A flustered Johnson backed away, said, “Sorry, there, just interested in the RV.”
“Yeah. For the love of God, don’t go peeking into our windows.”
And she slammed the door.
Virgil said to Drake, “Sorry about that; Johnson really does like the RV.”
“Cheryl gets a little spooky,” Drake explained, casting a what’re-ya-gonna-do smile at Virgil. “She’ll cool off. No worries.”
Virgil nodded, not thinking the woman was going to calm down any time soon. Spooky? More like going ape shit. She was mad. “Thanks for your time, we’ll be on our way.” He motioned to Johnson and they headed to the Escalade.
As Johnson drove Virgil twisted so he could see Katy in the backseat. “Listen, even if the local deputy isn’t any good, you’ve got to report the theft. If they can show this Phillip kid took the money, and he’s not eighteen yet, his old man might be held responsible by a court, and you’d get the money back. Some of it, anyway. Or if your father has homeowners’ insurance.”
“That could take forever,” she said, lower lip extending, looking miserable. Lost in her thoughts she drew on the condensation on the Escalade’s window, and Virgil decided to give her some space as the Escalade bounced down the rutted road to the dude ranch.
They dropped off Katy, then headed into Grizzly Falls, the local town, where Virgil bought a copy of every newspaper the convenience store had, and Johnson bought some tourist crap that he planned to give to his girlfriend. The town was tiered, a newer section built on the crest of a hill, homes and businesses running along the ridge, the older part of town in the lower section spread out on the shores of the river where falls fell across shelves of flat rocks.
They stopped at a restaurant called Wild Wills where a stuffed grizzly bear stood on display in the lobby. Not only did the thing seem to be on guard near the front desk, it was dressed in a witch’s costume, black hat tilted jauntily on its head, the brim dipping below a glass eye, black cape tossed over its huge shoulders, a broom tucked under one forearm. A black pot with steam rising from inside sat beside the thing’s huge feet.
“What the hell is that?” Johnson asked, recoiling as he stared at the bear’s shining claws and teeth gleaming, frozen in a perpetual scowl.
“The official greeter,” Virgil guessed.
“Man, this is one weird fuckin’ town. All those statues of Big Foot lining the street and now this.” It was true, they must’ve passed half a dozen statues of Sasquatches on their way into town, including a ten-foot-tall wooden image in the parking lot of the convenience store where Johnson had bought the touristy crap.
They ordered cheeseburgers and fries and ate them in silence.
On the way back to the dude ranch, Virgil said, “You’ve gone kinda quiet. What’s with that?”
“I dunno,” Johnson said. “Thinking things over, I guess.”
“That doesn’t sound like Johnson Johnson. Thinking things over.”
On the way back, the Rosestone RV passed them, going in the opposite direction.
They didn’t wave.
At the ranch, Johnson said he was going to take a walk.
“In the rain?”
“I can’t tell it’s raining; this is a seven-hundred-dollar rain suit,” Johnson said.
“Still thinking things over?”
“Yep.”
Johnson rubbed the back of his neck and looked across the golf course where two men in Gore-Tex were chipping near a soggy green.
The door to the owners’ cabin burst open and Katy, carrying a waterproof bag, leaped across the porch to dash through the drizzle. Ignoring the rain, she grinned widely. “You guys won’t believe what happened.”
“From the way you’re smiling, I’d say you found your money,” Virgil said.
“Nope.” She was shaking her head. “Phillip’s dad came down here.”
That didn’t sound like good news.
She went on, “He said Phillip called from the bus station and said he was going to Minneapolis and wasn’t coming back. He told his dad he’d taken the money for a bus ticket but felt bad about it. And then Bart Weeks told my dad he didn’t want any trouble, and he wanted to pay it back.” Her grin widened and she blinked against the rain, oblivious to the fact that she was getting wet. “So he did, every penny of it. In cash.”
Virgil said, “That’s a little hard to believe.”
Johnson spread his arms and said, “Hard to believe, but we’ll take it. We’re gold.”
Katy said, “Yes, we are. I want to thank you guys for what you did. Thank you so much.”
Then she looked directly at Johnson.
“I’m sorry I said you look like a crook.”
THE NEXT DAY WAS COOL, the sky still tinged with darkness, the remaining clouds occasionally spitting some drizzle, but they could see stars far to the west, the cloud cover breaking up as night surrendered to dawn. Virgil and Johnson got their gear together and pulled on rain jackets, then took the insulated bag from Ann Waller who had made sandwiches and filled a thermos with coffee for them.
“An extra thanks for helping with Katy,” she explained. “It’s a big deal to her. To us.”
They were on their way to the Escalade for the trip to the river when Dan Cain stepped out on the porch of his cabin with a cup of coffee in his hand and called after them, “Good luck. Leave a couple fish for us.”
Johnson stopped, turned, and asked, “You coming?”
Cain shook his head. “Not yet. That fuckin’ Lang had one too many last night. He’s just getting up now. We’ll be a half hour behind you.”
The river was shallow and quick, with occasional pools, and it was gorgeous, with the stone-cut bank on the far side looking like a piece of petrified wood rising a hundred feet above them, the dawn coming, sunlight glinting on water. As dawn gave way to daylight Virgil spent almost as much time looking at the landscape as he did fishing, and the fishing was decent. A little after eight o’clock they stopped to sit on a rock and eat the egg-salad sandwiches that Ann Waller had made them for breakfast, when they heard a pop from upstream.
The report of a rifle echoed over the water.
They both stared downriver and waited.
No second shot.
Nothing to disturb the silence but the lapping of the water and the cry of a blackbird, its red wing visible in the brush on the shore.
“That was a rifle, a center fire,” Johnson said with a frown. “What the hell was he shootin’ at?”
Virgil didn’t know, and he had no idea what was in season for a hunter here in Montana. “If that was target shooting, the shooter was easily satisfied.”
“I don’t like the idea of people shooting around in heavy brush when there are lots of folks out on the river, fishing,” Johnson said. “It gives me an itchy feeling between my shoulder blades. Like we oughta be wearing our blaze orange.”
They finished their sandwiches as the sun rose over the eastern horizon, then climbed back into the boat and went down the river. Fishing. Catching nothing for half an hour.
And then a man started screaming.
“Virgil Flowers. Where the hell are you?”
The voice sounded frantic, scared as hell.
They both looked back upstream, trying to pinpoint its location.
They’d just pulled their boat to the side of the river and were heading toward the sound of the shouting, when Jim Waller, driving a John Deere Gator on what was little more than two ruts in the brush, found them. His face was grim, his lips compressed.
He didn’t bother climbing off the idling utility vehicle but shouted, “Dan Cain’s been shot. He’s dead. For the love of Christ, some dumb ass shot him in the back.”