Lone Creek

29

I got back to my place about five o'clock, parking down the road in the trees and looping around the back on foot like Madbird and I had done earlier. Everything was quiet and seemed untouched. I was starting to feel the strain from nerves and lack of sleep, and the temptation to crash came down hard on me. But-especially if I was going to end up back in jail soon-I had more ground to cover.

I wanted another look at the calving shed where the horses had been killed, this time with good visibility. And as long as I was at the ranch, I might as well try making a peace offering to Doug Wills, the man I'd fought with yesterday, and take a shot at picking his sullen brain. If I'd had my preference, I'd never have laid eyes on him again. But he was the foreman-out and around the place all the time, handling stock and privy to business dealings-and the other person besides Elmer most likely to know something about those horses.

If I hustled, I could make it to the shed before dusk, but there was still the problem of getting caught. Besides the Balcombs, only a few hired hands lived on the ranch, and none of them would be working now. But somebody might be driving to town or out on another errand.

I'd been thinking hard, and I'd come up with a possible answer-to go around the ranch instead of on it. The shed was just inside the north border. Beyond that lay a couple of miles of empty grazing land, with no roads or people. I knew where I could cut off the highway and cross it-except that darkness would fall long before I could make the hike, and even a four-wheel-drive pickup would be stopped by deadfalls and rock slides. But a motorcycle would be just the ticket.

I went out to the garage my father had built. Occasionally I still worked on the truck or dressed game in there, but mainly I used it for storing stuff like tools and camping gear. It also housed a 1966 BSA Victor that I'd bought in high school for a hundred and fifty bucks. The previous owner had stripped it down into a bastardized dirt bike, a beefy, dinosaur four-banger that couldn't begin to maneuver with the newer two-stroke MX models. But I loved its deep rumble and solid feel, and I'd gotten to where I could horse it around pretty well up hills and over trails. Riding with my friends I was usually last in the pack, but for a couple of summers, I'd had a hell of a good time on it. When I'd gone to college I let it fall into neglect. Then, during my first solitary summer back in Montana, I'd refurbished it, spending weekends learning about the marvels of British engineering and finally turning it over to a pro for fine-tuning. It had been another part of that illusion of freedom, but a good one. For a while I'd ridden a lot, mostly in the back country nearby, where I could cruise for hours on the network of trails and disused roads without seeing a soul. That had fallen off again, but there were a couple of days every summer and fall when taking it out for a spin was the only right thing to do.

This was one of those times, although not for the same reasons.

I topped off the tank and stomped on the kick-starter. I'd taken it out not long ago, and it lit right up. I didn't have license plates for it, which didn't particularly worry me; but I didn't have lights either, which did. Getting that far meant riding on highways, and I'd be coming back after dark. I got my best flashlight, a big bright mag that I carried in the pickup, and duct-taped it onto the handlebars. It wouldn't help much in terms of my seeing the road, but at least oncoming drivers would see me. I stuffed some extra batteries into a rucksack, then added an unopened fifth of Knob Creek bourbon that my crew had given me last Christmas, and that I'd been saving for a special occasion. I hated the thought of wasting it on Doug Wills, but it was the best overture I could think of.

I put on a hooded sweatshirt and a fleece-lined thigh-length brown duck jacket, good protection against wind and rain, and boots with a waterproof Gore-Tex lining. I added a pair of old ski gloves. Anybody who'd ever spent much time on a bike knew that your knuckles would freeze even in comparatively mild weather.

Finally, I rooted around the cabin until I found an old baggie of crosstops, stuffed in a drawer with some other things, like my wedding ring, that I didn't really want to keep but hadn't been able to make myself get rid of. I hadn't touched them in years and you didn't see them around any more, but in the past a lot of working guys had used them-small tabs of clean mild speed, nothing like meth, just enough for a smooth energy charge to get you through a wearying afternoon and a long drive home. I took two and shoved the bag into my pocket.

Heading down Stumpleg Gulch, I got another little glimmer about the way I was starting to think. I'd never been a high-powered investigative reporter, and I hadn't done anything of that kind since I'd left journalism. But I'd spent plenty of time in those days trying to get information from people who didn't want to give it or, if they did, were determined to shade the truth. I'd learned to size up the situation pretty fast when I started an interview, and to tailor my own approach accordingly. It was something I hadn't been comfortable with, like lying to my friends.

But the stakes were way different now, and I was slipping back into it like putting on a well-worn favorite shirt.