“You take another step, I’ll have to shoot,” he said. “Put those hands on top of your heads.”
When they’d obeyed, he pulled a walkie-talkie from a holder on his belt and spoke into it.
“Nick, you there?”
“Yes.”
“Bring the pickup down. I’ve bagged the coyotes. I think we ought to kill ’em and skin ’em.”
Those hard eyes stared from beneath the brim of the hat, and Cork understood that the man wasn’t kidding.
THIRTY-THREE
He told them to sit with their hands clasped on top of their heads. They sat on the ground in the sun and squinted up at him.
“Who are you?” Cork asked.
“I work for Lame Nightwind.”
“Where’s Nightwind?”
“Gone.”
“We were looking for him.”
“People who are looking for him don’t sneak in the back way.”
“We were lost,” Cork said.
“And that’s why you crawled through the window into his hangar, cuz you were lost?”
Cork gave it a moment, then said, “Any chance you’d believe me if I said yes?”
The hardness of the eyes seemed blunted for an instant, and Cork thought the man might actually laugh. Instead he said, “You just sit tight and we’ll see what’s what.”
“Worked for Nightwind long?” Cork asked.
“Been breaking and entering long?” the man shot back.
“Technically we just entered,” Cork said. “The window was unlocked.”
“Technically I could probably shoot you. So why don’t you just close your mouth and be quiet.”
The rifle in the man’s hands made the advice seem more than reasonable, and Cork followed it.
The only sound the isolation of that distant piece of the reservation offered was the soft sweep of wind. Under different circumstances, Cork thought maybe he could appreciate that aspect of the place.
In a few minutes, the thump and rattle of a truck over hard terrain reached them. A pickup came into view, heading down the dirt track from the ranch compound. It stopped near the Arapaho with the rifle. The sun reflected off the windshield in a way that made the driver invisible to Cork. The door opened. A boy got out, a kid no older than Cork’s own son. Like the man, he was Indian.
“You call No Voice?” the man asked.
“He’s on his way.”
Cork realized he’d seen the young Arapaho before, on his first visit to Red Hawk. The kid had stood beneath the burning cross that hung over the front door of the mission in the reservation town. He seemed to recognize Cork, and he spoke in Arapaho to the man with the rifle. The man looked at Cork in a different way.
“You the one who lost his wife when that plane went down?” he said.
“Yes.”
The kid spoke again in Arapaho. The man spoke back, angrily. He jerked his head toward the pickup. The boy walked to the truck, dropped the tailgate, and rummaged in back. He returned with a roll of duct tape.
The man with the rifle said to Cork, “My grandson’s going to toss you the duct tape. I want you to tape your friend’s hands behind his back. Then toss the duct tape to my grandson.”
Cork did as he was instructed, binding Parmer’s hands together at the small of his back, then he threw the tape to the kid.
“Turn around, hands behind your back. My grandson’ll do the same to your hands. You try anything, I’ll blow your head off.”
The kid secured Cork’s hands and stepped back.
“Climb into the truck bed,” the man ordered.
Cork and Parmer did as instructed. The kid slammed the tailgate shut and got behind the wheel.
“You two sit tight. We’re going up to the ranch house. Anything stupid and you’re dead. Understand?”
The man got in the cab, and his grandson drove them to the compound. The truck drew up to the outbuilding next to the barn. There were three doors-two large doors for the entry of vehicles and one smaller door for human use. The Arapaho with the rifle got out and entered the building through the smaller door. A moment later one of the big doors swung up mechanically. The boy drove the truck in and parked next to a yellow Allis-Chalmers backhoe with a blade mounted on the front. A couple of ATVs were parked there as well. Shovels, picks, pry bars, and other digging implements hung from hooks on the walls. There was a long workbench and above it a Peg-Board full of hand tools. The building smelled of oil and grease but was clean. The older Arapaho dropped the tailgate.
“Get out,” he said.
Cork and Parmer scooted off the truck bed. The kid joined his grandfather.
“Sit down,” the grandfather said to the two men.
They sat in the shade of the outbuilding. The kid said something to his grandfather in Arapaho, and the older man shook his head. The boy looked disappointed. He headed toward the rear of the outbuilding and returned with two folding chairs, which he set facing Cork and Parmer, some distance away. He sat in one, his grandfather in the other, with the rifle across his legs.
“Is Nightwind gone a lot?” Cork asked.
“No talking,” the Arapaho said.
“You live in that cabin we saw up there in the hills?”
“Another word, I stuff this rifle butt down your throat.”
No more words were spoken. Half an hour later, Andrew No Voice, chief of the Owl Creek Arapaho Police, arrived. He climbed from his Blazer and stood with his arms crossed, looking down at Cork and Parmer.
“Understand you gentlemen’ve been involved in a little breaking and entering.”
“No,” the older Arapaho said.
No Voice glanced his way. “Message I got said that was the case.”
“They were snooping, that’s all.”
“Snooping? You sure got ’em trussed up good for snooping.”
“A misunderstanding,” the Arapaho said.
No Voice looked at the kid. “That right, Nick? Just a little misunderstanding?”
“Yes,” the kid said.
“I want them off Nightwind’s land,” the older Arapaho said. “I want them gone, and I don’t want them to come back.”
“Prefer charges,” No Voice said, “and I can guarantee they won’t be back.”
“No. No charges.”
“Where’s Lame?” No Voice asked.
“Gone.”
“All right.” The policeman was clearly not thrilled with the Arapaho’s position. “I’ll take ’em into Red Hawk, deal with them there.”
“We have a Jeep,” Cork said. “It’s down at the hangar.”
“Let’s get it and get you two out of here.”
“Mind cutting us loose?”
“I’m not inclined to do that just yet.”
He herded them into the back of his Blazer and drove to the hangar.
“Who’s got the keys?” he asked.
“I do,” Cork said.
No Voice opened Cork’s door. “Get out.”
After Cork complied, No Voice turned him roughly, took a pocket-knife from a pouch on his belt, opened the blade, and slit the tape that bound his wrists.
“You drive the Jeep,” No Voice said. “Follow me to Red Hawk. I’ll keep your partner in my vehicle. Just a little insurance in case you’re inclined toward a different destination.”
In the Jeep, Cork followed No Voice back up the dirt track to the compound. The Arapaho and his grandson still stood in the shade of the outbuilding. Cork waved as he passed to let them know he bore them no ill will. They didn’t respond, just stood watching as the two vehicles kicked up dust on their way out.
THIRTY-FOUR
Red Hawk drowsed in the May afternoon sun. Several pickups stood parked at the Chevron gas station and mini-mart. On the porch of the senior home across the street, two white-haired women rocked and watched No Voice’s Blazer and Cork’s Jeep crawl past. In the playing field behind the school, a bunch of kids were kicking a soccer ball around. No Voice pulled into the parking lot of the Reservation Business Center. He got out, opened the door for Parmer, and was in the process of cutting the tape that still bound Parmer’s wrists when Cork pulled alongside and parked.