“Where’s Nightwind?”
The Arapaho didn’t answer.
“You always work with a rifle close at hand?”
“In this country,” the man replied, “you never know what kind of animal might be sneaking around. It’s my job to protect this property and the livestock on it.”
“Where’s Nightwind?” Cork asked again.
“He’s not here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Suppose I go up to the house and have a look-see?”
The Arapaho gave no sign that he cared one way or the other.
“Sit on the ground,” Cork told him.
The man sat.
“Watch him, Hugh. I’m going to see if I can rustle up a little Nightwind.”
“Careful, partner.”
Cork stood at the barn door and studied the house a long moment. He slipped out and dashed to the outbuilding where the ATVs and heavy equipment were kept. From there, he ran to the garage and took a quick look inside. One of the spaces was empty. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything. He sprinted to the house and approached the front door. Locked. He eased along the side of the house and checked the windows as he went. The curtains were open. There appeared to be no one inside. He came to a side door, which was also locked. He used the butt of Quinn’s rifle to shatter one of the panes in the mullioned window, and he reached inside to free the lock. With his hip he nudged the door open and popped inside. Room by room he crept through the house, satisfying himself that it was empty. The place was simply furnished, decorated with artwork like the kind on display at the gallery in the Reservation Business Center. A framed photograph on the mantel in the living room caught his eye. It showed two young people holding hands, with foothills at their backs, and with Heaven’s Keep looming above the whole scene like a guardian angel. The young woman was Ellyn Grant. The young man was Lame Nightwind. It must have been taken twenty years before and in a happier time. They were holding hands and smiling.
Cork returned to the barn.
“He’s not there.” He stood at the open door and eyed the thread of woodsmoke rising in the foothills half a mile away. “There’s somewhere else he might be, though. Let’s pay a visit to your place.”
“No,” the Arapaho said.
“Yes,” Cork said. “And we’re going to take your pickup. You drive.”
The Arapaho stood his ground and would not move.
“All right,” Cork said. “We’ll tie you up, leave you down here, and we’ll still take your truck.”
“All right,” the Arapaho said. “I’ll drive you there.”
They left the barn, and at the pickup Cork said, “Hugh, give me your gun. I’ll ride up front with our host. You take the rifle and hunker down in back so nobody can see you.” To the Arapaho, he said, “Any shooting starts, you take the first bullet.”
“You’d really shoot me?”
“You want to find out?”
“Nightwind isn’t at my cabin.”
“I’d like to see that for myself.”
“Only my wife is there. You’ll frighten her. She won’t give you any trouble, I promise. None of us will.”
“Fine. Then this should be easy all the way around. Let’s go.”
The Arapaho slid behind the wheel, and Cork took the seat next to him. He held Parmer’s Ruger in his lap with the muzzle toward the man driving. Parmer lay down in back with the rifle beside him. They took off and followed a dirt road that wound through foothills dotted with lodgepole pines. As they approached the cabin, Cork saw that it was built among a gathering of cottonwoods. Nestled into the fold of the hills, with smoke rising from the chimney, it looked like a good, peaceful place to live. Cork hoped he wouldn’t find Nightwind there. He hated the thought of bringing violence to the Arapaho’s home. But if it would help him find Jo, he’d raise hell in heaven itself.
The Arapaho braked to a stop fifty yards from the cabin. A sheep-dog, black and white, left the porch and trotted out to meet them. The dog hesitated and must have caught the strange scent of Cork and Parmer, because it began to bark fiercely. Cork saw a curtain move in a front window.
“Go on,” he said to the Arapaho. “Pull all the way up.”
The man took his time. When they were parked near the porch, Cork said, “Slide this way. We’re getting out the same side.” He opened his door and used it to shield him from the cabin as the Arapaho maneuvered out. Parmer jumped from the pickup bed and stood beside Cork.
“Walk to the house and keep in front of us,” he told the Arapaho.
“You’re scaring my wife,” the Arapaho said.
“If Nightwind’s not here, she has nothing to fear.”
The door opened before they reached the porch, and a woman appeared. She wore her hair in a long, graying braid. She had on a tan blouse and a long green skirt, embroidered along the hem. Around her waist an apron was tied, and she wiped her hands on it as she looked the men over. She spoke to her husband in Arapaho. He replied in the same language.
“What are you saying?” Cork asked.
“She wants to know who you are. I told her.”
“Told her what?”
“Men looking for Lame.”
“Lame’s gone,” she said.
“We’d like to take a look inside, ma’am, just for our own peace of mind.”
The woman glanced at her husband, who spoke again in Arapaho. She stood aside, leaving the way clear for them to enter.
“After you,” Cork said to the Arapaho.
Inside, the air was sharp and redolent with the aroma of cooking chili peppers. Parmer stayed with the couple while Cork checked the rooms. The place was cozy and simple: a small living room and kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms was decorated with posters of aircraft of all kind. A biplane, a World War II Sabre jet, a stealth bomber. Plastic airplane models hung from strings tacked to the ceiling boards. When Cork returned to the others, he said, “Your grandson, he wants to fly?”
The woman made no reply, but her husband gave a diffident shrug.
“Where is he?”
“Out,” the Arapaho said. “Riding.”
“Where’s Nightwind?”
“I told you. We don’t know. He comes. He goes. He doesn’t have to tell me. He’s my boss, I’m not his.”
“Have you seen a woman with him? A white woman, blond?”
“No,” the man said.
His wife spoke to him in Arapaho. He hushed her harshly.
“What did she say?”
“That she’s afraid you’re going to kill us.”
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Cork said to her.
She eyed the Ruger in his hand, and he lowered it to his side, muzzle toward the floor.
“I just want to find my wife. If you know the truth and if you’re hiding Lame Nightwind, it could be bad for you. You could be charged with a crime.”
“What crime?” asked the Arapaho.
“Aiding and abetting a known criminal.”
“You know that Lame’s a criminal?”
“I do. At least five people are dead because of him.”
“We don’t know where he is, and that’s God’s truth. We don’t know when he’ll be back. And we don’t know anything about a blond white woman.”
Cork looked at the Arapaho’s wife, who looked at the floor. “All right,” he finally said. “Let’s get out of here, Hugh.”
They left the cabin and walked across the hills to where they’d parked the truck. Quinn was still bound to the grille.
“Didn’t hear any gunshots,” the deputy said. “Guess you didn’t find Nightwind.” He offered a cruel and satisfied smile.
“See if you can find something in his toolbox to cut that twine,” Cork told Parmer. To Quinn he said, “I’m thinking, Dewey, that you’re lucky to be with us at the moment. You’re one of the threads that tie these people to the bodies in that plane. Makes you a liability. With us, you face jail time. With them, it would be a more permanent, and probably painful, resolution.”
Parmer brought a pair of wire clippers from the toolbox and cut Quinn free from the truck.
Cork said, “Now let’s make sure Nightwind can’t fly out of here.”