The Cat, The Devil And Lee Fontana

32

As the Stearman lifted higher into the night wind, Lee pulled the blanket over his legs, looking down over the lower wing where the pale desert caught the last gleam of light. For a second just below them he saw the gray jogging free, the good gelding ducking his nose and switching his tail, smart and sassy at his own release. He’d have a fine taste of freedom and, when he got thirsty and hungry, he’d head for the one lone ranch off beyond the little dirt strip, he was already moving in that direction. No horseman, seeing the gray, would let him wander. As the plane passed over him he shied, bucked a little, and broke into a gallop.

When Mark banked sharply, lifting toward the mountains heading east, Lee leaned over scanning the foothills, but it was too dark among the massed rocks to see the higher pinnacle where he had buried the money. How long before he’d be back, to dig it up again? And what would happen to him, meantime? He began to worry about someone finding his stash, then he worried about the saddlebags and canvas bags rotting, or pack rats digging in and chewing up the money for nests. Sitting hunched under the blanket in the hopper of the front cockpit, he got himself all worked up worrying, like some little old woman.

Well, hell, the money was safe enough, it wasn’t going anywhere. He was too edgy, he’d been nervous ever since he accidentally killed Zigler. He didn’t like the thoughts he’d had, either, back there in the post office, wanting to hurt that young guard, he didn’t like that it had even crossed his mind to kill him. That young fellow wasn’t Zigler, he didn’t deserve to die, he wasn’t anything like that scum that Lee had wasted.

Mark had said they’d be following the Colorado River most of the way to Vegas but, looking out over the plane’s nose, Lee couldn’t see much but the night closing in on the deeper blackness of the low mountains, just their crowns catching the last gleam of daylight. Soon between the mountains they hit a patch of turbulence, the plane bucking, the wind so cold Lee pulled his jacket collar up, settled deeper in his seat, and pulled the blanket tighter. When he felt a tap on his shoulder, he looked back to see Mark shoving a wadded-up coat at him. He grabbed at it, the wind trying to tear it away. He got it into the cockpit and gladly pulled it on. Soon, bundled in the coat and blanket, he grew warmer—warm all but inside his chest where it felt like his breath had turned to ice. Hunching down in the coat collar like a turtle to warm his breath, he thought about the wagon trains that had crossed the desert and crossed those bare ranges below him, pioneers stubbornly heading west: a trip that took many months, where he and Mark were looking at just over an hour.

Some of the mountains those folks had crossed would take three teams of horses or oxen to pull one wagon up, with everyone pushing from behind. And on the other side, going down, trees had to be cut to use for drags to keep the wagons from getting away, from falling wheel over canvas, dragging their good teams with them. Those men and women, crossing a foreign land hauling their loaded wagons over the frozen mountains, they had had no idea what lay ahead, and they’d had only themselves to rely on. But they kept on, despite starvation, frozen limbs, despite sickness and death, despite the ultimate desperate measures that had kept some of them alive, that had shocked the generations who came after them, had shocked descendants who might not be here at all, if not for what they called, looking back, the most heinous of crimes.

Lee didn’t know how to judge what was not his to judge, all he knew right now was, if it was cold in this open hopper, the winters during those crossings had been a hundred times colder, down there among the wild mountains.

As a kid, growing up in South Dakota, he’d thought there’d never be an end to winter. Every chore seemed twice as hard, his hands froze to any metal he touched, ropes frozen stiff, even the flakes of hay froze hard. Barn doors stuck, latches wouldn’t work, ice had to be broken from water buckets several times a day and at night, too, so the animals could drink. He’d hated winter, and he’d had a home to live in, they’d had a fire at night to warm them and where his mother cooked, they’d had plenty of food, good beef from their own cattle, grain and root stores, but still he’d grumbled. Grumbled about splitting the firewood, grumbled about dragging hay over the snow to the waiting cattle. He’d even complained when he had to slog through deep snow to the barn to do his chores where he’d be cozy and warm among the warm animals.

Now, hunched down in the little airplane traveling in a way he had never imagined as a boy, he felt strangely unreal. The land below the wings humped away in darkness, a glint from the river now and then, and above the upper wing a glint of stars; and then far ahead Lee saw a cluster of lights, warm and beckoning, and that would be Vegas, a glittering oasis appearing and then vanishing between the low hills.

But where, all this time, was the ghost cat? Why wasn’t he here beneath the blanket, warming Lee? Why had Lee not seen or sensed the cat during all his moves at the post office and then burying the money, turning the gray loose, getting in the plane and taking off—all without Misto?

Had the yellow cat abandoned him? Had even this crime of robbery, so removed from any betrayal of Jake Ellson, had even this transgression against the law turned the cat from him? Lee prayed not. He would feel a failure, he would feel betrayed if that were the case. To be abandoned so suddenly, without a word, without a last rub and purr, that couldn’t make any sense to Lee.

Beneath him, now, the little city took shape, the land below brightened by colored neon, by palaces of yellow lights as the Stearman dropped down over the last ridge into Vegas. Mark circled the city lights, then put her nose down toward the valley. Warmer air washed over Lee. He sat up straighter watching the lights come up at him in sweeps of raw neon, the windows of the tall buildings crowded together and bright, and then a dark and empty space delineated by long straight rows of airport lights picking out the runways.

Mark banked the Stearman, coming around for a straight shot, a long approach. He set her down lightly and taxied to the far end of the runway, where he moved off toward a row of small planes tied down, and a few small hangars. The night was pleasantly warm, Lee pulled off the heavy coat as Mark killed the engine.

He was stiff, getting out. And he was still wondering about the cat, he still had that empty feeling, without the companionship of the ghost cat. Even when he didn’t see Misto he could often sense him near, but now he sensed only emptiness. He felt lost, felt so alone suddenly that he might even welcome the goading presence of the dark spirit—if the cat would return, as well.

He helped Mark wheel the plane to a tie-down beside the hangars. Across the way, Lee could see the public terminal, and beyond that a parking lot, lines of cars reflecting the lights of the building. A commercial plane stood nearby, maybe from San Francisco or L.A. As Mark snugged the Stearman to the ground ties, looping the short lines through the metal rings, Lee fished a handful of bills from his pocket to pay for the gas.

“Hope you make a killing in Florida,” he said, handing Mark the money, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “And good luck in Wichita. Take care getting there.”

Mark grinned. “Thanks, Fontana. I’ve enjoyed knowing you. Maybe someday we’ll see each other again.”

Lee nodded. “Maybe.” Turning away, feeling strangely lost, he swore softly at his sudden loneliness. Then he straightened his shoulders and made his way across to the terminal.

He took the front taxi of three that were parked at the curb. The driver was maybe fifty, a Latino man, short hair, smooth shaven, pictures of his pudgy wife and three handsome kids stuck around the edges of the windshield, a small silver Virgin fixed to the dashboard.

“Take me to the best Mexican restaurant you’ve got,” Lee told him. The driver smiled and took off, soon moving through a tangle of residential and small businesses, and then between the bright neon of casino signs that flashed along the street. At a small, noisy Mexican café, the man pulled over. Lee paid him and pushed in through the carved door to the good rich smell.

He found a small table in a corner away from the fancy-dressed tourists with their loud talk and laughter. He ordered dinner and two bottles of beer. He meant to take his time enjoying his meal. A few minutes wouldn’t make a difference, and who knew when he’d eat Mexican again? Not where he was headed. He watched the bleached-blond tourist women in their low-cut dresses, the soft-bodied greenhorn men dressed in fancy Western wear, the creases still showing in their pearl-buttoned shirts, their brand-new boots and Stetsons that had never been near a horse or steer, their loud tourist talk and brassy smiles, their feverish partying.

And then, when again he missed the cat, he wondered suddenly what he was doing here. Was this why the cat had vanished? Had Misto left him because he found this whole plan repugnant? Because even this last robbery had been against what the cat wanted or approved of?

Frowning, he thought about changing his mind and sliding back to Blythe, of staying innocently on the job there. But that would mean some bad loose ends, would put him in Blythe at the time of the robbery, would put him in immediate danger. He needed this alibi, or he’d have the feds wide awake, coming down on him like buzzards on an injured calf. A new parolee in the area, known for his train heists. A bank robbery in the small town, such as they may never have known before. What else would they do but close in on him?

Even as it stood, they’d want to know why he’d taken off, leaving the state against his parole, at the exact same time as the robbery. Hell, he thought, maybe he should have kept the gray, hauled the money out with him right then, and beat it straight for the border. Maybe he could have made it into Mexico free and clear, could have vanished now rather than later.

He was still feeling uncertain about what was ahead when his dinner came, steaming on the sizzling plate, enchiladas ranchero, beans and rice and chile relleno. He ate slowly, savoring each individual bite as he went over his next moves, letting the noise of the tourists fade around him. At last, wiping up his plate with the one remaining tortilla, he felt better, felt easy and at peace. This plan was all right, he had it set up just the way it should be, he knew for sure that the next steps were exactly what he needed to do.

When the feds were convinced he’d been in Vegas during the post office robbery, when they received the police report that he would soon set up for them, why would they question that kind of proof? What were they going to do? Stop and interrogate every trucker who had taken that route? Every tourist who might have picked up a hitchhiker? And how would they make the timing work out, for that long drive from Blythe up into Nevada? Smiling, he ordered a second side of corn tortillas and another beer. By the time he’d finished the third beer, a soft glow filled him. Feeling content, and full of good Mexican food, his worries evaporated. The plan ahead looked just fine. He paid his bill and left the café, smiling. Ducking into a liquor store at the next corner, he bought a pint of whiskey, and then found a deserted alley.

He broke the seal on the whiskey, took two swallows, swished it around and spat it out. He poured the rest of the cheap, dark booze over his shirt and pants, then tossed the empty bottle in a trash can, where it clanked comfortably against its brothers. Leaving the alley, he entered the first big casino he came to. At the main cage he bought a stack of chips with some of the money he’d carried in his boot.

He picked a roulette table, positioning himself across from the hard-eyed operator, bumping the player next to him, knocking some of the man’s chips on the floor. The tourist wrinkled his nose at the reek of whiskey, picked up his chips, and moved farther down the table. The operator glared at Lee, then spun the wheel. Lee placed a stack of chips on seventeen and as the wheel slowed he weaved back and forth, picking his nose. When the ball dropped into sixteen he reached over the table and shoved the operator hard. “You son of a bitch. I saw you drag your thumb on the wheel.”

The black-suited, hard-jowled operator slid around the table toward him, his pale brown eyes fixed on Lee. Lee stared at him, spat on the table, and threw the stack of chips in his face. He grabbed Lee, and Lee hit him hard in the stomach. People began shouting, dealers and security people came running, surrounding him. He grabbed up a stool, swung it hard, charging them, forcing customers to stumble over each other, getting out of his way. He glimpsed a man in Levi’s leaning over a gaming table grabbing up a stack of chips and then the place was filled with cops, cops storming in. Lee paused, waiting, weaving drunkenly, ready to light into the bastards the minute they touched him.

When two of them grabbed Lee, he raked the edge of his boot down a uniformed shin so hard the cop swore, swung his nightstick and hit him in the kidneys. As Lee doubled over they hit him again across the shoulders, pulled his wrists behind him, and snapped on the cuffs. He fought and kicked as they dragged him away, he swore at them slurred and drunkenly as they hauled him out through the crowd, the tourists backing away opening a path for him, as wary as if the cops were leading a wild man.

Outside on the street the uniforms pushed him into the backseat of a patrol car, behind the wire barrier. He cursed them loudly all the way to the station, calling them every name he could think of. In the station, while they booked him, he managed to knock the sergeant’s coffee cup off the desk and break it. He was booked for being drunk and disorderly, for fighting in a public place, for assaulting several officers, and destroying police property. When they searched him they found his parole officer’s card in his hip pocket, folded in with the address of Delgado Ranch, and Jake Ellson’s phone number. The booking officer, a short, heavyset sergeant, studied Lee.

“You’re under the feds?”

“That’s what they like to think. If I want to leave the damn district and have a little fun, that’s my business.”

“Where and when were you released?”

“McNeil. March eighth, this year.”

Sergeant Peterson raised an eyebrow. “Not long. Mr. Raygor will be interested to know how you feel about his supervision. Any message, when we call San Bernardino?”

Lee scowled at him, and said nothing. He watched Sergeant Peterson seal his pocketknife, his savings book, three hundred dollars in loose bills, and Mae’s picture into a brown envelope. “I want the picture back in good shape, not broken.”

Sergeant Peterson looked at the photo of the little girl. “Granddaughter?”

“My sister.”

Peterson studied the yellowed, faded photograph. “Long time ago. Where is she now?”

“I have no idea. Haven’t seen her since she was little.”

Peterson looked at him a long time. “No other family? Anyone you want us to contact?”

“If there was, my PO would do that.”

Peterson said nothing more. He nodded to a young, redheaded officer who ushered Lee on back to the tank, walking behind him, very likely his hand resting on his weapon. He unlocked the barred door, gave Lee a shove, and locked him in. The big cell was half full, mostly of drunks, the place smelled as sour as a cheap bar, that stink mixed with the invasive smell of the dirty latrine. Lee picked a top bunk at the far end of the long cell, stood with his back to the ladder glaring around him, looking for trouble, for any challenge to his chosen space.

There wasn’t any, most of the men were asleep or passed out. A sick young man lay curled on the floor in one corner, shivering. Lee climbed to the upper bunk and stretched out. He checked the ceiling for roaches, then rolled onto his side with his face to the wall. The mattress and thin blanket stunk of stale sweat. But in spite of the depressing atmosphere of another lockup, Lee lay smiling.

His moves had come off just as he’d planned. All he had to do now was wait. If he got lucky, he’d do his time right here in the Vegas jail, and he could think of worse places. Why would the feds bother to send him back to the federal pen just for drunk and disorderly? They sure wouldn’t send him back to McNeil for such a small infraction. Maybe they’d tack some extra time on his parole, but what was the difference? As soon as he was out again, he meant to jump parole anyway. No one would come looking for him in Mexico, or be likely to find him, if they did. The money was there in the desert waiting for him, and they sure wouldn’t get him on the post office charge. What court or jury could put him in Blythe when he was nearly three hundred miles away at the time, tearing up a Vegas casino?

Turning over, ignoring the stink of the cell, Lee drifted off toward sleep, quite content with his fate. Unaware, as yet, of the long, dangerous, and tangled route he had chosen, oblivious to the precipitous road he had embarked upon. He hadn’t a clue to the tangled connections he was yet to encounter and to the many long, dangerous months before he would return to Blythe to claim his bounty and head for the border. And if, three thousand miles away in Georgia, a young man waited, puzzled, for the old cowboy’s fate to play out, for the cowboy’s future to join his own, Lee did not know that, either.

If Morgan Blake, sitting hunched on his sagging bunk in the Rome jail, waited with a desperate hope that indeed a miracle was in the making as predicted by Sammie’s dream, if he clung to his wild belief that his little girl had seen truly, who could blame him? He had nothing else to hang on to. If their attorney failed to free him, Sammie’s prediction was the only hope Morgan had.

Maybe only the cat, sitting unseen in Lee’s jail cell in Vegas, saw clearly the direction the two men were headed, saw how they were connected, saw how their futures were drawing together. Crouched invisibly at the foot of Lee’s bunk, so weightless now that Lee was unaware of him, Misto looked around at the human scum that occupied Lee’s cell—a worse lot, by far, than the men in the Rome lockup where Morgan waited. Though, in Rome, Morgan’s view of the future was far more agonizing than the future that Lee envisioned.

For Lee, the dark spirit seemed to have pulled back, his aura of evil to have thinned, easing off the pressure on Fontana. Perhaps, Misto thought, Satan had grown bored with Lee, maybe he was soured at the effort he’d made that had garnered no satisfying results. Whatever the cause, Misto sensed that, at least for the moment, the devil had stepped back, that all was well with the world; and the invisible cat twitched his tail with pleasure.

Lee and Morgan and his family would keep Misto tethered to this time, to the drama that was only now unfolding and that would lead ultimately to the cowboy’s final fate. One day, not far off, the cat must return to the world as a living part of it, as a mortal beast only, without the powers and the freedom and vision he presently enjoyed. But, the great powers willing, he meant to remain close to Lee, as spirit, until Lee broke Satan’s curse for good and forever, until Satan gave up the chase, admitted defeat, and turned to tormenting other men, weaker souls who would be more amenable to his wiles.

You are the loser, the ghost cat thought, sensing Lucifer watching now, curious and waiting. You are the loser, Misto thought, soon Lee will drive you away and the child will drive you away, forever. You are wasting your time in this quest of Dobbs’s heirs, you will fail, you will finally and ultimately fail. And, smiling, the ghost cat rolled over across Lee’s feet, making himself heavy suddenly, purring mightily, jarring Lee awake. Lee looked down at him, and laughed. And in that moment Lee knew the cat would stay with him, that Misto wouldn’t leave him. In a rare instance of half-dreaming perception, Lee knew the ghost cat would remain beside him as Lee wove through a longer and more complicated tangle than he had imagined, as he fought through the encounters and trials that were laid out for him; as he was united with the child he had dreamed of and, surprised by the relationship, he discovered new partners and, with them, fought his way to his final and eternal freedom.