by C. J. Box
Coble's voice began to rise, and his face began to flush. "None of you know or appreciate how tough and raggedy-assed it used to be in this country. Hell, a hundred and forty years ago this was still a wilderness out here. Indians ran the show Even thirty-odd years ago when I started working for the state of Montana as a brand inspector, it was rough and it was real out here. There was bad weather and bad land and no water. If you looked over your shoulder the country was gaming on you and ready to wipe you out at any minute. The last thing anybody ever thought of was that they were ruining the earth. Hell, we all thought the earth was ruining us"
Coble gestured to Stewie: "You people want to stop us from doing everything we know You do it just so that if you ever want to travel out here from the East in your new car, you might be able to see a wolf out of the window. You're trying to make our home a real-life theme park for environmental whackos. You don't give a shit how many people lose their jobs or are displaced--just so you can see a goddamn wolf that hasn't lived here in over a hundred years."
Coble caught himself. He realized he was giving a speech, one that had been put together in bits and pieces in the pickup and rehearsed in silence as he and Tibbs drove across the country. Although he believed in what he said, he didn't have time for it. He stood and looked at Stewie Woods. Stewie stared back. The man was grotesque.
"But as Charlie and I began to do what we were hired to do, it didn't seem so damned noble to me anymore. In fact, I started feeling like the worst kind of criminal."
Coble paused and shook his head.
"Not Charlie, though," Coble said, grimacing. "Charlie enjoyed it more as we went along, and got more and more excited. He got righteous about it. We started getting sloppy, starting with your friend, Hayden Powell, that writer. There was no planning, no strategy, no nothing except Charlie and me turning into animals trying to kill somebody as fast and as nasty as we could. And we had no idea that our first project failed," he said, looking at Stewie, the first project.
"Charlie Tibbs really does think he's doing righteous work, you know," Coble said with caution. "Charlie's lost something in his head along the way Something's malfunctioned. His moral compass is gone, and that fact is very frightening, given Charlie's skills and abilities. Charlie's the best tracker and hunter I've ever seen, and I've seen one hell of a lot of'em. Charlie thinks he's doing this not just for the Stockman's Trust, but for America."
Britney Earthshare was horrified by what she had heard. She covered her mouth with her hand.
"You got paid for this." Stewie said. "You didn't do this entirely for your beliefs."
Coble nodded uncomfortably He didn't like talking about the money "I was going to get three-quarters of a million dollars," Coble said flatly "Two-hundred and fifty thousand was up front, the rest will be sitting in an escrow account for me once the list is cleared. Charlie is probably getting at least double that. We never discussed how much each of us was getting."
Stewie whistled.
"You've got to understand something," Coble said. "When I worked for the state of Montana I maxed out in salary at $30,500 per year. That was the highest annual salary I ever got. My state retirement is half of that a year. Charlie always made a lot more in his work as a stock detective, but I have no idea what that amounted to."
Stewie said he understood.
"It wasn't hard to recruit us," Coble said, challenging Stewie with an arched-brow glare. "But the difference between Charlie and me is that Charlie Tibbs would have done this for free. It's not a money thing with Charlie. It's never been a money thing, and they knew it when they hired him. I don't see him stopping even when he's sure he's got everybody on the list."
Stewie's unblinking eye had been boring into Coble as he spoke. "So the purpose," Stewie said, "was to eliminate each person on your list in the most humiliating way possible so they would avoid martyrdom, and only be remembered for the ridiculous way they died."
Coble stared back.
"You were pretty successful at that, John Coble," Stewie said.
"Yup," Coble agreed.
"But what is the Stockman's Trust?"
Coble was about to answer but stopped himself and rubbed his eyes. He was absolutely exhausted, completely spent.
"Who is in charge? Who are your employers?"
One of Coble's old hands weakly waved Stewie away The other hand continued to rub his eyes.
"I've stayed too long and talked too much," Coble said, grunting and pulling himself to his feet. "You two best get out of here. I need some air."
John Coble opened the door and leaned against the inside of the door frame.
***
JOE TRIED TO STAY in the trees, avoiding the grassy open meadows, as he rode hard up the mountain. Lizzie was tiring, her easy lope giving way to lunges, and she was throwing her head in annoyance. Her hooves launched chunks of wet black earth into the air behind them.
He tried to anticipate and play out the scenarios that might occur when he reached the cabin. Should he ask them to come out with their hands up or yell for them to get down on the floor? Should he tell them about his suspicions in regard to the man in the alcove? A stream of sweat trickled down the back of his neck from his hatband.
Sensing that Lizzie was just about to give out, Joe reined her to a stop in the shade of a tree. While she rested, her nostrils billowing, Joe raised his binoculars and looked across the valley to the opposite mountain. He swept the binoculars over the mountain parks and granite spires, looking for the black Ford truck. A glimpse of movement in a meadow startled him, but when he looked back he saw it was only a cow moose grazing at the edge of a treeline.
Then he saw a flash of glass. Fumbling, he dialed the focus in tighter and tried to concentrate his view while Lizzie heaved, breathing hard, and his own heart whumped against the inside of his sternum. He found it. The glint was from something in the rear of the black Ford
truck.
Joe reached out to grab a branch to steady himself and raised himself up in his stirrups so that he could see better. He took a sharp intake of breath. The man in the Stetson was in the back of the Ford, leaning over a long rifle mounted in the bed of the pickup. The glint was from the telescopic site. Joe imagined a line of fire from the black Ford to the cabin, which must be just above him through the trees.
Joe heard the bullet before he heard the shot; a sound like fabric ripping that suddenly ended in a hollow and sickening pock sound.
***
In the doorway of the cabin, John Coble flipped backward through the air and landed heavily on the table where Stewie Woods sat. Britney screamed and backpedaled until the wall stopped her. Her T-shirt and face were spattered with blood and bits of bone and tissue.
Stewie kicked back his chair and scrambled to his feet, looking down at Coble. The top half of Coble's head was gone. Outside, a heavy rifle shot rolled across the valley, sounding like
thunder.
***
crouching forward in the saddle like a jockey Joe spurred Lizzie out of the trees and into the open meadow that rose up the mountain to culminate at the shadowed front of a dark cabin. The boom
of the shot swept through the timber.
"Get down!" he shouted at the cabin, not knowing how many people were inside. "Get down on the floor!"
And suddenly Joe felt an impact like an ax burying itself into soft wood. Lizzie stumbled, her front legs collapsing as her rear haunches arced into the air, her head ducking as she pitched forward, throwing Joe. He hit the ground hard, crumpling against the foot of the steps to the porch of the cabin, his chest and chin taking the brunt of the fall. Lizzie completed her thousand-pound somersault and landed so hard, just a foot short of Joe, that he felt the ground shudder.
Britney was still shrieking inside but she had screamed herself hoarse and was practically soundless when the doorframe filled with Joe Pickett. The fall had knocked the wind out of him and he leaned into the cabin with his hands on his knees, fighting for breath. The
rope he had looped around the saddle horn was tangled around one foot.
Stewie lurched around the table where Coble lay twitching and helped Joe inside, leading him from the open door, as a fist-sized hole blew through the front window and shattered all of the glass.
"Get down!" Joe barked, as he dropped to his hands and knees, pulling Stewie with him.
Methodically bullets hit the front of the cabin blowing holes through the walls that looked alternately like stars, hearts, and sunbursts --followed by the rolling thunder sound of the heavy rifle fire.
"You must be Stewie Woods, "Joe said, looking over to the man who had helped him inside the cabin.
"And you aren't Mary Harris," Stewie said.
"I'm her husband," Joe said, glaring at Stewie's disfigured face. Now was not the time to punch him in the nose, Joe thought. "Her name's Marybeth Pickett."
Stewie wheezed. "You're a game warden."
"Right."
"Do you know how many there are out there shooting at us?" Stewie asked with remarkable calmness.
"One older man in a black Ford pickup. He's got a hell of a rifle and he knows what he's doing."
"Look what he did to John Coble," Stewie gestured to the table above them. For the first time, Joe noticed the two boots that hung suspended from the edge of the table and a single still arm that dropped over the side. A stream of dark blood as thick as chocolate syrup strung from the table to a growing pool on the floor.
"Is he-"
"He's dead," Stewie said. Britney Earthshare had now crawled over to join them on the floor. Her face was a mask of revulsion and frozen shock. Joe sympathized. He couldn't yet grasp the magnitude and danger of the situation he was in.
"Do you have any weapons in the cabin?" Joe asked them both.
"No, but Coble has a pistol with him," said Stewie.
"Get it," Joe commanded. "Can you shoot a gun?"
"Of course," Stewie said. "I'm from Wyoming."
Stewie rolled toward the table and began to rise up. As he did, the kitchen window imploded with the force of another bullet and threw shards of glass skittering across the floor. Stewie dropped to a
sprawl, his attitude accusatory toward Joe.
"Forget that!" Stewie yelled.
"What about you, Britney?" Joe asked. She was closer to Coble.
"I will not touch a gun."
Joe cursed. They were useless.
Joe's mind raced as he lay there, his cheek pressed to the rough wood. Stewie was a few feet away and despite the immediacy and danger of the situation, he couldn't help staring. Stewie, Joe thought, was hideous. Seen in the dusty rods of light from the bullet holes in the walls, Stewie's face looked as if it were made of wet papier-mache that had been raked from top to bottom with a gardening claw and allowed to dry. His mouth was misshapen and exaggerated, capable of making a perfect inverted U when Stewie was angry like he was now. His mouth looked like a child's drawing of a sad face.
Under Stewie's rough, loose clothes, it was obvious that he had been bigger but had recently lost most of his muscle tone. Skin sagged on big bones. His left arm was limp and thin. Stewie's fingernails and toenails needed trimming, and a beard, once full and red, was now pink and wispy The hair on his head grew in patches, like putting greens on a desert golf course.
Joe, however, pulled his attention away from Stewie as he realized that the gunshots had suddenly stopped. Joe guessed that the shooter was reloading. He reached down to make sure his .357 was still in his holster and was relieved to find it was. Unfortunately Joe was a notoriously bad shot, and he knew that it would be close to impossible for him to hit the shooter at this distance,
The shots resumed, but inside the cabin nothing happened. The shooter had shifted targets. Joe heard a faraway shattering of glass, and a metallic clang from the impact of a bullet.
"He found my truck," Joe spat.
He remembered that his shotgun was in the saddle scabbard. On his knees and elbows he scrambled toward the open door.
"Where are you going?" Britney asked hysterically "Are you leaving us?"
"Try to calm down, Britney" Stewie implored.
Joe crawled to the side of the doorframe and cautiously leaned forward. His face and head felt stunningly exposed when he peered outside. He wondered if he would hear the bullet before it hit him.
Joe was practically useless as well. The shooter was over 1,500 yards away on the other mountain. Joe's .357 Magnum was not capable of even half of that range. The fat, heavy bullets he fired would fall short at about the distance of the road. Lizzie wasn't where she had fallen, but Joe spotted her further down the meadow. She stood in a pool of shadow just inside the treeline. His saddle had come loose and hung upside down beneath her belly She took a step, faltered, and stopped. She stood stiffly He could see that the bullet had shattered her right rear leg. Her leg, from her hock down, hung like a broken branch.
Suddenly, there was a puff of dust and hair from her shoulder and the horse jerked and buckled into the summer grass as the reverberating sound of shot rolled across the valley
That son of a bitch, Joe thought. That son of a bitch killed Lizzie!
Joe suddenly scuttled back as another .308 bullet blew a football sized chunk out of the doorframe Directly above where his head had been.
"Jesus Christ!" Stewie bellowed.
Joe knew his face was white and contorted with fear--he could feel his own skin pulling across his skull--when he joined Stewie and Britney Earthshare under the table. His voice choked as he asked them if there was another way out of the cabin.
Stewie said there was a side door but that Charlie Tibbs could probably
see them if they went out that way
"There's a window in the bedroom," Britney said, her teeth chattering as if the temperature were subzero.
They crawled across the floor of the cabin toward the bedroom over shards of glass, splinters of wood, and congealing globules of blood and tissue. A bullet tore through the wall a foot above floor level and smashed into the base of the stove where Britney had huddled just a few minutes ago. Joe felt the cabin shudder with the impact.
In the bedroom, Joe ripped the curtains and rod off of the only window
and shoved it open. It faced the back of the cabin, away from where
Charlie Tibbs was positioned on the mountain.
Britney was trembling beneath her T-shirt as Joe helped her out the window There was a five-foot drop, and she landed awkwardly but recovered. Stewie sat on the sill and grunted, trying to fit his broad shoulders through the frame.
"I'm stuck, dammit," he complained.
With the heel of his hand, Joe thumped Stewie's left shoulder, forcing him through. Stewie dropped to the ground and landed gracefully.
A sound like a cymbal crashed in the maim room as a bullet tore through the wall and hit a cast-iron skillet hanging above the stove.
Joe dropped through the window and his boots stuck fast to the soft earth covered with pine needles.
"Which way?" Britney asked.
"North." Joe pointed into the timber. "Keep the cabin between us and the shooter. Stay in the trees and don't look back until we're over the top of the mountain."
"I was really looking forward to seeing Mary," Stewie said. "What a shitty day this has turned out to be."
Joe wheeled and hit Stewie square in the nose. Stewie lost his footing and sat down.
Stewie reached up and covered his nose with his hand, then looked at the smear of blood in his palm. He glared at Joe with his one good eye.
"Enough about my wife." Joe commanded, shaking his hand that stung from the blow
Britney ran to Stewie and helped him to his feet. Stewie rose with a twisted, manic grin that looked almost cartoonish.
"The man who is shooting at us," Joe asked, "do you know who he is?"
Stewie nodded, still rubbing his nose. "His name is Charlie Tibbs."
"Charlie Tibbs?" Joe repeated. "Oh, shit." Joe had heard of Tibbs. He
hadn't realized the legendary stock detective was still working.
"Okay," Stewie said, shaking his head with bemused disbelief. "Let's resume fleeing now"
***
THEY CLIMBED through the thick trees in back of the cabin, Joe grimly went over what had just happened, wishing he could call it all back, wishing he could start over from the time he saw the man he now knew as Charlie Tibbs.
Wishing he knew then what he knew now, Joe thought how easy it would have been to pump his shotgun and level Charlie Tibbs with a cloud of buckshot as the man stood in the alcove by the hidden Mercedes. If he had done that, Joe thought, John Coble would still be alive, Joe would still have his horse and his dignity and he would not be deep in the timber, running north, with Stewie Woods and Britney Earthshare, into mountain country so rough and wild that no one had ever bothered to cut a road into it.
Behind him he heard another heavy bullet slam into the cabin, followed by another booming roll of a rifle shot.
27
AFTER entering the HOUSE and kissing Sheridan, Marybeth asked if Joe had called. Sheridan, still lounging on her pillows in front of the TV answered that he hadn't.
Marybeth dropped the Tom Horn book on the kitchen table and launched herself into scrubbing the counters and washing the dishes. It was a way of fighting off the sense of dread she had been feeling since the telephone calls and the incident with Ginger Finotta in the library. It was barely four in the afternoon and Joe had said he would be back by dark or call first. It was still early and she had no good reason to feel such anxiousness.
Reading the book hadn't helped. Although it meandered through Tom Horn's Indian fighting days--he was one of those hired to pursue Geronimo--and his service with the U.S. Army in Cuba, what interested her were the chapters at the end of the book. Those chapters covered the period when Tom Horn was hired by Wyoming ranchers to clear out rustlers and homesteaders in southern Wyoming. The ranchers were a gentlemanly genteel group. Many had nothing to do with day-to-day ranch work, which they hired out to their foremen, and they spent their days in the men's clubs wearing fashionable clothing and their nights in a cluster of beautiful Victorian homes in Cheyenne. Some had visited their vast holdings up north only for occasional hunting trips.
