through my place, Nate, and I’m just so sorry.”
Nate let the words hang in the air until the breeze floated them away. He
“It was a girl that made me screw up, Nate,” Merle said, glancing up, his eyes begging for understanding. “A woman, I should say. She came into the cafe two nights before. She said she was from East Texas and she was going to visit her sister somewhere in Montana. Ekalaka, I think she said. Damn, she had pretty eyes and a nice figure and she asked me to come along.”
Nate watched Merle carefully.
“There ain’t that many girls who like a guy like me,” Merle said. “It wasn’t always like this, you know. Back when I went two hundred twenty, two hundred fifty, I didn’t have that many problems. Lots of girls thought I played basketball,” he said, chuckling.
“I remember,” Nate said. “I was there.”
Merle had been in Nate’s unit in black ops. They’d served together in Africa, South America, and the Middle East. He’d been there when the whole thing blew up.
Merle still stared at his boots. “Yeah. But it’s been a long time since a girl looked at me that way. When she said to come along with her and meet her sister . . . hell, I just took my apron off right there at the grill and followed her out the door. I don’t think I even locked up the place and I sure as hell forgot to let you know I was leaving. I hope you can forgive me just a little.”
“Hmmm,” Nate said.
Large Merle took a deep breath and chanced a smile. He acted as if a huge weight had been lifted from his neck and shoulders. “All I want is a little understanding,” he said. “And I swear to you right now I’ll help you find them. I’ll stick with you until we find those bastards.”
Nate shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Merle, but this is all mine.”
“Really, I want to help. Do you think it was The Five? Did they finally get a bead on you?”
Nate reached up and scratched his chin. “It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t The Five, Merle. They were just sloppy amateurs and they left evidence behind. That only makes it worse. It’s just a matter of time before I find them.”
“You got names?” Merle asked. “Locations?”
“Not yet, but I’ve got fingerprints and DNA. I need to get them analyzed and I’ll have my boys do that. What I don’t know yet is who put them up to it and why. And who gave them my location. That bothers me.”
“It wasn’t me, Nate,” Merle said. “If it was, I sure as hell wouldn’t be here now.”
Nate nodded.
“Hell, that girl took advantage of me. What a disappointment, you know?” Merle moaned. “Turned out she wanted me around as muscle so she could intimidate her sister into moving off the family ranch so she could move in. It was complicated as hell, but my gal left the place a long time ago and wanted to come back and claim it. Once I found out what the deal was about, I slunk back to Kaycee with my tail between my legs. That’s when I saw what happened to your place while I was gone. When I saw the wreckage . . . I thought they’d killed you. I was so damned happy when you called me. Women,” Merle said sadly. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em.”
“Not all of them anyway,” Nate said.
Merle looked up sharply. “One of them was a woman?”
“That’s what my sources tell me,” Nate said. “She wasn’t the shooter, but she may have put them up to it.”
“No name on her, either?”
“I’ve got a good idea who it is,” Nate said.
They drove up the mountainside in Merle’s Power Wagon with the box on the bench seat between them. The road leveled on a long plateau of short grass and knuckles of rock that stretched out flat several miles as if the terrain were gathering its strength before thrusting upward into the Salt River Range. An old barbed-wire fence stretched out parallel to the road.
Nate picked up the box and hefted it in his hands. Heavy, and not quite right.
“This isn’t a .454 Casull,” Nate said, looking over at Merle. “I thought we talked about the right weapon.”
“Jesus,” Merle said. “You can tell by the
“Couple of ounces different,” Nate said. “Lighter.”
Merle whistled. Then: “You amaze me. You’re right; it’s not a .454. Seems Freedom Arms has a new model, and I thought you might want to give it a try.”
Nate frowned back, perturbed.
“Tell you what,” Merle said. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it back for a .454 this afternoon and get the scope swapped. But at least make an informed decision.”
“What new model?” Nate asked.
“It’s called a .500 Wyoming Express,” Merle said. “Stainless steel five-shot revolver, just like what you’re used to, only bigger: fifty cal. A little over three pounds without the scope. It’s got a Model 83 chassis just like the .454 so it should feel the same in your hand. Seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. Shoots 1.765-inch belted cartridges at 35,000 psi. Twice the power of a .44 magnum. The belted cartridge allows them to cut down a little on the cylinder weight.”
Nate raised his eyebrows in appreciation.
“It’s not as fast as your .454,” Merle said, “but the knockdown power is greater. The .454 has a TKO of 30, while the .500 goes 39. And according to the man who sold it to me, it’s like getting hit by a freight train as
