the crunch of gravel under tires. He didn’t have time to get back to his Bronco. Instead, he ran to the other side of the road where he threw himself down among cattails that edged a small marsh.
Half a minute later, a red pickup appeared. As soon as it broke from the dust, it stopped. Cork couldn’t see the driver. He heard a door slam and figured whoever it was, they were doing exactly what he had done and were looking for the place where Blessing had turned. He peered carefully through the wall of cattails and saw the figure study the trail Blessing had followed into the trees. When Cork realized who it was, he stood up.
“Dave!”
Reinhardt turned and Cork saw that the man was carrying. Dave Reinhardt had the weapon up and in a two- handed grip in an instant. He didn’t fire, but he also didn’t lower the weapon. He stared at Cork, looking surprised and unhappy.
“What are you doing here?” Reinhardt said.
“Same as you, I imagine. Trying to find Thunder.”
Reinhardt holstered his handgun and Cork crossed the road.
“Was that you on the east side of the clearing?” Cork asked.
Reinhardt was dressed in khakis, a brown sweater, dark blue running shoes, a brown ball cap. “You spotted me?” He looked pained.
“The reflection off your field glasses.”
“Where were you?”
“The ridge west of the mission.”
“You saw Blessing take off and you followed him?”
“Yeah. Didn’t realize you were behind me.”
“I didn’t realize you were ahead. I thought all that dust was Blessing’s.” He swung a hand toward the trail behind the blind. “Where do you figure he’s headed?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a good map though.”
Reinhardt followed Cork to the Bronco, parked beyond the sumac. Before heading to observe the funeral, Cork had grabbed a topographical map of the area. He took it from the glove box and spread it on the Bronco’s hood. Reinhardt looked over his shoulder.
“I figure we’re here.” Cork tapped the map with his finger. “Half a mile north is Black Duck Lake, just this side of the Boundary Waters. If I were Thunder and I wanted to be somewhere that would give me a quick back-door escape, I’d choose a place like Black Duck Lake. A fifty-rod portage puts him on the Myrtle Flowage, inside the wilderness area. Hard to follow him there.”
“Half a mile,” Reinhardt said. “Ten minutes on foot, and he wouldn’t hear us coming.”
“You’re reading my mind, Dave.”
Reinhardt parked his pickup truck next to the Bronco behind the sumac. Cork took his binoculars and Remington and the two men followed where Blessing had gone. Cork would have preferred to stay off the trail, but on either side were bogs where an unwary step could put a man in the relentless grip of quicksandlike muck. They walked without speaking, not even a whisper, and watched the woods ahead.
They hadn’t gone far when they heard the sound of the Silverado returning. They scrambled off the trail and dropped behind the trunk of a fallen cedar. In a moment, Blessing’s truck appeared, Blessing alone in the cab. The Silverado passed them and disappeared among the trees as it headed back toward the road. They waited until it was well out of sight, then crept back onto the trail. Reinhardt nodded in the direction of Black Duck Lake, signaling to Cork that he thought they should continue. Cork nodded his agreement and they moved on.
Several hundred yards farther, the trail ended at a small log structure. Just beyond it was the blue of the open sky above Black Duck Lake. The log structure wasn’t exactly a cabin. It was small and square, maybe eight feet on each side. There was no chimney or stovepipe, not even any windows, just a door. Cork thought maybe it was an old trapper shelter. It didn’t look like the kind of place anyone would want to stay permanently, but if you were Lonnie Thunder it might be a reasonable spot to hide while you considered your next move.
Cork put four cartridges into the Remington’s magazine and jacked one into the chamber. Together, he and Reinhardt approached the closed door. Reinhardt put his ear to the weathered wood. From inside came a sound loud enough that Cork heard it, too: the rattle of paper being crumpled. Reinhardt drew his handgun and reached for the knob, an antique-looking thing of dirty white porcelain. He exchanged a look with Cork, then flung the door open and they rushed inside. Sunlight shot in with them, throwing their shadows long across the dirt floor. From a dark corner came a desperate scramble. Cork spun left just in time to see the tail end of a chipmunk disappear through a hole in the chinking between the logs. He did a three-sixty, a full-circle survey of the room. There were empty beer cans and empty cans of Hormel chili and Vienna sausages. There were empty potato chip bags and candy bar wrappers. There was the smell of disuse, of desiccation, of stale beer. But there was no Lonnie Thunder.
From the corner where the chipmunk had scampered away came the glint of cellophane. Cork looked closer and saw an empty package of Double Stuf Oreos. The dirt floor was full of boot prints, but it was impossible to tell how recently they’d been made.
“Somebody’s been living here,” Reinhardt said.
“Probably Thunder. No sleeping bag or blankets. Looks like he’s cleared out.”
Cork stepped outside. Near the lake, he found a fire ring. The ash and char were cold.
Reinhardt joined him and said, “Blessing must’ve been expecting that his cousin would be here. Maybe it means Thunder’ll be back.”
Cork eyed the small lake. “I think he hasn’t been here in a while.”
“Then why did Blessing come?”
“Maybe this was the last place he knew his cousin had been. I get the feeling Thunder doesn’t trust anybody now.”
“Not even the Red Boyz?”
“I believe Kingbird was ready to give him over. And if you don’t trust the guy who heads up the gang, who do you trust?”
Reinhardt looked over his shoulder at the log structure. “He might come back.”
“It’s possible. But there are a lot of other empty places out here where a man can hide. Who knows, maybe he’s left the rez for good. I don’t think there’s any point in us sticking around here.”
Cork started back the way they’d come. He stopped at the trapper’s shelter, where he noticed something on the walls. Dozens of small black scars were burned into the wood.
“What’s that?” Reinhardt said.
“Looks like somebody’s branded the wood.”
“Those are the letter R.”
“For Red Boyz. From what I understand, when you become one of them, you’re branded.”
Reinhardt scanned the area around them and nodded. “If I was going to put somebody through some secret kind of initiation, especially one that involved a branding iron, this is the kind of place I’d choose. Out here, nobody’d hear you scream.”
They didn’t talk until they reached their vehicles, but the whole way, Cork was thinking. Blessing had come directly from the funeral, maybe hoping to catch Thunder at the hidden trapper shelter. But Thunder wasn’t there. That might indicate that Blessing wasn’t in contact with Thunder anymore, which was interesting because they were cousins, and if Thunder didn’t even trust family, he was a man truly afraid. Cork understood that he was lucky last night to have escaped with only warning shots. Thunder had become the kind of enemy Will Kingbird probably feared most, one who was unpredictable.
“This is way out of your jurisdiction, Dave,” Cork said as he stowed his Remington in the Bronco.
“Hell, you’ve got no jurisdiction anywhere,” Reinhardt pointed out.
“Buck send you?”
“Right,” Reinhardt said, with a bitter laugh. “Buck’s opinion of me seems to be at an all-time low. Since Kristi died, he’s become pretty unbearable.”
Cork wanted to say Buck had always been pretty unbearable, but he held off. Instead he said, “You figure it’ll help things with your father if you deliver Thunder?”
“Head on a platter, isn’t that how it’s done?” Reinhardt opened the door of his pickup. “If I decide to come back here one of these nights, you want me to let you know?”
“Yeah. Probably good to have company, especially at night.”
