Neal said, “I hope it’s a man. If it’s a bear, for God’s sake don’t shoot unless you absolutely have to, if he’s charging you. Fire some warning shots, maybe that’ll scare him off. Believe me, with all the red tape and paperwork involved, it’s less hassle to shoot a man than a bear.”
Jack grunted, an acknowledgment that he’d heard what the other had said but that committed him to nothing. He peeled off from Neal, light-footing it at quick time south along the front of the mess hall, down to the southeast corner. Neal rounded the northeast corner, vanishing from sight.
Jack edged along the short south face of the building, keeping close to the wall and crouching low to avoid the oblongs of yellow light shining out through the mess hall windows. More rattling sounded from behind the back of the building.
Maybe it was a bear. Jack’s Beretta was armed with cartridges that were made up with a hot hand-loaded powder mix he had on special order. Each round was a potent man-stopper. Would it have the same effect on a charging bear? He’d hate to have to find out. He had no relish for reporting such an encounter to Ryan Chappelle.
Jack halted at the southwest corner of the mess hall, back flat against the wall. He peeked around the corner.
The back of the mess hall wasn’t as well-lit as the front. There were fewer windows to let the light shine through. The scarcity of electric light was compensated for by the moonlight. A concrete loading platform jutted out at the midpoint of the building’s rear. A Dumpster and a clump of garbage cans stood nearby. A stooped, shaggy figure stood swaying upright among the garbage cans, rummaging around inside them.
Neal stepped out from behind the building’s north face into view, holding his gun levelled at the indistinct shape that stood reeling on two legs.
Jack stepped into the open in the moonlight so Neal could see he was in position. Neal shouted, “Freeze!”
The shape started, knocking over some garbage cans, stumbling over them, raising a racket as it tried to get clear of them. It fell, crawling on all fours. Jack and Neal closed in from both ends.
The figure scrambled upright and started to run. It wasn’t a bear, it was a man. A shaggy man. Jack and Neal moved to intercept him.
The shaggy man started across the open space toward the fence. Jack double-timed at a tangent to cross his path. The shaggy man’s hands were empty. If he had a weapon he hadn’t drawn it.
He was big, even running stooped forward as he was, big and thick- bodied. Jack neared him. The other looked like the last of the mountain men, with dark shoulder-length hair and a full beard. He was clumsy, unsteady on his feet.
Jack ploughed into him sideways, slamming his right shoulder, upper arm, and elbow into the shaggy man’s left side, knocking him off balance. The shaggy man fell sprawling into the dirt, crying out in terror.
He was still in the game. He rolled and got his legs under him, standing on his knees. His hand darted to his right side, drawing a knife worn there in a belt sheath. A hunting knife with a wickedly curved and gleaming eighteen-inch blade.
Jack’s foot lashed out in a front snap kick to the shaggy man’s wrist, sending the knife flying from his hand.
Neal came up behind him and laid his gun barrel behind the back of the shaggy man’s ear, rapping his skull hard enough to stun him but not so hard as to knock him out. The shaggy man fell forward face-first into the dirt.
Neal’s mouth was open, he was breathing hard. Jack said, “Damned funny bears you grow out here!”
Neal said, “That’s no bear and no Zealot, either. Who in the hell is he?”
“Let’s find out.”
2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 A.M. AND 5 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME
The shaggy man wore a flannel shirt, overalls, and work boots. He lay facedown in the dirt. Neal stood on one knee beside him, holding the muzzle of the.357 against the back of his skull. He said, “Keep still.”
The other grunted something that could have been an affirmative. He remained motionless while Neal’s free hand gave him a pat-down frisk, searching him for weapons, finding none.
Jack’s gun hand hung along his side. He held the knife that he’d picked up in his free hand. The ball of his foot still throbbed from where he’d delivered the front snap kick to disarm the shaggy man. The knife had deer antler plates inset in the grip, a hilt to keep the hand from slipping, and a long, sharp-pointed blade. He held it up to the moonlight, turning it so that moonbeams glimmered off the steel.
Neal rose, saying, “He’s clean. Of weapons, that is. He smells like he hasn’t had a bath in a long time. No wallet, keys, or identification of any kind.” He nudged the shaggy man in the ribs with the toe of his shoe, none too gently. “Get up. And no tricks. Try anything funny and I’ll shoot you in the knee.”
He said to Jack, “I don’t like guys with knives.”
Jack said, “I don’t blame you. That’s some knife, too. A real pigsticker.”
Neal’s shoe toe prodded the shaggy man’s ribs again, harder. “Come on, get up.”
The shaggy man got on his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it. Neal had him covered with the.357, so Jack holstered his pistol, fitting it into the shoulder sling. He still held the knife.
The shaggy man groaned, rubbing the back of his head where Neal had clipped him with the gun barrel. He rose unsteadily to his feet, swaying. Neal came up alongside him and put the arm on him cop-style, using his free hand, the one not holding his gun, to grip the other firmly just above the elbow, steadying and steering him.
Jack flanked the shaggy man’s left side but otherwise let Neal handle the play. He was a visitor, a guest, while this was Neal’s home territory. Let Neal have the credit, if any, for bagging a suspect, if the shaggy man should prove to be one. Neal was right about one thing, though; the man was no Zealot. The Zealots’ dress code ran to jackets and ties for the men, obedient to their guru Prewitt’s admonition that they should always be mindful of making a positive appearance of neatness and cleanliness on the public at large. The shaggy man looked like a tramp, a hobo.
Neal said, “Come into the light and let’s see what we’ve got.” He and Jack hustled the shaggy man around the corner of the mess hall, across the north face, and around to the front of the mess hall. The captive lurched forward with a shambling, shuffling gait.
A wooden platform something like a plank sidewalk made a kind of apron along the east face, serving as a kind of unroofed front porch. A lamp mounted over the front door shed a yellow cone of light.
Neal sat the shaggy man down on the platform under the light. The shaggy man rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. His long hair fell over the front of his face like a curtain. It was the color and texture of a steel wool scouring pad.
Jack eyed the hunting knife under the light. Its finish was dulled with dark patches, not of dried blood but of rust. He pointed it out to Neal, quietly and out of the hearing of the shaggy man.
Neal nodded. Then he went to work on the captive. “Look up when I’m talking to you.”
The shaggy man lifted his head up out of his hands. His raggedy iron-gray beard reached down to his collarbone. It had the texture of a bird’s nest. He didn’t show much skin between the hair on his head and his face, and what did show was seamed, weathered. Bloodshot watery gray eyes were tucked into baggy pouches between a wide, flat-bridged nose. A threadbare flannel shirt was so grimy that its original red-and-black-checked pattern could barely be made out. A pair of denim bib overalls hung in place by a single shoulder strap; the other was broken.
Neal said, “Who are you? What’s your name?”
The shaggy man said, “Lobo…”
“Lobo? What kind of a name is that? Lobo what?
What Lobo?”
“Just — Lobo. That’s what everybody calls me. That’s been my name for as long as I can remember.” A
