John felt genuine admiration for the man. He was a consummate actor in many ways, but then again, most good leaders were, knowing how to play their audience. Now, with just the two of them, he realized Burnett could easily slip into an academic discussion on the literature of war.
There was an awkward moment of silence between the two, finally broken with Burnett leaning over the side of the Polaris to spit and mutter an obscenity. “Look, John, for now, you agree not to come over the mountain, and we’ll try to do the same.”
“Try?”
“You saw my group. I can only order them so far.”
“You know if any of my people get hurt, we’ll come after those who did it.”
“To the top of the mountains, no farther.”
“That’s a bit one sided, Forrest.”
“That or nothing. I’ll at least try to restrain things a bit along this front. Over toward Tennessee, there’s a lot of easier pickings there anyhow for right now—better crop and grazing lands than what you got.”
John hesitated. He knew he wasn’t going to get any further than where they were. Of course, he most certainly did not want to get shot now, so close to freedom, an act that would trigger a deadly firefight between the two sides, but he did not want to just sell out.
“I’ll agree to this. You try to hold your people back, and I’d suggest that you break camp and move north. Do so, and you got no concerns from us.”
“Fully intended to anyhow once back in case you decided to try to screw me over and launch an attack tonight, but I warn you, none of you will get over the mountain. We know it better than you do and will be watching.”
John nodded. “Understood, but I’d suggest moving anyhow for now. Gives me a bit of leverage. You can look down our throats at any time from up at Craggy Pass.”
That fact had always made John uncomfortable. From the top of Craggy Pass along the old Blue Ridge Parkway, anyone posted there with a good spotter scope could look straight down into Black Mountain.
Within a few more days, he was going to have airpower, as well, a classified project that apparently Burnett did not know about. The wreckage of the old L-3, piloted by his friend Don Barber, who had been killed in the fight for the pass, had been ever so slowly reconstructed. There were enough pilots still alive in the community itching to get back up, and with the plane, he could again monitor things out in every direction for seventy-five miles or more, including the reivers’ territory and their perch atop Craggy Pass.
“I can recall from drives up along Craggy years ago that you can see the town hall.”
“One of the reasons we like having a watch station up there,” Burnett replied. “And if you are asking me to give it up, the answer is no.”
He knew Burnett was not going to concede giving up a vantage point like Craggy and other points along the old Blue Ridge Parkway that allowed him to watch any movement in a fifty-mile radius. Perhaps it could be turned to an advantage and help avoid future problems.
“Let’s do this,” John offered. “If I feel there’s a problem between us, I’ll run up a signal on the big flagpole at the old car dealership. Three American flags, one atop the other.”
“And?”
“I’m trying to set something up between us to avoid future hassles. I’ll use that as a signal that I want to talk. You fly some sort of flag in return up at Craggy when ready to meet, and we meet here. If you feel we need to talk, send a messenger down to my watch post at the end of the reservoir here. We both work to keep our people back from each other. You keep that nutcase George away, and I’ll make sure the Stepps aren’t running amok.”
“Why talk?”
“We’re doing it now, aren’t we? It’s better than continuing to kill each other.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Forrest, differences are going to come up. We’re trying to step back from what eventually was going to be a full-scale blowout. We both have people who’d want that. So we set up a means of talking at times to smooth things over. Better than continuing to kill each other, isn’t it?”
Burnett took it in and finally nodded.
“Okay, John, deal. Now get the hell out of here. I think your people and mine are getting itchy, and I don’t want any mistakes.”
John got out of the Polaris feeling a bit light-headed, but then he steadied himself.
“I wouldn’t mind getting my vest and .45 back. The gun belonged to my dad, who carried it in Nam.”
“Kiss my ass,” Burnett replied with a wry smile. “Spoils of war.”
John shrugged and started to turn.
“Matherson.”
He looked back, and Burnett was extending his hand. At first, John thought he wanted to shake, and he reached out. Burnett put a cigarette into his hand and laughed.
“You’ll trade big time for these if I get you hooked again. I got cartons of ’em.” Laughing, he called for the driver to get back in and start to back up.
“You are one lucky son of a bitch, Matherson.” It wasn’t Burnett; it was George casually pointing a rifle in his direction. “I should have put my second round right into your face.”
John knew better than to reply. He just started the long walk of several hundred yards along the lakeshore, and as he drew closer to his own side, there was an immense sigh of relief. He could see Maury in the passenger seat of the lead Jeep, left arm in a sling. There was no reason now for a vendetta. Burnett must have known his friend was alive all along.
He slowed and started to turn to look back and actually offer a salute, a symbolic gesture in front of both sides that issues above and beyond his mere release in exchange for some bags of salt had just transpired.
It was a sudden move that saved his life. At the same instant, he felt the frightful crack of a bullet snapping past his face just a few inches away. He dived for the gravel pavement.
More shots.
Burnett was standing in the back of his vehicle, .45 drawn, and for a split second, John thought the man had betrayed him, after all.
Then he saw the pistol recoil again, but it was aimed downward at George, sprawled out on the pavement, George’s body twitching as Burnett put a full clip into the man.
John sprang to his feet, waving to those who were waiting for him. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m all right!”
For a terrifying few seconds, he thought the situation was about to spin out of control. Someone from his side actually did empty out half a dozen rounds, causing Burnett to duck, a sickening thought that the man was hit and a full-scale war had just started. Burnett, though, was suddenly back on his feet, facing backward, shouting the same as John did for his side to hold fire.
Before anything more erupted, John forced himself to jog down the road, waving his arms, shouting for his people to hold their fire. He caught a glimpse of movement in the woods to either flank, his own reaction team. Back in my territory, he thought. It was strange, this realization, as if he were a medieval baron captured by a rival, negotiated over with an uneasy peace coming out of the encounter.
He reached the Jeep, head swimming, gasping for breath. Ed was driving the Jeep. Maury was in the backseat, his left arm in a sling but with the M1 carbine raised in his right hand.
“Get the hell out of here!” John shouted as Ed pulled him in, threw the Jeep into reverse, and floored it back down the road until they were finally around the bend.
A score of vehicles were parked up along the road, concealed from view. His troops, actually a hundred or more, were carefully filtering back and beginning to mount up. He stepped out, wanting to shake their hands, but then arms were around him. It was Makala and Elizabeth, both of them sobbing with relief.