He laughed. “No, not your damned dog. I tagged him with the four-wheeler, so I thought he wouldn’t be any more trouble. Besides, he wasn’t worth a bullet so we drove off and left him.”
I’d allowed my arm to fall to my back and made an attempt to roll toward him as if I were interested in the conversation. “The canteen.”
“Yeah, I wrote the note. It was a calculated risk, ’cause I wasn’t sure if you’d seen the old guy’s handwriting.” He studied me some more. “How are you still awake? It must be your size.”
I could feel my Colt, but I had to get my jacket out of the way to reach it. “I am a little drowsy.”
“You should be; I put enough sleeping pills in that canteen to drop a buffalo.” He started to rise, and I froze my hand. “Anyway, there’s somebody that wants to meet you before you knock off for the night. Okey?” He looked back into the darkness to our left and shouted. “Hey, hurry up if you wanna talk to him.” He looked down at me. “He’s going to love seeing you again-”
Cliff Cly came out of the dark and stood there with Hershel’s Henry rifle in his hands. I was happy to see that he was in pretty rough shape. He ignored me and looked at Barsad. “Where the fuck did you get this?”
A quiet second passed. “I got it off the cowboy.”
Cly looked at the old repeater and then back to Barsad. “You kill him?”
Wade shook his head, and I wondered why he was lying. “No. I told you Cliff, I don’t kill people unless I have to.”
Cly walked over closer and looked down at me. I noticed his face was pretty messed up and he was wearing a neck brace. I could see the individual knuckle marks on his forehead, and the swelling and discoloration around his eye was far worse than mine. I felt a little better.
I looked up at him. “How’s your head?”
He glanced at me in a dismissive manner. “Fuck you.” He turned and shouted to Barsad. “What about this asshole here?”
Barsad’s voice sounded a little farther off, and he must’ve been going toward the truck. “He’s got enough product in him that he’ll overdose, but we’ll shoot him with Hershel’s gun and come up with a story later.” The rodeo cowboy leaned down, holding the. 44 Henry on his thighs with one hand, and started feeling around my jacket with the other. “Check him for a gun. Okey?”
Cly’s face was very near my own. “That’s what I’m doing.” His hand froze against mine as I clutched the Colt at the small of my back.
Barsad’s voice faded. “I’ll get the kid.”
Cly’s eyes and mine locked, and I could feel my muscles tense as I got ready to make one last, desperate move. He didn’t blink and leaned even closer. “Don’t hit me again, you big son-of-a-bitch; the last time you practically took my head off.” He winked and then glanced over his shoulder, looked back at me, and smiled. “Relax, Sheriff, I’ve got us covered, just don’t shoot me. Okey?” He was grinning now. “Hey, kimosabe, can you understand me? I’m on your side.” He studied me for a moment more, and then stood and shouted. “He’s clean.”
I wondered what the hell was going on as Cly stood up. There was a lot of noise, and I listened as at least two doors were slammed. Barsad’s voice carried from the left. “What the hell… where’s the kid?!”
“What’a ya mean?”
There was more noise, and it sounded as if something was slammed into the bed of the truck. “He’s not here, Cliff!”
I tugged at my jacket and pulled the. 45, clearing it from my body but continuing to keep it hidden.
Wade came into my sight, and my ant’s-eye view made them look like giants. “Did you tie him up and put him in the truck?”
“No, there wasn’t time. I just taped him and left him on the four-wheeler.”
“I didn’t see the four-wheeler when I was just back there. Where’d you shittin’ put it?”
He gestured. “It’s back at the…” Just then, I figured I wasn’t the only one who heard it start up. “Oh, fuck.”
Out a couple of hundred yards to the west, I could see the lights of the ATV as it turned and sped away on what I assumed was the road. Barsad took a few steps in that direction but then stopped and looked back at the two of us, then at just me. “Kill him, and I’ll get the kid.”
Cliff shook his head and fumbled with something in his pants pocket as he took a step toward Barsad. “I don’t think-”
Wade must have seen the move; he wasn’t a man to take chances, so he lifted the 9 mm and fired, the bullet hitting Cly squarely in the trunk of his body. He shuddered for a moment, then the big Henry repeater hit the ground and went off, the bullet going into the air, and he collapsed. As he did, I lifted my wavering arm and fired the. 45. I was wide and to the right but kept firing as Barsad made a rapid retreat in the direction of the truck.
I continued to throw rounds in Wade’s general direction, but he didn’t fall. I finished off the clip with a solid thunk as a round hit the truck. I watched as the cab lights came on in the Dodge, but the motor didn’t start. I guess he was fumbling for his keys.
I hit the button and watched as the empty magazine slipped from the Colt, and I slammed in the other one that I had put in my jacket pocket. It was like an out-of-body experience, as though somebody else’s arms raised and fired just as the big Dodge started.
I saw the passenger side window explode as I emptied the clip. Wade Barsad disappeared but only for a moment, and I was monumentally disappointed to hear the motor roar and the duellie spray dirt as its lights bobbed, and he sped away.
The horse was going berserk but was at the far side of the circle and out of sight. I watched as the chain, embedded in the rock, heaved and straightened in a direct line into the darkness. I fell back flat and lay there breathing and thinking-what the hell else could go wrong? I could feel my eyes closing and knew that if I didn’t get up soon, I wasn’t going to be getting up at all.
I looked at the spent semiautomatic in my lap, the slide locked in the open position. I ejected the clip and began refilling it from the loose rounds in my jacket pockets, the cartridge spring making a slight metallic sound as I reloaded.
With each breath I listed a little further, and I might have even fallen asleep if not for Cly, who spoke from the gloom, his words accompanied by a light giggle. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough shooting for one night?”
I’d thought for sure he was dead.
I rolled over on my stomach and began crawling toward him. He was clutching something over his chest. He was still giggling and spitting up a little blood with it as I leveraged an elbow-his face only a couple of inches away. “You should stop laughing; it can’t be good for you.”
He giggled some more. “How bad is it, Deputy Dawg?”
There was a fair amount of blood, but it was low and to the left-intestines, I hoped, not a lung. It was difficult to tell how bad, but he’d live, for a while, at least. I looked at his face. “Who the hell are you?”
He kept giggling and pulled his hand up. I noticed that he was holding his wallet, which he flipped open exposing a badge. His voice was singsong, and he sounded like he was an announcer on a bad fifties TV show. “Why I’m Cliff Cly of the FBI.”
14
October 31, 3:04 A.M.
He wasn’t giggling anymore. “How long do you think I’ve got?”
“Longer than you’re going to want.”
He swallowed underneath the neck brace and dropped the wallet. “God damn it, this hurts. I showed the kid how to drive the thing and told him that if I didn’t get back in a couple of minutes, to just gas it the hell out of here and stay off the roads.” His eyes closed, and he clutched his stomach. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I looked at the young man’s face. I had to admit that he was good; I hadn’t made him, but now, seeing the symmetry of his features under the stubble, and his general demeanor, even after being shot, it all made sense.
