window. “You think he didn’t hear us pull up?” I found it hard to believe with Rezdawg’s Swiss cheese muffler, but we had parked at such an angle that most of the truck was hidden behind the Forest Service facilities-maybe he was hard of hearing.
“Perhaps.” I watched as he reached behind the seat and pulled out an old pair of Bell amp; Howell M19s from their case and focused them on the lookout. “He is armed.”
I took the binoculars and had a look for myself. It was Clarence, and it looked as though he’d dragged a chair over to the southwestern corner of the main lookout and had a rifle barrel up near his face where the butt must’ve been resting on the floor between his legs; the weapon was short, maybe a. 30-. 30 carbine. I lowered the multi- green-colored optics and glanced at the Bear. “If you were being pursued by somebody and wanted an even chance, what would you do?”
“It poses an interesting problem; certainly he can see anyone coming from a long way off, but he also presents a regal target up there.”
I looked through the 7?50s and sighed. “He had to see us coming; he’s facing the road where we came up.”
“Perhaps we are not who he is looking for.”
I handed him back the vintage binoculars. “You think we should honk the horn?”
“It doesn’t work.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” I shook my head. “How about we just set fire to it?”
He ignored me and returned the Bell amp; Howells to the case behind the seat. “We should get out of the truck before it gets completely dark.”
I glanced back at the tiny yellow bulb in the cab light fixture, which was missing its cover. “The interior light works?”
“Yes.”
I gripped the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “Of course it does; it’s inconvenient, and that is most certainly the watchword for this piece of crap.”
“You are hurting my truck’s feelings.”
I gently pulled the handle and slid out, watching as the bulb in the cab glowed feebly, a light noticeable from possibly six feet away. I met the Cheyenne Nation at the back of the truck, because I was trying to avoid getting sprayed on.
“Maybe he’s drunk.” I slipped my 1911 from the pancake holder and checked it-cocked and locked-snapping off the safety. “You have a weapon?”
I watched as he silently slipped the foot-long heirloom stag-handled Bowie knife from the small of his back, holding it high so that I could see the turquoise inlayed bear print in the bone.
“That should do, unless he spots you a couple hundred feet off.”
He said nothing and disappeared around the corner in order to work his way toward the side of the butte where Clarence was facing, leaving me to take the easier unobserved trail.
There was a fence at the edge of the parking lot, and I watched as the last glimmers of the day lingered above the Bighorn Mountains as if the yolk of the sun had gotten hung up on Black Tooth.
I carefully opened the gate and stared at the narrow two-track that circled to my left and then made a run up the spine to the cabin’s backside. Near the top I could see a utility wagon that must’ve been used to ferry supplies to the lonely lookout.
I was reminded of one of Henry’s sayings that you could just about escape anything on the high plains- anything except yourself. You could go to a mountaintop or back yourself into a brick wall corner, but you could always count on being bushwhacked by yourself.
My eyes traced over the profile of the hillside, but the Bear had disappeared like he always did. Keeping an eye to the reflective surface of the windows that surrounded the structure on all sides, I walked carefully up the gravel path. There was an overhang on the fire tower, and I was concentrating on that when I saw something move down below.
Standing still, I waited and watched as the heavy metal door that provided the only access to the place swung back just a little. I waited, but it just hung there, about two-thirds open, and I half expected to receive a Winchester slug in the chest.
After a moment I noticed a soft breeze, something not uncommon in summer on the high plains when the light changed, and watched as the door slowly closed again. Ghosts.
Keeping my Colt aimed at the darkened doorway, I carefully made my way across to the safety fence that stood by the drop-off to the left of the walk that led to the bottom floor of the lookout. I heard the slightest creak of the boards in the room above. I swung around, slowed my breathing, and listened for another footstep, but there was nothing.
Swallowing, I went through the open doorway to my left and rolled the. 45 around the empty room, only slightly illuminated by the square window on the other side. I checked behind the door and took a look at the clasp and lock hanging from the surface where it had been pried off with the tire iron that now lay on the gravel.
Inside there were some tools and a wall full of firewood, but nothing else except the wooden stairs that started up to a landing in the corner and then hugged another wall before dead-ending into a trapdoor where Clarence sat.
I crossed the patchwork rock floor, stopped at the base of the stairs, and looked up at the trap, which was slightly ajar.
There were no more sounds, so I carefully put my weight on the first step and wondered where the hell my Indian scout was. There was a slight sound, but I was pretty sure the only way you could’ve heard it was if you’d been in the room with me. I continued up, made the landing, and clutched the two-by-four railing in my free hand.
I could see a sliver of yellowish light at one edge of the trap that hadn’t been there before, carefully fanned my finger over the floor’s undersurface, and slowly pushed upward.
The trap faced the majority of the room, and I’d turned so that I was facing the corner where Clarence had been sitting. There was a table and a couple of chairs in the way, along with a propane stove and a few bunks. I stuck my head the rest of the way out but the table had a blanket draped over it, obscuring the view.
I soundlessly leaned the trapdoor back against the wall. Easing the rest of the way up the stairs, I could now see that one of the propane lamps on the far wall had been lit and gave out with an unrelenting hiss. I led with the Colt and looked over the table top where an empty bottle of Old Crow and two pint Mason jars were lying on their sides.
I could now see that there were two individuals in the corner, Last Bull in the chair still facing the dead sunset and another man leaning against the narrow facing between the windows, holding something and following Clarence’s gaze.
“Those stairs are noisy.”
I came the rest of the way up and could now see clearly that it was Henry, palming the great blade as it flashed in the propane light.
“How did you get here?”
“I pulled myself up on the walkway to the east.”
I kept the. 45 out and circled around the table. “He must be dead drunk.”
The Cheyenne Nation turned to look at the man in the chair as I got there. The shirt at the center of his back was exploded with blood and the material was burned from the close proximity of the gun that had shot him.
The Bear’s voice was resigned. “No, just dead.”
11
“Sure, I can get you DNA testing on the glass-it’ll take about nine weeks.”
I sat on the lip of the trapdoor and stared at the can of beer the AIC had handed to me at the scene; Cliff Cly was certainly not the usual field agent for the Department of Justice. It was even a Rainier, my brand. “That’s not the way it works on television.”
