per year. Probably countable on one hand.
Martin led him inside the small building, sat him in a chair, and slapped down a steaming plastic plate of dark-brown meat stew piled on top of potatoes.
Wolf sat motionless at the tiny kitchen table, his mouth watering at the aroma of the food in front of him. He hesitated, eyeing Martin’s empty hands.
“Eat. I’ve got plenty more.” Martin opened a small refrigerator that sat on a flaking linoleum floor, pulled out one of many Tupperware containers, and poured some of the contents into a pot on the gas stove. “I was making lunch when I heard you coming.”
Wolf raised an eyebrow and dug into the stew, wondering how the man could have been cooking inside his cabin and yet heard his approach. Wolf recognized the gamey taste of elk as he chewed. The broth was filled with spices, the potatoes soft. It was heaven in a spoon.
Martin turned on the stove and stirred the contents of the pot.
The rectangular space of the room was adorned with various Navajo works of art. The obvious attention to interior decoration lay in stark contrast to the utilitarian junk-pile look of the exterior. A cast-iron wood stove was the centerpiece of the tiny house. A cot topped with folded blankets of Navajo design squatted in one corner, and a bookshelf adorned with stacks of books stood in another. It looked to be filled exclusively with survival and Native American publications.
Wolf felt self-conscious in the presence of the man. Other than knowing that he himself was one-eighth Navajo—Wolf’s great-grandfather being full-blooded—his knowledge of the Navajo Nation was limited. Years ago his father had brought him to Martin a few times for that very reason: to teach him about his heritage.
Since then, he’d forgotten most of what he’d learned. He realized that there was another reason for wearing the ring he’d found on his father’s armoire. Guilt. Wearing the ring felt like he was keeping the connection. But, he knew, wearing the ring was an action that didn’t take any real commitment on his part.
Wolf’s stomach sank as he thumbed his left pinky, realizing his father’s ring was gone.
He tried to think back to when he’d had it on last. He must have pulled it off when he removed his gloves one of the many times last night. Which meant it could have been anywhere in the hundreds of square miles of forest to the south.
“What’s wrong?” Martin sat down and took a spoon-full from his bowl.
Wolf rubbed his finger. “I uh … lost my father’s ring.” He picked up his spoon and took a bite.
“Important to you, was it?” Martin asked.
Wolf nodded. “It was actually a Navajo design.”
“Really? Silver, was it?”
“Yeah. It was.” Wolf glanced at him. “Why?”
“It was probably made by the Atsidii.” He pointed through the wall to the north, waited, and then rolled his eyes. “The Silversmith.”
Wolf shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
Martin got up and went to his bookshelf, then returned with a bracelet. He held it in front of Wolf’s face. “Did it have this marking?” He pointed to a square engraving on the inside of the bracelet. “This was his mark.”
Wolf reached out and rubbed the mark. “Yes. It did have that. And it had another engraving.”
“What did it say?”
Wolf squirmed in his chair. “I don’t remember the Navajo words. But I know it meant ‘I Love You.’ Then there was a year—1985.”
Martin stared at him a beat. “Ayóó' ánííníshní. That is what the engraving said, if it said I love you.”
Wolf kept eating. “You said, was the Silversmith’s mark. Is the Silversmith dead?”
Martin swallowed a mouthful of food, then raised a lip like he was a snarling dog. “No. The Silversmith lived here many years ago, then sold his land and left with his family.” He said it with such contempt that it looked like he might spit on the table.
Wolf straightened. “You seem upset about it.”
Martin ate a few bites, breathing heavily through his nose. “He sold the land to the mining company, so they cou
ld rape it.” He glared at Wolf.
“The Connell-Brack Mine to the north?” Wolf raised his eyebrows. “He owned all that land?”
Martin shook his head. “Not that land. He sold his land. To the south.”
“Are you talking about the land just east of the highway? East of Cave Creek Canyon, with the old run-down house on it?” He thought about his conversation with Dennis Muller.
Martin continued eating. “Yes. That is the land.”
“But there are no tailings. No mine entrances, no pits. That land is untouched except for that old house.”
Martin pointed with his fork. “You don’t see it, but they are raping the land from underneath. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire mountainside collapsed today.”
Wolf narrowed his eyes and took another bite.
Martin continued eating with his head down. “They will come after me next with an offer, and when they do, I will make them a counter offer with my rifle.” He chuffed through his nostrils and kept eating.
The sound of the helicopter outside grew louder for a few moments and then faded. Wolf was suddenly a little claustrophobic. He looked out the window, wanting to be outside, surveying the surroundings. He thought about Young’s long, animalistic strides as he barreled down that trail.
Martin looked at him and nodded his head towards the wall. “Take my rifle. My cell phone is on the counter. You’ll have to climb the rocks behind the house for reception. I’ll be there when I’m done.”
From the rock outcropping behind the house, Wolf could see three hundred and sixty degrees. To the southwest were the two tall peaks. In between him and the peaks were a few lower rocky hills and the miles of dense forest that he’d just traveled through.
On the other side of the peaks were the 2Shoe Ranch and a jet-black sky that flickered with lightning within. The helicopter was gone, probably grounded because of the storm.
To the west was the highway. Wolf could see a few silent cars in the distance weaving their way north into Cave Creek Canyon.
Wolf squinted and studied the expanse of forest below. He couldn’t see any movement, but that didn’t mean no one was there.
He swiveled north and gazed at the countless layers of blue mountains in between him and the furthest point he could see, which was probably a mountain in Wyoming. The highway strung its way through the low valleys into the distance, straight past the Clover Mine—Connell-Brack Mining Corp’s flagship gold mine opened over fifty years ago by Wallace Connell, Gary’s father—one of six they owned in the western United States.
Streams of dust rose from the trees, which must have been mining trucks driving the maze of dirt roads inside the forest. Tailings piles poked up into view every now and again. The sprawl of activity was immense.
Wolf knew that Clover Mine’s operations were strictly underground—not surface mined with an open pit like the Cresson Mine he’d seen outside of Cripple Creek to the south.
From here, the old run-down house that Martin and Dennis had now both mentioned was out of sight, just on the other side of the slope to the north. One thing was for sure, though—there was a heck of a lot of distance between the mining operations and where the old house was. If the Clover Mine had extended that far, it covered at least two miles underground.
Wolf sat down facing south, keeping some rocks between him and the forest below just in case Young was taking aim at that very second. He took out the cell phone and called Rachette.
“Hello?” The voice sounded very faint, but Wolf could hear the urgency in Rachette’s voice just the same.
“Hey. It’s me.”
Silence. “Hi, Mom. Look, I’m kind of busy right now.” A pause. “What? Hold on just a second.”
Wolf could hear his ragged breathing and footsteps crunching in his earpiece.
“What’s going on? You all right?” Rachette mumbled.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just let me know where you guys are.”
“I don’t know.” His voice was louder than it needed to be. “Fine, Mom. Fine.” Another pause, then his voice lowered. “I’m with Vickers, we found your motorcycle, and we found an ATV.”
“It’s Young’s. He’s after me.”
Rachette sounded like he was trying not to move his lips. “Where are you right now?”
“I’d rather not say, just in case. Where are you guys going?”
“Uh-huh. Yes.” There was a full ten seconds of rustling and wind rushing into the phone. “Sorry. We’re basically going to set up a perimeter around Gary’s ranch. They think you’re coming after him. Gary came and gave us a big speech last night. Vickers is heading the search up, and he keeps telling everyone to shoot first. Talking about how dangerous you are.”
Wolf nodded, thinking.
Rachette’s voice was loud. “All right, Mom! Easy!” Another pause. “Hey.”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t kill Connell, did you?” Rachette’s voice was almost inaudible.
“No. It was Young. And Gary. They set me up.”
“It was your knife found at the scene of Mark Wilson’s stabbing,” came out of Rachette’s mouth in a whispered tumble. “All right! Bye, Mom. I love you too. I have to go. Okay. I know. Bye.”
Wolf stared at the phone, then glared into the forest below. “Damn.” He pecked out a text message on the ancient phone.
“You get bad reception?” Martin was standing behind him.
“No, it was fine. Just … other problems.” He held up the phone to Martin, who took it and pushed a few buttons, then eyed the screen. “Construction site? What’s so important about the construction site?”
Wolf turned to the north. “Can you take me to the Silversmith property?”
“Sure. Now?”
“Now. And we’ll need rifles.”
Chapter 33
Rachette pocketed the phone and looked at the ominous clouds to the south. The dark-green curtain of rain flickered within, and then a finger of lightning lunged out of the clouds, striking just at the base of the mountain, followed a few seconds later by a deafening crack of thunder.
If there was one thing Rachette didn’t like, it was lightning. If he’d had his way, they’d have been off this exposed peak the second the helicopter was grounded, which was a good fifteen minutes ago.
Apparently Vickers had finally got the hint, or felt one of his few un-gelled hairs lift, because he was barking through the radio for everyone to get down the mountain and seek shelter.
Those people who were on the east end of the mountain went east, those on the west, west. Rachette was in between. Vickers was west, so he turned and jogged east.
“Rachette.” The radio crackled.
Rachette rolled his eyes and turned with his hands up. “Yeah!”
Vickers craned his finger.
Rachette ran to Vickers, who waved him past with a whirling hand.
“Give me the phone.” Vickers voice bounced behind Rachette.
“What?”
“You heard me. Give it now.”
Rachette cursed himself, dug in his pocket and pitched the phone back.
The sky flashed bright and the air shook with ear-splitting thunder.
“Jesus! Jeez.” Rachette corrected himself in the face of imminent death. “We’ve gotta get down, Sarge.”
Vickers caught the phone and slowed to a stop, looking at the screen.
Rachette turned and walked back up the trail to him. “Sir, we’ve gotta get down, now.”
Vickers took out his own phone and pressed a number. “Sergeant Vickers here. I need someone to triangulate the following cell phone number as soon as possible.” He paused. “Because Wolf just called from that number.”
He relayed the number, hung up, and flung the phone at Rachette as he ran past and down the trail.
Rachette caught the phone as a cold drop of rain smacked him on the cheek. The screen was illuminated with an incoming message scrawled across it. He furrowed his brow and looked down the trail.
Vickers was out of sight.
Another bolt of lightning struck close with a boom of thunder.
Rachette winced as he unlocked the phone, erased the message, pocketed it, and ran as fast as he could.
Chapter 34
Wolf and Martin came out of the trees into a bare, flat patch of forest where the old house stood. It faced north, and the view was immense. The mining operations were in the distance, and beyond that the unending waves of mountains.
The siding of the house had long been stripped of its paint, leaving the boards a bleached ash color. Every board in the structure was warped, ejecting most of the nails, causing the entire house to lean slightly downhill; and every window was punched out with just a few hanging shards of glass remaining or none at all.
The air smelled like old bones, and the continuous buzz of insects was deafening.
Wolf slapped a hand on a hot board on the back of the house, half expecting the structure to tip forward. He walked the perimeter to a vacant window and peeked inside.
The floors were gray, with warped boards covered with dirt, rocks and twigs. A workbench stood against one wall with two vises affixed. Underneath it was a wad of sticks and grasses, like a family of raccoons had built a den. A kitchen counter drooped off the wall, looking like it would fall at the same time the house tipped forward. There was no sink in the counter, and no furniture anywhere.
“When did they leave?”
“They left in 1996.” Martin’s voice was muffled on the other side of the house.
The year Dad died.
Wolf walked around to the front, wiping a spider web strand off his face.
The sun went behind the clouds and a low distant rumble shook the air.
Wolf stopped, remembering his conversation with Dennis. “Bill Chester.”
Martin came around the house and met him in front. “What?”
“That’s the guy who bought the house. Do you know who that is? Bill Chester.”