Neither one of us said anything for a spell, and I looked out my office window at the Wasatch Mountains east of the city. They were federal territory.
“It’s still a police matter,” I finally answered. “We don’t call them Federal Police, but you should be talking to the FBI.”
“Nobody thinks a crime was committed. The Forest Service is investigating. The Forest Service, can you beat that? They’re scrambling to cover their hides. That’s what they’re doing.”
“And what is it they’re covering up?” I asked softly. For all his stillness I figured his pot was on the boil.
“How he was murdered. How they all were murdered,” he intoned. “In the fire. Last year.”
I didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “I’m not sure what you expect me to do. You say that the Forest Service is investigating. Surely they’ll be in a position to tell if this Ferguson did anything wrong.”
“They’ll try to cover it up, mark my words. But if they think there’s someone looking over their shoulder, there’s a better chance maybe...” His voice trailed off and his eyes got kind of blank. Whatever he was seeing, it sure wasn’t me. Then he roused himself, hunching up a little, and it seemed to me he sort of shrunk until he was just a tired old man grieving for his kid. “I’m just asking you to keep them honest, Mr. Traveler. That’s all.”
Well, I guess he got to me after all. I had a young boy and I’d nearly lost him once. “I don’t know if I can be of any real help, but I tell you what I’ll do. Give me three days. I’ll nose around a bit. If it looks like I can make any contribution to this mess, I’ll let you know. And if I can’t, I’ll let you know that too and we’ll call it quits. Deal?”
He nodded his assent and pulled out his checkbook, but I stopped him. “This is a handshake deal,” I said and held out my mitt.
“Handshake deal,” he replied and took my hand. He braced his shoulders and stoked up the fires some. I think I liked him better the other way.
I took some particulars and he gave me a couple of names. Then he walked out of the office ramrod straight. You could barely notice the limp.
I called Anson Horne, Salt Lake City’s chief of police. Not that Anson’s a good buddy of mine, but he’s honest as the day is long and we knew more things about one another than casual acquaintances had any right.
“We know about Torvilson,” Horne’s deep voice rolled out of the receiver end of the phone. If I’d held it out about two feet I would’ve been able to hear him just as good. Anson was in your force-of-nature category, nothing stopped him. “Lay off of this one, Martin. Your client is barking up the wrong tree.”
“Why, because my client is wrong or because you want me to?”
“Your client is a damn fool, and you’re an even bigger one,” he replied and hung up on me. Now I’ve never known Anson to swear, him being in the Church and all, so I must have upset him some. Or more likely, Torvilson had rubbed him raw. It was clear that Anson didn’t take the charges of murder seriously.
I took off for the county library and spent a dull afternoon reading. The phone was ringing as I got back. It was Anson.
“I got a couple of bottles of near beer that could be cooling in the creek,” he growled. This was as close to an apology as I was going to get.
“See you in ten,” I replied and hung up.
When I got there I was surprised to see that Horne wasn’t alone. The other man was short and stocky, but he filled out his police uniform a lot better than Anson did. His sandy complexion looked a lot healthier than Anson’s, too.
“This is Red Hadley,” Anson said.
Somehow I didn’t think that the sandy hair was red enough for the nickname, but it might have faded with age. Probably he had a quick temper, most carrot-tops do. I wondered what he was doing here.
We shook hands. “Glad to meet you. Thought I knew most of the boys in blue around here.”
“Red’s from up north,” Anson interjected. “He signed on with us right after Christmas.”
We stood around some, after that, both me and Red looking at Horne, waiting for him to get on with it. Anson plunged his hand into City Creek and dragged out a cooler. “Have one,” he commanded, thrusting a bottle of his favorite near beer in my direction.
“I don’t generally drink alone,” I replied. Red must’ve thought that was pretty funny, ’cause he guffawed and got his own bottle from the cooler. Anson just got red in the face.
“This guy Torvilson is a troublemaker,” Horne blurted out.
“Trouble for who?” I asked, taking a swig. The stuff was cold, that’s all I can say.
“Think I’d let a murder go by on my watch?”
“Isn’t your territory, way I hear it,” I answered.
Hadley chimed in, “Torvilson came in with some cock-’n’-bull story about those kids being murdered. If it was true, do you think we wouldn’t care?” His complexion was suffused with an ugly angry glow, no wonder people called him Red.
“Chief,” I turned to Horne, “what do you want from me? You know I got a living to make, just like you. But I haven’t got such a heavy load. I don’t want to add to yours, but I’ve got to make my way.”
Hadley grabbed my arm. “They were just kids and they all died. Nothing’s going to bring them back. Torvilson calls me every day.” Anson gently pulled him away.
“There’s nothing to this,” Horne continued, “but anything you find out, you tell me first. I don’t want this Torvilson doing anything stupid.”
“Like hiring me?”
“Like taking matters into his own hands.”
Anson and I, we looked at each other. Hadley wasn’t part of this; I don’t know why Horne brought him. It wasn’t necessary for me to speak, we knew each other that well. “Thanks for the beer.” I gave him a half salute. “It almost tasted like one.”
I spun on my heel and left them there, two rubes drinking near beer by City Creek.
Next morning I trekked up to the ranger station out at Henefe. I’d finally turned the old pre-war Chevy in for a later model. The Buick Super purred along the road and I was glad I’d let the top down. The air was still cool and fresh. It would stay that way for a while in the shadow of the Wasatch.
The ranger station didn’t turn out to be much to look at and neither did Edgar Benson. He was kind of a short ugly guy who reminded me of a toad, fat and all puffed up with his own importance. He didn’t like giving out information. Probably he didn’t have any and didn’t want to admit it.
“The inquiry is ongoing,” he repeated for what must have been the tenth or eleventh time.
“Look, I just want to help put this thing to rest,” I replied. “Got any kids?” I asked, trying to find some common ground with this guy.
“My personal life is no business of yours,” he retorted stiffly and I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere.
“Thanks for nothing,” I said and withdrew as best I could. I got back in the car and drove on north. Thought I’d go take a look at the site. Sure wasn’t going to ask permission from the sourpuss I’d just been bantering with.
Hardscrabble was about an hour’s drive from Henefe and when I got there I realized I couldn’t take the car all the way in. I was wearing city shoes, but the going didn’t look all that bad. There was a path leading through a small stand of pine trees that had surprisingly survived the firestorm. I thought I’d walk a ways in.
As soon as I got round a bend in the path the ground opened up to a little valley. There’s where they got caught, I thought. They were walking out of the Wasatch after successfully fighting a fire up at Mahogany Ridge. They were tired and hungry and all they wanted to do was reach the road. It was their bad luck that a lightning strike had started a blaze in front of them.