“Where’d you hear about me?”
“Word gets around. You know how it is.”
A hesitation. “So you’re a journalist?”
“I’m a survivalist first, journalist second.” A cold gust of wind swirled the snow about Pendergast’s legs. “Mr. Swinton, do you think you might extend me the courtesy of your hospitality so that we could continue this conversation in the confines of your home?”
Swinton wavered. The word hospitality had not gone unnoticed. Pendergast pressed his advantage. “I wonder if keeping a man freezing in the cold at gunpoint is the kind of hospitality one should accord a kindred spirit.”
Swinton squinted at him. “At least you’re a white man,” he said, putting down the gun. “All right, come on in. But see that you broom yourself off at the door; I don’t want no snow tracked in my house.” He waited as Pendergast struggled through the deep snow to the porch. A broken broom stood next to the door and Pendergast swept himself as clean as he could while Swinton watched, frowning.
He followed Swinton in the cabin. It was surprisingly large, extending into a warren of rooms in the back. The gleam of gunmetal could be seen everywhere: racks of assault rifles, AK-47s and M16s illegally altered to fire on full-auto; a set of Uzis and TAR-21 bullpup assault rifles; another set of Chinese Norinco QBZ-97 rifles and carbines, again altered for fully automatic action. A nearby case contained a huge array of revolvers and pistols, just as the man in Leadville had said. Beyond, in one of the rooms, Pendergast glimpsed a collection of RPGs, including a pair of Russian RPG-29s — all quite illegal.
Other than the walls being completely covered with weaponry, the cabin was surprisingly cozy, with a fire burning in a woodstove with an open door. All the furniture was handmade of peeled logs and branches, draped with cowhides. And everything was neat as a pin.
“Shed that coat and seat yourself, I’ll get the coffee.”
Pendergast removed the coat and draped it over a chair, straightened his suit, and sat down. Swinton fetched some mugs and a coffeepot off the woodstove and poured two cups. Without asking he heaped in a tablespoon of Cremora and two of sugar before handing it to Pendergast.
The agent took the mug and made a show of drinking. It tasted as if it had been boiling on the stove for days.
He found Swinton looking at him curiously. “What’s with the black suit? Somebody die? You come up here by snowmobile in that getup?”
“It was functional.”
“You sure as hell don’t look like a survivalist to me.”
“What do I look like?”
“Some pussy professor from Jew York City. Or with that accent, maybe Jew Orleans. So what’re you packing?”
Pendergast removed his .45 Colt and laid it on the table. Swinton picked it up, immediately impressed. “Les Baer, huh? Nice. You know how to fire that?”
“I try,” said Pendergast. “This is quite a collection you have. Do you know how to fire all those weapons?”
Swinton took offense, as Pendergast knew he would. “You think I hang shit like that on my wall if I don’t know how to fire it?”
“Anyone can pull the trigger on a weapon,” Pendergast said, sipping his coffee.
“I fire almost every weapon I own at least once a week.”
Pendergast pointed to the handgun cabinet. “What about that Super Blackhawk?”
“That’s a fine weapon. Updated Old West.” He got up, took it down from the rack.
“May I see it?”
He handed it to Pendergast. He hefted it, sighted, then opened the barrel and dumped out the ammo.
“What you doing?”
Pendergast picked up one of the rounds, inserted it back in the barrel, gave it a spin, then laid the revolver down.
“You think you’re tough, right? Let’s play a little game.”
“What the hell? What game?”
“Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger. And I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”
Swinton stared at him. “Are you stupid or something? I can see the fucking round isn’t even in firing position.”
“Then you’ve just won a thousand dollars. If you pick the gun up and pull the trigger.”
Swinton picked the gun up, put it to his head, and pulled the trigger. There was a click. He laid it down.
Without a word, Pendergast reached into his suit-coat pocket, pulled out a brick of one-hundred-dollar bills, and peeled off ten of them. Swinton took the money. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“Yes, I am crazy.”
“Now it’s your own damn turn.” Swinton picked up the revolver, spun the barrel, laid it down.
“What will you give me?”
“I don’t got no money, and I ain’t giving you back the thousand.”
“Then perhaps you’ll answer a question instead. Any question I choose to ask. Absolute truth.”
Swinton shrugged. “Sure.”
Pendergast removed another thousand and put it on the table. Then he picked up the gun, placed it at his temple, and pulled the trigger. Another click.
“And now for the question.”
“Shoot.”
“Your great-great-grandfather was a miner in Roaring Fork during the silver boom days. He knew quite a bit about a series of killings, allegedly done by a man-eating grizzly bear, but in actuality done by a group of crazy miners.”
He paused. Swinton had risen from his chair. “You’re no damn magazine writer! Who are you?”
“I am the one who is asking you a question. Presuming that you’re a man of honor, I will receive an answer. If you wish to know who I really am, that must await the next round of the game. Provided, of course, you have the fortitude to continue.”
Swinton said nothing.
“Your ancestor knew more than most people about those killings. In fact, I think he knew the truth — the entire truth.” Pendergast paused. “My question is: What is the truth?”
Swinton shifted in his chair. The expression on his face went through several rapid changes. He exposed his ferrety teeth several times, his lips twitching. This went on for a while, then at last he cleared his throat. “Why do you want to know?”
“Private curiosity.”
“Who are you gonna tell?”
“Nobody.”
Swinton stared hungrily at the thousand dollars sitting on the table. “You swear to that? It’s been a secret in my family for a long, long time.”
Pendergast nodded.
Another pause. “It started with the Committee of Seven,” Swinton said at last. “My great-great-granddaddy, August Swinton, was one of them. At least, that’s what was passed down.” A tinge of pride edged into his voice. “As you said, those were no grizzly killings. They was done by four crazy bastards, former smelter workers, who were living wild in the mountains and had turned cannibal. A man named Shadrach Cropsey went up to track the bear and discovered it wasn’t a bear at all, but these fellers living in an abandoned mine. He figured out where they were holed up and then pulled together this Committee of Seven.”
“And then what happened?”
“That’s a second question.”
“So it is.” Pendergast smiled. “Time for another round?” He picked up the revolver, spun the cylinder, and laid it down.
Swinton shook his head. “I can still see the round, and it ain’t in the firing chamber. Another thousand bucks?”
Pendergast nodded.
Swinton picked up the gun and pulled the trigger again, put it down, held out his hand. “This is the dumbest damn game I ever saw.”
Pendergast handed him a thousand dollars. Then he picked up the gun, spun the barrel, and without looking at it put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Click.
“You really are one crazy motherfucker.”
“There appear to be a great many like me in this area,” Pendergast replied. “And now for my question: What did Shadrach Cropsey and this Committee of Seven do then?”