Powder, I was shorthanded. I thought about Turk and forced my train of thought elsewhere. It was a big train. I waited till I got to the top of one of the ridges to tell Ruby to send Ferg out to the Esper place. She reminded me that I hadn’t taken my sweatpants and that Vic’s feelings were probably going to be hurt.
“Is she there?”
“Talking on the phone with Cheyenne.”
“This early? Well, tell her that the evidence stuff is on my desk from…”
“She’s already got that.”
“Oh.” I waited for a moment, but she didn’t continue. “Anything you need from me?”
“Like where you are?”
“Yep, like that.”
“No, we don’t care.” I thought I heard someone laughing in the background, but I wasn’t sure.
Palace Omar was made of logs, same as mine, but that was where the likeness ended. Unlike Vonnie’s, you had to park in a circular holding area after being buzzed through the gate, which was about a mile back down the asphalt road. No one said anything, but the gate had slowly risen, and I smiled and waved at the little black video camera. I looked up at the house and wondered how many cameras were on me now. The place was impressive, as multimillion-dollar mansions go. The architects from Montana had used a combination of massive hand-hewn logs and architectural salvage to produce a combination of old and new and all expensive.
I knocked and made faces at the security camera at the door, but no one answered. Entering Omar’s house unannounced was less than appealing, but I could hear a television blaring in the depths of the structure and decided to risk it. I pushed open the doors, listened to the satisfied thump as the metal cores closed, and walked into the two-story atrium that made up the entryway. I counted the mounted heads that were hung down the great hallway to the kitchen in the back. There were twenty-three. I knew the inside of the house pretty well; I had followed Omar and Myra through the majority of it while listening to their running, psychosis-ridden monologues on how they were going to kill each other.
As I made my way toward the kitchen, the sound from the TV became more distinct, and I was pretty sure some pretty dramatic lovemaking was going on. Obviously Omar got a lot better reception than I did. When I got there, Jay Scherle, Omar’s head wrangler, was standing at the counter and watching a watered-down version of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which I gathered was taking place in a hayloft somewhere. Every time the leading lady became overcome with passion, the camera would drift to the casually billowing curtains at a window. Jay was dressed for work, complete with chaps and spurs. I asked if Omar was up. His eyes didn’t leave the screen. “I’ve worked here for seven years, and I’ve never seen the son of a bitch sleep.”
I nodded and watched Jay watch the flip-down flat screen that was hung under the kitchen cabinets. I wasn’t sure if D. H. Lawrence would have recognized his work, but the plastic surgeon specializing in breast enhancement would have recognized his.
“Where is he?”
“Out back, getting set up.”
I looked at the screen, a curtain again. “Set up for what?”
“Hell if I know… took a pumpkin with him.” After a moment, he spoke again. “You ever seen a barn with so many damn curtains?”
I walked through the french doors Jay had indicated with his chin, across an expansive deck, and down a stone walkway to a courtyard walled in by four feet of moss rock topped with Colorado red granite, but I didn’t see Omar. I was about to go back in when I noticed a couple of sand bags, shooter’s glasses, and a spotting scope laying on the picnic table at the other side of the wall. My eyes continued up, and I saw Omar at the foot of a hill about a quarter mile away. He had been watching me and slowly raised his hand. I wasn’t sure if it was an invitation, but I started walking, my breath still blowing clouds of mist into the warming, easterly breeze.
When I got there, he was putting the finishing touches on the vegetable by adjusting it in the lawn chair just so and placing a thick piece of rubber behind it. Beside him on the ground lay a Sioux rifle scabbard, which was completely beaded with eagle feathers leading from the edge all the way to the butt. If the Game and Fish knew Omar had real eagle feathers, they’d come take them away and slap Omar with a $250 fine. I figured Omar probably lost that much in the daily wash. It was brain-tanned leather, as soft as a horse’s nose, and the color of butter melting in the sun. The minute glass trading beads were Maundy yellow, a faded mustard tint I recognized as over a hundred years old. He picked up the scabbard, and we started back for the house.
“How far have we gone?” He was wearing a black, ripstop down jacket and now favored Ted Nugent over Custer.
“I have no idea.”
“Use the range finder.”
I aimed the little scope gadget he had given me at the pumpkin that was sitting in the aged lawn chair. The distance did nothing to diminish the ludicrous image, especially with the little green indicator numbers jumping back and forth in the lower-right-hand corner. I lowered the scope and looked at him. “You tell me, Great White Hunter.”
He looked back across the slight grade at the squash luxuriating at the base of the hillside. “Three hundred and one yards.”
I smiled. “Close. Three hundred.”
“Step back here where I am.” He continued walking as I stood in his spot and looked back. The range finder read 301, and the small hairs on the back of my neck stirred. He stopped and looked back at me and then unbuttoned three Indian-head nickels from the scabbard and slowly slid the rifle from its protective covering. The sheath looked like the skin of a snake coming off and what glistened in the early morning sun looked twice as deadly as any rattler I had ever seen.
The eighth-century pacifist Li Ch’uan branded the use of gunpowder weapons as tools of ill omen. “Eighteen- seventy-four?”
“Yep.”
“. 45–70?”
“Yep.” He handed me the rifle and crossed his arms. “You ever seen one up close?”
“Not a real one.”
It was heavy, and it seemed to me that if you missed what you were shooting at, you could simply run it down and beat it to death, whatever it was. The barrel was just shy of three feet long. I gently lowered the lever and dropped the block, looking through thirty-two inches of six groove, one in eighteen-inch, right-hand twist. From this vantage point, the world looked very small indeed. The action was smooth and precise, and I marveled at the workmanship that was more than 125 years old. The design on the aged monster was a falling block, breech- loading single shot. The old-timers used to take a great deal of pride in the fact that a single shot was all it took. The trigger was a double set, and the sights were an aperture rear with a globe-style front. I pulled the weapon from my shoulder and read the top of the barrel: Business Special.
What kind of special business had Christian Sharps intended? In 1874 the rifle had been adopted by the military because it could kill a horse dead as a stone at six hundred yards-six football fields. Congregational minister Henry Ward Beecher pledged his Plymouth church to furnish twenty-five Sharps rifles for use in bloody Kansas. Redoubtably, the preacher may have done more for the cause of abolitionism with his Beecher’s bibles than did his sister Harriet with her Uncle Tom’s Cabin. But it was John Brown who brought the Sharps to a bloody birth at Harpers Ferry, and a nation’s innocence was lost at Gettysburg. After the Civil War, free ammunition had been handed out to privateer hunters to usher the vast, uncontrollable buffalo herds into extinction. Then there were the Indians. Good and bad, these actions had earned the Sharps buffalo rifle the title of one of the most significant weapons in history and in language. Sharps shooter: sharp-shooter. “What makes you think…?”
“The amount of lead, cartridge lubricant, no powder burns… A feeling.” He turned and walked toward the house, the rifle scabbard thrown over his shoulder. After a moment, he stopped. “Three hundred and seventy.” Big deal.
I was sitting at the picnic table and contemplated muzzle velocity and trajectory sightings at 440 yards. The Sharps was now wedged between three small sand bags, and a much larger spotting scope sat atop a three- pronged pedestal at my elbow. Omar returned with two cups of coffee, at my request. The cups were thick buffalo china with his brand on them, and it was really good coffee.
“Jay still enjoying the matinee?”
