Conspiracy

4

Charlie Dean pulled the strap of his bag over his shoulder and stepped out of the plane, ambling down to the concrete runway. A narrow man with thinning hair near the terminal bent toward Dean as he approached.

“Mr. Dean?”

“I’m Charlie Dean.”

“Red Sleeth.” The man stuck his hand out. “How are you?”

“When your girl said there would be a driver waiting, I didn’t expect it to be the guide himself,” said Dean.

“We’re a one-man operation,” replied Sleeth. “One man, one woman — the girl was my wife. I don’t think she’d be of-fended,” added Sleeth, reaching for the bag.

Dean insisted on carry ing it himself. He followed Sleeth as he walked toward a parking lot on the side of the terminal.

“I’m glad you had an opening,” said Dean. “I know this was kind of last-minute.”

“Happy to have you. Customer who canceled will be happy, too. We refund his deposit if we find someone else to take the slot.”

Sleeth’s battered Ford Bronco looked a few years older than the nearby mountains. Dean paused a few feet from the vehicle and looked around. The sun had already set, but he could see the tall shadows in the distance. It was beautiful country; you stood in a parking lot and thought you were at the edge of the world.

“Never been to Montana, have you, Mr. Dean?”

“No, sir. Beautiful land.” Charlie swung back to the truck.

“Yes, it is,” said Sleeth. “Ready to get yourself a mountain lion?”

“Ready.”

“Good. It’ll be the greatest experience of your life. There’s nothing as exciting as hunting a mountain lion. Everything else you’ve ever done will pale in comparison.” Dean knew that wasn’t true but smiled anyway.