by Rick Boyer
"That's him now," said Roantis, squinting at the clear sky through his binoculars.
A tiny white plane droned closer. As it neared the tower, it rolled over and flew upside down. Then it rolled over twice more and banked into a tight turn. I recognized the Mooney by the tail; it still looked like it had been put on backward. Kaunitz was up there doing "reconnaissance." Mainly, though, he was just strutting his stuff`. He was to land the plane at a small field in Robbinsville, and we were to pick him up.
Then I heard a squeak, and the door to the tower cabin swung open. Trooper James Hunnicutt and Sheriff Roger Penland came out and joined us at the rail. Hunnicutt sighed, leaned over the rail, and spat a stream of brown juice from his plug. It took a long time to fall.
"Now jest don't forget, fellers. You are not the law. We are the law. You uncover anything on your own, we want to hear about it. Don't y'all go messin' where you shouldn't be messin'. Now Mr. Roantis, Lieutenant Brindelli tells me you've had quite a background in the rough stuff, including a lot of time in the bush over in VYETnam. Just remember, you're in the U S of A now."
"I won't forget," said Roantis with tight lips.
The discussion with the Robbinsville law earlier in the day had not only been "in depth" but intense. Joe and Mary had come with us, which no doubt had made all the difference. The mountain men seemed to mistrust and fear Summers, since, as a rule, black people aren't seen west of Asheville. His fullback size and facial glower didn't help, either. Gradually, however, as the talk progressed, they seemed to grow more at ease with his presence. They liked Tommy Desmond immediately, as anyone would.
And it was soon clear that they almost worshiped Fred Kaunitz. With his soft Texas drawl, huge physique, and legendary marksmanship, he epitomized the mountain man of old. They took to Fred in a hurry. And so the deal was struck: we were free to roam about in the woods, like any citizen. Yes, they admitted reluctantly, we could carry firearms, like any nonfelon, provided we did it within the law. They couldn't stop us.
"But I better not hear about any shootouts, trespassing, or terrorizing," warned Sheriff Penland, "because let me tell you, nevermine you guys been in VYETnam, you rile these folks out here, you in a heap of shit."
I assured him we understood perfectly.
"And also," continued Hunnicutt, "Mr. Brindelli let it slide that you, Mr. Roantis, have been in a few scrapes with the law yourself up north. Fact is, you been on probation several times."
Roantis said nothing; he continued to sweep the vast wilderness beneath him with crinkly eyes and a tight mouth. It was as if he wasn't even listening to the lawmen and couldn't wait for them to leave. When Penland and Hunnicutt finished their lecture and we could hear their feet clattering down the long wooden staircase, Roantis took out the maps and his binoculars. We moved inside the tower and spread the maps out on the ranger table mosaic fashion, so that each section interfaced with its neighbors. From our vantage point, and with the help of Jack Gentry, the ranger, it was amazingly easy to match up the peaks and land forms on the map with the actual ones outside the windows. Our binoculars and the ranger's transit sight made the job easy, and we spent two hours examining the terrain and the maps. Ranger Gentry gladly explained the gorges, coves, and peaks to us, for he had been in almost all parts of Graham County at one time or another. Roantis pointed to a symbol on the map, a crossed pick and shovel.
"This mean what I think it does?" he asked Gentry.
"Mine. Gems though, not coal. Mostly sapphires and rubies. Some gold. Most of 'em are abandoned now. See, lookit all of 'em here —"
"Anything else we should know about?"
"Watch the laurel hells. They'll kill you."
He explained that the mountain laurel, which is really a rhododendron, could grow in vast jungles, with plants so tall and thick that they were impenetrable. To get lost and entangled in a laurel hell was serious indeed.
"And also watch out for cliffs, sinkholes, quicksand, pison ivy, oak, and sumac, copperheads, mountain rattlers, bears, wild boar, river currents, hornet's nests, wild dawgs, pison berries, cold snaps, and —"
"Yeah, okay," growled Roantis, "I seen all those. Listen, if you were on the run and wanted to stay hidden, where out there would you go so nobody could find you?"
"Hell mister, anywhere out there would do."
Roantis returned his steely gaze to the vast mountain wilderness that lay spread out below us.
"Yeah." He sighed. "I think you're right."
"Course, like the other fellers said, maybe they took off to Tennessee."
"No," said Roantis, shaking his head slowly, "Bill Royce was born and raised in these mountains. He knows them and feels safe here. He's somewhere out there, gone to earth. I know it."
We trudged down the stairs, got into the camper, and drove back to Robbinsville. On the way, I remembered making love with Mary and kissing her good-bye before I slipped out of the motel bed at six-thirty. She had been sweet, but as I put on the brush pants and shirt and hefted my bulky pack, she started to cry and call me names. She'd said I had four days. That was it. If I wasn't back then, whole and in reasonably good health, she was going to do the following: (1) put a contract out on Roantis, or kill him herself; (2) forget I ever lived; (3) go back to Concord and sell the house; (4) move to Phoenix or Vegas and start over with a man who was sensible and rich.
I was running through this itinerary as the truck swung into Robbinsville. We went to the tiny airfield, where Kaunitz had already tied down the plane. We all thought it might come in handy. He jumped in, and we headed on. Okay, four days. That was all the time I was going to give it. We went through town and headed toward the old logging road near Hanging Dog Creek. It was far enough from the Royce residence and farm so they wouldn't be watching it. Roantis was all business, grim-faced and quiet. In the three days I had been with him, I noticed that he had not taken a drink. He smoked less, and only tobacco. He was noticeably thinner, his leanness showing the muscles and blood vessels under the skin. His eyes had grown brighter, his whole being more alert, as each hour passed. Roantis was back in his element; he didn't need booze or drugs. He was on a constant high: he was going hunting.
He spread the maps out on the table again to show us the lines he had drawn on them. He lighted a fresh Camel and outlined the rough plan.
"I'm going on a hunch, based on what Doc's told me so far, that they're within this radius. So we'll confine the tracking to this area. We'll split into three teams at first to try and pick up their trail. This way, we cover a lot of ground at the start. When we find it or make contact, we'll regroup and go in together. Mike, you and Tommy will take this ridge and cove here, to the south, along Sweetwater Creek. Freddie, you take Doc and go up the li'l road Doc found that Royce drove his truck up. Beech Creek will be just north of you. I'll go alone, working fast along the north ridge and this creek, here. We'll have two camps. One will be this rig, the base camp. I think we should leave the rig here in this cove. It's practically deserted and it's on public land in the national forest, so the law can't say we're trespassing. Does this sound okay? Remember, I'm not the CO this time; you guys speak up if you want to change anything."
They all nodded. I guess I did too, but I was a little uneasy. I especially did not relish the idea of being alone in the bush with Kaunitz.
"Liatis, what if a team gets lost?" I asked.
"Nobody will get lost. You and Tommy are each with an experienced man. That's how I split up the teams. Now, we've only got two field radios. Both belong to Freddie. There's one in his plane too. And it's powerful. I thought we might stick Freddie up there in the air later on if we don't make contact. But we know from Nam that it's impossible to see much from the air, 'specially a li'l group like the one we're after, right Freddie? Now I say you two teams take the radios. When we decide where we think they are, we'll set up a forward camp nearer the action. I'm sure it'll be in a place where the camper couldn't go anyway, like up on a cliff with a good view."
He paused to look at his new plastic digital watch. We'd bought them the previous day, all the same model, and had synchronized them to the second. They also had light-up dials
that Roantis said could be used for close-range signaling in the dark.
"Now, it's almost two. I say we try the teams out for a short hitch today. We'll be going out in midday, which is bad, so we'll have to move slow and keep to high ground. You can bet Royce has his back trail covered. We'll go light. Your prime weapon and ninety rounds. One back-up sidearm. One canteen: we can fill them almost anywhere. Thank God for that! Remember Nam? Each of us has a pair of good glasses. We've got freeze-dried chow . . . That's it. Let's do it."
He sat down on his ancient army duffel just outside the camper's door and began feeding his Streetcleaner. Poor li'l baby was hungry. He had taken out the old Remington Wingmaster scattergun from its hiding place in the rust-resistant paper and laid it across his knees. It was about as attractive as Lubyanka Prison. With its shortened barrel, extended magazine, worn bluing, and battered stock wound with electrician's tape, it wasn't exactly a dove gun. He opened a box of double-O buck-shot and began feeding the red plastic cartridges with "high brass" bases into the pump gun's belly.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," I said.
"Why not?"
"I mean, do we need the artillery? I don't think I want a rifle, Liatis. I couldn't shoot anyone."
"Oh yes you could. You did two months ago. Remember?"
"But that was in defense. To protect you."
"That's all I'm talking about. Take it in case, Doc."
I edged close to him and spoke in a low voice.
"I don't want to go with Kaunitz."
"Why not?"
"Because there's a chance he's in this thing with Royce and Jusuelo, that's why. Because there's more than a middling chance that he's the one who shot you. And therefore I have shot him. Notice the limp? He still has it. And how about his prime weapon? You get a look at it?"
"Yep. FAL assault rifle. So? I told you, Doc, all the old-timers carry those. Best damn rifle ever made."
"Is that all you're going to say?"
"What else you want to hear? Listen, you're nervous about going out. But don't worry. If things get hot, you won't be anywhere around. I guarantee it. All we're going to do for the
next coupla days is look and hope to find. No fighting."
"You don't think there's even a chance Kaunitz is involved with them?"
"Naw. No more than any of the others. Suppose he did shoot me? Would he parade around here with the gun he used? Nah."
"Then how come he came so willingly? You didn't offer to pay him, I hope. So he gives up a week to come help you. For what?"
"For what? For the rush, Doc. For the rush. Look over there. What do you see?"
"I see three middle-aged lunatics playing with guns."
"Ha. You see three guys who are bored with civilian life. Guys who don't fit into suburbia, corporate allegiance, buying on time, and retirement planning. Guys who can't do a nine-to-five job and who probably don't even belong in this century. And you know what? You're one of them too."
"Oh bullshit."
"Oh yes you are, Doc. You just don't know it yet. You wait."
He stood up, checked his sidearm, and walked over to the other three. Kaunitz had a radio strapped to his back and the FAL slung on his shoulder. He wore jungle boots with cleated Vibram soles and a loose-fitting bush outfit of dark brown canvas. On his head was a wide, floppy bush hat. We all wore rough variations on this same outfit. I had my Browning on my belt, which I hoped I would never need. Roantis pressed a rifle on me, a civilian-version Colt with two spare magazines. I didn't take it eagerly, but if somebody started shooting at us, I wanted more protection than a pistol. Roantis, still not totally recovered from his wound, carried only the shotgun and a canteen. The last thing he donned was a reed crow call, which he wore around his neck. Kaunitz had given it to him. He gave another one to Summers and kept one for himself. We stood around the camper and ate candy bars and drank coffee. Roantis smoked a cigarette, and I took a hit of snuff and passed the can around. It was popular. We had parked the rig two miles up the old logging road, which hadn't been used in years. Our base camp was secluded and hidden.
"Okay, you Ducks," growled Summers, "let's get ourselves in a line and strut on outa here."
He swung off down the overgrown road. The field radio rode high on the center of his wide back, and when he was two hundred yards ahead of the rest of us, he and Kaunitz tested both of them. We followed him down the winding road, cutting through a stand of pine trees that were a hundred feet tall and straight as organ pipes. We walked in silence, not saying a word. It was a habit the Ducks had, and a good one. Birds sang, and the sun-dappled shade swept over us in a pleasant fashion, with the shadows leaping up and down our clothes as we passed beneath the boughs. The air was cool and dry, and I felt as if I could walk a million miles.
This initial euphoria wore off soon, however, and then it disappeared with a vengeance, you might say. By the time Roantis peeled off on his own at Frank's Creek, my legs were singing the blues. Now I run about thirty miles a week, but it's on level land. Mountain walking with a load on your back will take the tar out of you in a hurry. Still, Roantis showed no pain or strain, despite his recent convalescence. He didn't seem to pant or puff either, even though he smokes like a chimney. He simply waved at us, wished us good hunting in a loud whisper, and walked right up the mountainside. He amazes me.
After we crossed Beech Creek, which was the next one over, Kaunitz and I peeled off and began to work our way up the ridge. Summers and Desmond were to head south to the valley of Sweetwater Creek, which would eventually lead to the little town of Sweetgum. We set up a call time, a frequency, and some elementary code words to keep in touch, then split.
Kaunitz and I went uphill for forty minutes. We didn't walk; we climbed. It was so steep we had to hunch over low to keep the weight of our packs over us and not fall backward, and we grabbed saplings and branches to pull ourselves up. We slipped a lot on the damp clay and loose stones. It was very hard work. Once atop the ridge, however, the vegetation thinned out. There were more large trees spaced wide apart, with fewer thickets and less brush. Kaunitz soon found a game trail that made easy walking. I couldn't see the trail; it was invisible from above, since it was mostly used by small, four-legged creatures. But the ground beneath the vegetation had been worked clear of undergrowth and snuggly vines by hundreds of tiny feet and teeth, so that walking was easy. Most people think a game trail is used only by deer and bear, and resembles a path in a forest preserve. Not so. It's so small you can hardly see it, but your feet know the difference. The fact that Kaunitz could find these trails almost every step of the way revealed his long experience in the wilderness. He paused often to drop silently to a squat, and he would remain motionless for half a minute, looking and listening. Then, without speaking, he would rise and resume walking. We made absolutely no sound except for the inevitable swish-swish of our legs parting leaves and small branches. But the racket kicked up by the birds and falling water drowned out this noise. After an hour we stopped to rest, our backs against a gigantic tulip poplar tree with lichens on it the size of dinner plates. He held a finger up to his lips and spoke so softly I had to cock my ear to hear him. And I was less than two feet away.
"A bass voice can carry three hundred yards," he said, taking a tiny sip from his canteen, "or at least a hundred in vegetation like this. Did you see anything of interest?"
"No."
He shrugged his huge shoulders. "Same here. Now the road that runs past the farm is down the other side of this mountain. The small road you saw Royce drive up, the one with the old mailbox, should join it just about where we come out."
"Why didn't we take the road around instead of climbing over?" I asked. I wished I could take off my boots and fan my feet, but I had a hunch I wouldn't be able to get the boots back on.
"They're watching the road, that's why. From a place we can't see. This way, we've got a guaranteed blind insertion. Ready?"
I took to my feet, and they wished I hadn't. We moved on, walking silently through the woods, then began to go down the far side of the mountain. A creek roared and sang on our right. The cool mist that blew from it felt good. We walked faster alongside the creek; Kaunitz had told me that running water masks noise. Still, we were careful, because it can work against you too. We made good progress walking twenty feet parallel to the creek. Moss and lichens covered all the ground and rocks. Big swatches of ferns brushed us. We worked our way down the far side of the mountain in the cool, damp air. At its base was a road, the same one that ran by the Royce farm a couple of miles to the south. But sure enough, as I peered across it I saw again the old white mailbox marked Spivey and the tiny road that snaked up and away from it. Kaunitz had set us down right on the money, just as he'd done in the Mooney in Texas. We squatted, resting our rifle butts on the clay between our feet, and watched the road for a long time. Kaunitz swept the opposite bank and forest with his glasses, and I kept a sharp eye all around us at closer range. It seemed there was nobody else but the birds and squirrels. We waited almost twenty minutes, my legs killing me, before we broke out of the forest, took a final peek up and down the road, and dashed across, hiding ourselves on the opposite side in a kudzu thicket. Kudzu! The most unpopular Asian import since the Hu. In a patch of that snarly tropical vine you could hide a football stadium and nobody would know. Kaunitz kept looking at his watch. We were supposed to contact Summers and Desmond at four, and it was ten till.
