“But I do,” Joe said.
Underwood sighed and said, “I don’t know who put him up to it. He didn’t involve me in this one.”
“Interesting. Is it possible he initiated the action himself?”
“Don’t know and don’t care,” Underwood said. “I doubt it, though. Batista is a political animal. He’s after big fish and headlines. Why would he waste his time on a couple of small-town losers?”
“That’s what I want to figure out,” Joe said.
Joe held his tongue and his outrage in check while they surveyed the treeless and tumbled scree that led to the summit ahead of them. Despite the season, there were still dirty strips of snow packed into broken shale where the sun couldn’t melt them. It was nearly full dark, and the glow from the last of the sun over the top of the mountain made their side dark, confusing, and unfocused. The stars hadn’t yet taken over the night sky enough to light up the slope.
Joe proposed a switchback route that zigged right, then left around a sharp outcropping, then right again across a flat snowfield.
“We can’t just go straight up and over?” Underwood asked.
“Not unless you want to cut up your horses’ legs,” Joe said. “Plus, your guys aren’t real riders. It’s always best to take the easiest route and let the horse pick his way.”
“So be it,” Underwood declared, and turned his horse to gather his team.
Joe stayed. He turned up the collar of his Filson vest against a slight icy breeze. When Underwood’s back had faded out of sight into the gloom below, Joe reached up and unzipped the vest and reached into the breast pocket of his uniform shirt.
And clicked off the digital micro-recorder he’d left in his pocket from that morning when he encountered Bryce Pendergast.
23
The log lean-to was so old and well hidden it would have been hard to see if Butch Roberson hadn’t known exactly where it was. The lean-to’s roof was furry with lichen and moss that blended in perfectly in the forest, and it was set in a huge stand of thick trees that was cool and dark.
Farkus shuffled forward and was surprised there was an orange plastic cooler with a white lid set inside. After seeing nothing most of the day that wasn’t rock, trees, or brush, the modernity of the cooler was like finding a highway cone in the middle of the desert. Next to the cooler was a bulging burlap sack that had been tied off with a leather string.
He stopped and shook his head. Who put it there, and how did Butch know it would be waiting?
Behind him, Butch said, “I trust you gentlemen will help me with dinner, because we’re just about to lose our light. Farkus, you gather some wood and kindling. Sheriff, you dig a nice fire pit inside that lean-to and get the fire going.”
Then, with obvious anticipation, Butch said, “I’ll cook our dinner.”
He stepped through them and threw off the lid. Farkus was stunned to see what was inside the cooler. Huge, thick triangles of white butcher paper, potatoes, onions, Gatorade, and the unmistakable grinning tops of a six-pack of Coors beer. All of it nestled in ice.
“We’ve died and gone to heaven,” Farkus said.
“It helps to have friends.” Butch grinned, propping his rifle inside the corner of the lean-to.
The small fire licked their faces with orange light. Farkus moaned and sat back, his belly so full it was hard to the touch. Like Butch and McLanahan, he’d eaten his entire sixteen-ounce T-bone steak, a scoop of fried potatoes and onions, and washed it down with two cans of beer. Butch had doled out the food in shared portions, even though he’d been out in the wilderness longer and was probably starved, Farkus thought.
While Butch was preparing the meal, he’d balled up the wrapping paper from the steaks and tossed it toward the fire. One of the balls missed and rolled toward Farkus’s foot, and he surreptitiously scooped it up and jammed it in his front jeans pocket, where it was now. He thought at the time that maybe he could write something on it and leave it for the Feds to find. But after he hid it away in his pocket, he realized he didn’t have a pen or pencil with him.
The sky was full dark but creamy with stars. The temperature had dropped to the mid-fifties, Farkus guessed, cold enough to make it feel uncomfortable away from the small fire inside the lean-to. Although two beers for Farkus was usually not anything more than a nice start, he felt a pleasant buzz because he was both bone-tired and dehydrated.
After they ate, he watched as Butch strapped a headlamp on from his pack and rooted through the burlap bag. He produced blankets, freeze-dried food packets, a small aluminum coffee pot and a plastic bag of coffee, binoculars, several boxes of.223 cartridges, an old Colt.45 revolver and ammunition, fleece vests, duct tape, wire and rope, and a water filter purification pump. And a fifth of Evan Williams.
“All good stuff,” Butch seemed to say to himself. “All practical stuff we can use.”
He jammed the pistol into the back of his pants and retied the bag closed. As he did, he glanced at Farkus as if to say, You’ll be carrying this.
Farkus moaned, and Butch grinned in response.
“We could lighten that load if you opened the bourbon,” Farkus suggested.
“Nice try,” Butch said.
“So,” McLanahan asked, “who is the coconspirator?”
Butch ignored him.
“Aren’t you going to get those blankets out?” McLanahan asked Butch a few minutes later, after Butch had rejoined them around the fire.
“No.”
“We’re gonna freeze.”
“You’ll be fine, it’s August,” Butch said, not looking over at the ex-sheriff. He seemed mesmerized by the fire, Farkus thought, or thinking deep thoughts. Licks of flame reflected from his eyes.
“We’re not stopping here,” Butch said, staring into the fire. “We need to keep moving. We’re still too close to where that drone went down and I made the call.”
Farkus groaned again. He hoped Butch would reconsider and let them sleep for a while. And he wished there was more beer in the cooler.
Instead Butch said, “We’ll stay here a few more minutes and let that big dinner settle. Then we’re getting up and moving south again.”
When he’d been with Roberson hunting, Farkus remembered something Butch had said about the mountains to the south. That they could only go so far before they’d get cut off by a wicked canyon Farkus had heard about but never seen. The Middle Fork of the Twelve Sleep River had created a geological wonder with knife-sharp walls, a terrifying distance from the rim to the narrow canyon floor, and virtually no breaks or cracks through the rocks for a crossing. The canyon was so steep and narrow that sunlight rarely shone on the stream in the bottom.
“If I remember right,” McLanahan said, “that’s where Savage Run is.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t get it,” McLanahan said, shaking his head. “Why would we cut off our escape route?”
“A band of Cheyenne Indians crossed it once with women and children because the Pawnee had them trapped,” Butch said. “So did Joe Pickett. He told me about it once, and I think I know where he crossed. I figure we can do the same.”
Farkus and McLanahan exchanged tortured looks.
After a few minutes where the only sounds were a light breeze in the treetops and the muffled popping of the fire, Butch suddenly looked up and glared at McLanahan. The ferocity in his face jolted Farkus out of his own trance. Farkus was terrified of the prospect of trying to cross Savage Run Canyon.
Butch said to McLanahan, “You know what they did, but you still came after me. What an asshole you are.”
McLanahan looked away and spoke toward the fire instead of to Butch. “It isn’t about you, Butch. It never was.”
“Bullshit. And you brought along some great long-distance shooter so you wouldn’t even have to look me in the eye before you blew my guts all over the mountain.”