He bit his lip, nodding his head in agreement. “I am really sorry about all that noise.”
“Um-hmm.” Um-hmm was one of my secret weapons. I could give out with a noncommittal um-hmm with the best of them.
“We didn’t tear anything up… I mean we made a lot of noise?”
“Willis did mention it… But that’s not why I’m here.” Now he looked really worried. “I just need to ask you about the areas that you might have hunted in your visit here.” We had arrived at the Bullet, where I opened the door, fished out my coat, and pulled it on. “Sorry, it’s getting a little cool. The areas? Sections for your hunting permits?”
His eyes stayed in the truck, taking in the radio, radar, and especially the Remington 870 that was locked to the dash. After a moment he spoke. “You mean the numbers?”
“Yep, that would be helpful.” I waited. “You’re not sure what the numbers are?”
“No, but they’re in the truck.”
As we started back, the tone became a little more conversational. I commented on the weather, and he related how he and his friends had been surprised by the little storm last night, how the roads had been slick with snow coming off the mountain. “You fellows were hunting on the mountain?”
“Yes, sir.” He unlocked the Chevy and dug into the center console where I caught a glimpse of a red box indicating Federal brand ammunition. After a moment, he produced four bright and shining bow-hunting permits.
Bow hunting permits. I pursed my lips and blew out. “You fellows are bow hunters?
“Yes, sir.” I checked the permits; they were all mountain, 24, 166, 25. “Look, is there something we’re being charged with? Should I be getting a lawyer or something?
“I’m hoping that won’t be necessary, Mr. Anderson. Do you or any of your party have any firearms?”
“No.”
Maybe he was just nervous. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. Well…” Moment of truth. “Randy has a. 38 in the glove box.”
“Is it loaded?”
“It might be.”
“Are you aware that a loaded, vehicularly concealed weapon constitutes a misdemeanor offense in this state?” Vehicularly-was that a word? Where did I get this stuff? I smiled again to let him know I didn’t think he was Al Capone. “So, let’s say you and I make a deal? I won’t examine the legendary Randy’s pistol to see if it’s loaded and you answer a few more of my questions.” He figured it was a good deal. I pulled the section map out of my coat pocket, spread it out, and, with Mike’s help, held it on their hood. He said they had asked at the Game and Fish about sections 23 and 26 because Anderson’s father had hunted there years ago, claiming the deer on the Powder River draw were much larger than those on the mountain. Anderson’s father was right, but I didn’t share that with Mike; my ranch was in that section. They had driven out there Friday at noon and circled up along the Powder River coming back past Arvada, Clearmont, and Crossroads.
“Did you get off the main road at any point?”
“Um, three times. Once to watch some antelope just at the top of the hill after that little town at the main road?”
“Arvada.”
“Once where there was an old bridge headed south.”
Maybe something. “An old kings-bridge structure?” His face was blank. “A trestle system of steel girders that goes over the road with an old car stuffed into the bank on the far side?”
“Yes, sir. Now that you mention it.”
“Did you see anyone, or anything else, out there?” He paused to think. I was going to have to talk to all of them. Was I ever going to get to sleep?
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“No. I mean there were some cars and trucks that went by…” He was thinking hard but wasn’t coming up with anything.
“But you didn’t speak to anyone?”
“No.”
“What about the third stop?” His face brightened. I guess he figured the governor had called with the reprieve.
“We had lunch at a little place about twenty miles out.”
“The Red Pony?”
He pointed a finger at me, and I started figuring that Anderson sold something for a living. “That was it.”
I asked him what they had, and he said cheeseburgers. I asked how they were, and he said they were okay.
“Just okay?”
“Yes, sir. Why? Is that important?”
A gust of wind fluttered the map. “No, I just want to give the chief-cook-and-bottle-washer some flak. You ate at this place on the way back to town? About what time was that?
“Right after noon, maybe one.” I took out my pen and made some notes on the map. “Your picture is on the wall. Out there at the bar with all the medals, maps, and stuff, isn’t it?” I continued to scribble away. “You two were in the war together? You and the Indian guy?”
“Yep, the war to start all wars.” I don’t think he got it.
“I mean the food wasn’t that bad…” He started sounding apologetic. I couldn’t wait to give Henry an earful. “It took him a little while to get it out to us, but I think he had just opened. You sure get your money’s worth. He cut the fries out of potatoes right there on the bar, and I got this cheeseburger that had about a half pound of jalapenos on it.”
I stopped scribbling.
3
There was a clattering as someone tried to pull what sounded like pots and pans from one of the many boxes that lined the kitchen wall. My head slumped against my pillow; almost fourteen hours of sleep and I still felt like shit. It looked like a nice day though. From my perspective near the floor, I had a clear view of brilliant blue skies without a cloud in sight. There was more noise from the kitchen, and whistling. Unless I missed my guess, it was Prokofiev’s Symphony Number One, sometimes in D, and it was being butchered. I dragged myself to a sloped sitting position and stretched my back, allowing the little muscle just left of my spine and halfway down to decide how it was going to let me live today. The prognosis was fair.
I looked through the opaque plastic coating that still clung to the glass door between the bedroom and kitchen, pushed to my feet, and stumbled. I turned the glass knob, stolen almost a decade ago from our rented house in town, and confronted the Cheyenne Nation who was resplendent in his old Kansas City Chiefs jersey, complete with YOUR NAME printed on the back. “Hey, people are trying to sleep in here.”
“After fourteen hours you have constituted clinical death.” He was popping open a can of biscuits on the particle board edge of the counter and lining an old pie pan with them.
“Did you wash that?”
He paused. “Should I have?”
“Well, there’s mouse shit on most of that stuff.”
His shoulders sagged as he pulled the biscuits out of the pan and inspected the underside of each one. “How do you live like this?” He turned to look at me. “Will you please go put some clothes on?” I retreated into the bedroom, retrieved my bathrobe from the nail in the stud wall, and ambled back to the kitchen.
I took a seat on the stool by the counter and poured a cup of coffee into a Denver Broncos mug. I figured it was my job to do everything possible to irritate him this afternoon. I was feeling better. “What’s for brunch?”
“You mean besides mouse shit?” He had dropped about two pounds of pork sausage into a frying pan that I couldn’t recall ever having seen before. I took a sip of the French roast; it seemed like all I did was drink the stuff. Cady sent me fancy, whole-bean coffee from Philadelphia in trendy little resealable bags, but I hadn’t gotten around to getting a grinder.
“Game Day.” It was a tradition. Twice a year we found ourselves locked in the death struggle of the AFC Western Division: Broncos vs. Chiefs. Pancake Day and Game Day on the same weekend.
“Yes, I know. You are going to get your ass kicked today.”
“Oh, please…” I tried the coffee again; it wasn’t so bad. “Where did you find a grinder?” He ignored me and continued to look through the Folgers can that held my meager selection of utensils, so I asked, “Spatula?”