Blood trail

31

Vern Dunnegan laughed, pulled the large woman with fire-engine-red hair on the next stool closer to him, said, "You bet. We'll both have one." And to the bartender: "Set 'em up, buddy."

"Another Beam on the rocks?" the bartender said.

"Double Beam for me and my lady," Vern said, "thanks to my benefactor here."

His benefactor was tall, rawboned, with piercing, ice-blue eyes and short-cropped blond hair. He had not taken off his bulky parka. Snow from the late November storm outside had melted into drops on the fur trim of his hood. The drops reflected the neon beer signs at the windows. Outside the glass, thick flakes blew by horizontally, looking like sparks from a fire.

"You just get out?" the man asked, leaning on the bar with his hands clasped in front of him.

"Yes," Vern said. "About four hours ago, in fact. This is my first stop. I plan to drink until drunk, eat until sated, and maybe later"- he squeezed the overweight redhead hard around her waist, nearly toppling her from her stool-"some sweet romance."

"Romance," she scoffed, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke toward the back bar. The smoke curled around the framed front page of the Casper Star-Tribune with the headline KILLER OF HUNTERS SHOT DEAD and a photo of smiling anti-hunting activist Klamath Moore.

"That's in a lot of bars around the state," the man said.

"As it should be," Vern said. "Hunters are hunting again and the bad guy is dead. Or so I read."

"You don't believe it?"

Vern said, "Rumor is the story's more complicated. But that's just jailhouse talk. Why should I doubt the word of the governor who set me free even though he took his own sweet time doing it? He said it was Klamath Moore, so as far as I'm concerned, it was Klamath Moore."

"May that son of a bitch roast in hell," the redheaded woman said, toasting the photo with her fresh drink.

"Perhaps she'd excuse us for a minute?" the benefactor said.

"Why?" Vern asked.

"Why?" she echoed.

"Just a little business."

"Do I know you?" Vern asked.

"No."

"Honey," Vern said, patting her on the butt, "give me just a minute, please."

"Fine," she said, sliding unsteadily off her stool. "I need to pee, anyway."

"Your girlfriend?" the benefactor asked.

"Of course not, come on. But she'll do for a Tuesday night in Rawlins, Wyoming."

The man smiled. It was a cruel smile, Vern thought. Did he know this guy? Had he met him on the inside, or on the outside? Did he arrest him once for poaching, back in the day?

"So today is the first day of the rest of your life," the man said.

"In a way." Vern was starting to get a bad feeling about this. "Have we met?"

"I said no. But we have a mutual acquaintance."

"Who might that be?"

"His name is Joe Pickett."

The light went out of Vern's eyes. "Oh."

"He's my friend, and he's in a bad way right now. The world has fallen in on him. I'm confident he'll be able to pull out of it, though. He's got the support of his family. He's not so sure about his boss." The man paused until it became uncomfortable. "And someone who looks out for him."

Vern felt the blood drain from his face. "I better be going."

"Not yet."

Vern felt something long and heavy like a pipe laid across his thigh. He looked down at the barrel of the biggest pistol he'd ever seen, the gaping muzzle an inch from his crotch.

"I was kind of hoping my freedom might last more than one night," Vern said, swallowing bitterly.

Nate said, "A false hope, as it turns out. Here, hold out your hand."

"What's this? A poker chip?"

"Yup," Nate said. "The last one. I found it on Shenandoah's body. Hold onto it tight and think about it while we go outside for your last walk."