Way Down on the High Lonely

Part Three
Gunslingers
9

Neal shivered in the bitter cold. As the wind bit through his denim jacket he tucked his chin a little deeper under his sheepskin collar and pulled his black cowboy hat tighter down on his head.

The sun was a pale circle in a sharp blue winter sky. Sitting on Midnight on the top of the hill, Neal felt as if he could see forever. He was sitting in a stand of pinon pine on the west slope of the Shoshones, looking down about five miles where the little mining town of Ione sat at the edge of a vast desert. He watched until he saw a flash of silver start moving up the slope toward him. He lifted his binoculars and focused on the flash.

“Here she comes,” he said to Jory.

Jory shifted nervously on his horse. He checked the big saddlebags again to make sure they were tied on tight.

Neal moved his glasses just down the slope from him, off the left side of the road on the bottom end of a switchback, where Cal and Randy waited in a camouflaged pickup with pine boughs thrown across it. Just a little above Neal, Dave, and one of the new guys were sitting in another truck, waiting for his signal.

Neal focused on the armored car again. He checked it out and then glassed the road behind it.

Nothing.

“They don’t have a follow car,” he said.

“That’s good,” Jory said. Neal could hear the tension in his voice. He hoped the boy would be all right. Then again, all he really had to do was ride his horse. Jory had been picked for that job because he was by far the best rider, about the only legitimate cowboy there except for Craig Vetter and Bill McCurdy, who sat on another horse just by.

“Arrogance,” Neal responded. “Laziness and arrogance.”

It’s going okay, Neal thought. They’d picked the spot well. The armored car would be in low gear as it chugged up the heavy grade. The switchback would keep them hidden and give them the privacy they needed. There was a big boulder on the other side of the road.

“I sure hope they don’t spot that pickup,” Jory said.

“They won’t,” Neal answered. “Remember, they’re not looking for anything. This is just the usual milk run to the little towns to pick up the checks and drop off the money. They’ll only get half-alert when they bring the stuff out of the truck. Now shut up, I need to concentrate.”

The timing on the thing was delicate, even though they’d practiced on a similar switchback a couple of dozen times. But there was no way to simulate the armored car’s exact speed or what its driver might do, and that’s what had Neal concerned. If things started to go wrong, people might use guns in place of the plan.

He was particularly worried that Cal and Randy might get hinky, believe they’d been spotted, and just start shooting. But there was nothing he could do about that, so he put it out of his head and watched the truck work its way up the slope.

He felt his chest tighten. There’d be only one shot at this thing and he had a feeling it would be his last shot at finding Cody. If the robbery went off well, Neal would be sworn in as a full-fledged Son of Seth, and as such he would be privy to all of their secrets.

So concentrate, he told himself. Do something right for a change.

The truck was getting closer. Eight minutes, maybe ten.

“Get back some,” Neal said. He maneuvered his own horse a few feet back into the pines. It wasn’t easy. He still felt about as comfortable riding a horse as he would flying an airplane. Billy and Jory eased their horses into the pines.

“How much longer?” Jory asked.

“Shut up,” Neal answered. He didn’t dare lift the binoculars again for fear the flash might spook the driver. But he could catch the glare of the armored car’s roof as it came around the switchbacks.

More like six minutes now.

“Check your loads,” he ordered.

“But we’ve already checked about-” Jory started to say.

“Do it!”

Neal pulled his Colt from its holster and flipped the cylinder open. He had five rounds loaded, leaving the chamber empty. He didn’t want anyone’s pistol going off accidentally. He slipped the revolver back into the holster.

“You think they got two men or three?” Jory asked, his voice cracking with tension.

“Will you be quiet?” asked Neal, although it was a good question. If the car was carrying a two-man crew-a driver and a guard-the job should be a breeze. If it was carrying a third man-another guard-things could get tricky. They’d gone through the options many times, but it clearly was weighing on Jory’s mind. A third man almost certainly would mean there’d be shooting. From both sides.

Three minutes, give or take, before the truck would pass Cal’s position.

“Cover up,” Neal ordered.

He pulled up the red bandanna tied around his neck and fitted it high over his nose. He pulled the brim of his hat down so it shaded his eyes, then turned to look at Jory and Billy to see if a stranger could identify them in some nightmare lineup down the road. With the bandannas on, the hats down, and the collars up, their eyes were about all that was visible. Good enough.

Neal looked down to see the car roof shine in the sun. It was just one switchback below Cal now. One more straightaway and one more curve and they’d be in the trap.

He turned to Billy and pointed up the hill. Billy kicked his horse and started to ride up to where Dave was waiting. Jory had to hold his horse back from following.

Great, Neal thought. Even the goddamn horses are nervous.

He watched the metallic flash get closer. It was almost up to Cal now.

He raised his right arm and brought it down sharply. Jory did the same thing and Billy relayed the message. Neal heard Dave’s truck start down the hill.

It’s going to go quickly now, he told himself. Keep your head. He looked across the road to the top of the boulder and whistled sharply. An answering whistle came back right away. Neal knew it would. Craig Vetter was a solid hand and the right man in that spot.

Neal watched the armored car come up the hill. Come on, baby, he thought. Keep coming… keep coming…

The armored car’s driver didn’t see the truck hidden off the side of the road, not that he was looking for it, anyway. He was idly talking sports with the guy in the passenger seat. It made the time pass. The guard in the back contributed a few ignorant comments about zone versus man defenses, but the driver decided that the guard didn’t know squat about either.

“What the hell difference does it make?” the passenger asked irritably. He sipped his coffee where he carefully had torn a crescent in the plastic cover. “The Giants can’t throw against either.”

“I dunno,” the driver answered. “If they get single coverage on man-

“Sure, if the man is Franklin Roosevelt or Ray Charles or maybe… look out!”

The driver was already looking. A lumber truck was headed straight for them. Sideways. The driver knew that the silly son of a bitch had taken the curve too wide and lost it. He knew it was going to jackknife the moment he heard the awful whine of the hydraulic brakes.

The driver slammed on his brakes.

The lumber truck jackknifed, just as the driver had expected. What he didn’t expect was that the trailer would flip and spill out its load of logs, which came bouncing and barreling straight for the armored car.

“Holy shit!” the driver yelled. “Get down!”

He and the passenger hit the floor just as one big cedar bounced over the hood and rolled into the windshield. They felt four more jarring thumps before the barrage stopped.

The passenger looked at the driver.

“Look at these slacks,” he said with disgust. They were soaked with spilled coffee.

The driver got back up in the seat and looked out to see three rifle barrels pointing out from behind the overturned trailer.

“Stay down!” he yelled to the passenger. He threw the car into reverse and started looking for a place to do a K-turn. He was one hot driver, but he knew he wasn’t going to make it to Ione going backward. He looked in the rearview mirror and knew he wasn’t going to make it to Ione at all. A big old pickup was roaring up the road in back of him. The pickup went into a controlled skid and slid sideways across the road.

I’ll give them a run for the money, anyway, he thought. He squared the armored car up on the pickup and punched the accelerator.

“You think he’s going to stop?” Randy asked Cal as the armored car bore down on their truck.

“Bail out!” Cal yelled. He grabbed Randy by the collar and hauled him out the passenger side a moment before the armored car slammed into the driver’s door. It shoved the pickup a couple of feet back but didn’t clear it out of the road. Randy reached over the side of the truck bed, grabbed the gasoline can, and ducked.

“You got ’em behind you!” the driver yelled to the guard. The guard scrambled to pick up the rifle he’d dropped in the collision.

Neal fired his pistol in the air and Craig Vetter jumped from the boulder onto the car’s roof. He landed hard, fell forward, got up quickly, and fixed the lasso in his right hand.

Cal and Randy scrambled in a crouch toward the armored car. The guard in the back stuck his rifle out the gun slit and drew a bead on Cal. Craig tossed the lasso over the gun barrel, tightened the rope, and pulled it to the left. Cal stuck his pistol in the gun slit and pointed it at the guard’s head while Randy lifted the gas can he was carrying, shoved the rubber tube through the gun slit, and poured the gas into the back of the armored car.

“I’m coming out! I’m coming out!” the guard yelled as he saw Randy strike the match.

Just like we practiced it, Neal thought. He watched the back door open and the guard step out. Cal grabbed him and put him on the ground.

“Stay there,” Cal said.

“No problem, no problem,” the guard answered. He was pissed off. This was supposed to have been an easy job.

Neal edged Midnight to the side of the road. He pulled his pistol and pointed it at the passenger door.

“Keep your damn hands off the radio! Those rifles pointed at you have jacketed rounds, so forget about your bullet-proof windshield!”

“What bullet-proof windshield?” the passenger yelled.

“Are you the boss?” Neal asked.

“The supervisor!”

“Open the cash compartment, supervisor!” Neal yelled.

The guy in the passenger seat reached under the dashboard and flipped a toggle switch. The compartment unlocked with a loud metallic click.

“Open the door and come out, supervisor!” yelled Neal.

“I have a gun! I’ll toss it first!”

“Okay!”

So far so good, Neal thought.

The door eased open and a Colt. 45 dropped to the ground. Neal backed the horse up to give himself some room and pointed the gun at the door. The supervisor came out with his arms in the air. He looked at Neal on the horse and asked, “Which one are you, Butch or Sundance?”

“Get down on the ground, smart guy,” Neal ordered.

The guy grinned crookedly and let himself down slowly onto the road.

“Now you!” Neal yelled to the driver. The driver eased himself out from behind the wheel and dropped to the ground.

Craig jumped down and he and Randy went into the back of the armored car. They pulled five large white canvas bags out of the cash compartment and carried the sacks over behind the pines, where Billy, Craig, and Jory had brought the horses. They loaded the stacks of money into saddlebags.

“Hurry up!” Neal yelled.

They finished loading the horses, then walked them up through the pines and out onto the road above the lumber truck.

Neal walked over to the supervisor and gave him a little kick in the ribs. “Get up.”

“Take it easy.”

“I’m taking it easy,” Neal said. “Walk toward the lumber truck. You do anything else, I’ll put one in your back.”

“You won’t have to, son.” He started walking toward the truck. Dave came out, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him to the back side of the truck.

Randy and Cal ran back to their pickup and headed down to Ione. They’d take a roundabout route to Austin when they were sure they were in the clear.

“You boys like your boss?” Neal asked the guard and the driver.

They nodded.

“I have him as a hostage,” Neal said. “If I even see a plane, or a helicopter, or any member of the law enforcement community, I’ll leave him for the vultures. Now get up and get your coats out of the car.

He held the pistol on the two men as they got their coats and put them on. Then he lifted the pistol, shot the radio, and took the keys out of the ignition.

“Just to make sure,” he said. “Now don’t you boys get all-of-a-sudden stupid. No bank’s worth dying for.”

“You got that right,” said the guard.

Neal stepped to the side of the road and threw the keys over the edge.

“Start walking for Ione,” Neal said.

“Aw, come on!” the driver protested. “It’s freezing out here!”

“It’s a lot colder six feet under,” Neal answered.

The guard turned and started walking. The driver took a second to give Neal a dirty look and then started down the road after him.

“It’s been a pleasure robbing you!” Neal yelled. He jumped back on Midnight and rode back to the lumber truck. “Let’s get going!” he yelled.

The boys hopped into the two pickups they had waiting up the road and drove over the top of the hill as Neal, Craig, Jory, and Bill trotted behind. The hostage was tied and gagged in the back of the first truck. A few minutes’ hard driving got them to the base of the hill, back in Reese Valley.

Three big horse trailers were parked on the other side of the hill. The captured mustangs snorted and stamped in two of the trailers. The gang started to off-load their own horses from the back of the third.

Neal pointed to the hostage. “Untie him.”

Dave looked startled. “Neal, are you sure?”

“Well, he can’t ride like that, can he? Besides, he’s one of us.”

“What?”

“I said it was an inside job.”

Dave grinned as he hurried to untie the prisoner. “Neal, boy, damned if you ain’t something else…”

Damned if I ain’t, Dave boy.

“He can ride with me,” Neal said, pointing to the supervisor. “Help him up.”

Dave pushed the man onto the horse in back of Neal.

“We all ready?” Neal asked. Then he gave a signal and the men opened the trailers. The mustangs poured out and milled nervously in the snow, waiting for their leader.

He was a big young bay stallion, and he reared and kicked as Bekke led him away from his mares and young ones. The cowboys held the herd in check while Bekke pulled the stallion along until there was a space of a hundred feet between the stallion and his herd. The rest of the cowboys eased their horses into this space as Bekke held the stallion, who was trying to crush his handler’s head with his slashing hooves.

“Hold on tight,” Neal said to his passenger. He nodded to Dave, who gingerly slipped the rope off the stallion’s neck, then fired a pistol in the air. The stallion whinnied and reared, saw the way clear to the broad valley to the north, and took off. His mares and young ones followed at a gallop, while the cowboys in the middle hung on to their mounts and tried to stay ahead of the stampede, which was even now obliterating their tracks in the snow.

Midnight surged forward and both riders almost fell off before righting themselves.

“I told you to hang on!” Neal yelled.

“Did I ever tell you I hate you, Neal?”

“Many times, Graham! Many times!”

Joe Graham hung on to Neal’s waist as if it were a life preserver. This wasn’t far from reality; their horse was laboring under the double weight and losing ground. If either rider fell off he would be crushed by the stampeding mustangs before he could even get to his feet.

Graham closed his eyes.

Neal looked ahead and saw Dave chasing the stallion on, galloping right behind him and keeping him headed south. The stallion was trying to cut, turn around, and get back to his herd, but it was too soon for that. Neal could hear the hooves behind him, what people called a thundering herd. But it wasn’t like thunder, the sound was more like a heavy hail storm, like when the sky opens up and beats the earth with hard balls of ice. He risked turning his head and saw the mustangs pounding just behind him. He gripped his knees harder into the horse’s side and kicked his heels into the animal’s ribs. His left foot slipped out of the stirrup and he fell forward onto the side on Midnight’s neck. He could feel Graham’s one hand trying to grab his jacket and pull him back up, but Graham had no leverage and they were both slipping.

He gripped the reins tightly in his left hand as he tried to feel for the stirrup with his foot. He got a toehold, then grabbed the horse’s mane with his right hand and pulled himself back up.

And then they were just galloping, flying across the sagebrush with the north wind in their faces, and the horses kicking up snow and snorting and the cowboys gasping for breath. One long, beautiful ride on The High Lonely and then it was over. Craig, Jory, and Billy, their saddlebags full of the loot, cut to the east and trotted toward the Toiyabe Mountains, and Dave slowed to a canter and then stopped. The stallion turned, watched him for a wary minute, made a wide circle around the cowboys, and galloped back to his herd.

Neal watched the stallion gather his mares, his fillies, and his colts, snort greetings, and then lead them in a dash back to the south, back to the hard task of surviving winter.

Then Neal looked east and saw the cattle herd a mile in the distance. He watched the three riders cross in front of the herd, which would soon trample their tracks. The riders were headed for the creek. They’d ride their horses up the creek bed for about ten miles, then take them up into the hills where they could see the Hansen ranch. If everything was all right they’d come in at dusk.

The rest of them would join the cattle herd and make their way slowly down to the ranch.

If anyone was looking for armed robbers, they wouldn’t think to suspect a bunch of cowboys bringing in their cattle.

Vinnie Pond stamped down the road. He was not a happy man.

“I’m a driver,” he said, “not a walker.”

Hell of a driver, thought the guard. He’d hit the pickup perfectly-not enough to move it out of the way but hard enough to look real.

“What I want to know,” the guard said, “is where Neal got that shit-kicker accent.”

“You know Neal,” Vinnie said. He blew on his hands to keep them warm.

“Not always a day at the beach,” the guard agreed.

They trod on down the hill.

When they reached the cattle herd Neal got off Midnight and helped Graham down. “Take a break,” Neal said.

Joe Graham sat down in the snow. “How do you keep from banging your balls when you’re riding?” he asked.

“You don’t,” Neal answered. “You just get used to it.”

“No thanks. How much farther do we have to go?”

“About ten miles,” Neal answered, hopping back in the saddle. “It’s not so far on a horse.”

“1 think I’ll walk.”

Neal reached down and helped Graham back into the saddle. He maneuvered the horse to the back of the herd, out of earshot of the others.

“It went well,” Neal commented. “How much money did we get?”

“Three hundred large plus change.”

Neal whistled. “Pretty generous of The Man.”

“He wants it back.”

That’ll be a cute trick, Neal thought.

Graham said, “Nice touch with the logs. You could have told us.”

“It was an afterthought,” said Neal. “I didn’t know it was going to be you.”

“I had something to tell you.”

“What’s that?”

“I think Cody McCall is alive.”

“So do I,” Neal said.

“But I think I know where he is.”

Cal and Randy had driven to Ione, then on up to Fallon, and now were working their way home on Route 5O. They’d picked up a couple of six-packs in Fallon, seeing as how alcohol was in short supply back at the ranch.

They were close to the Filly Ranch when Cal said, “You know, we oughta really celebrate.”

“How do you mean?” asked Randy.

“Thinking of saddling up a filly.”

Randy looked at him in disbelief. “Jesus, Cal, we robbed that place!”

“We had masks on!”

“Still and all.”

They were still arguing about it when they reached the Filly Ranch and something Cal saw made the discussion moot.

It was a woman standing by the road with her suitcase by her feet and her thumb out.

“Pull over,” Cal said. “I mean, why pay for it?”

Randy pulled the truck over and Cal rolled his window down.

“Awful cold to be standin’ out there, ma’am.”

“You’re telling me,” she answered.

She’s pretty, Cal thought. Long legs, big tits…

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“Anywhere away from here,” she answered. “This is no kind of work for a white woman.”

“We can take you as far as Austin,” Cal offered.

“That’s a start.”

Cal hopped out, threw her bag into the back of the truck, and helped her into the cab.

“My name is Cal, he’s Randy,” Cal said. “Course, I’m randy too, but my name is still Cal.”

She laughed politely but was starting to get a little nervous. “I’m Doreen,” she said.

“You sure are pretty, Doreen.”

“Hey, I just want a ride, okay?”

It’s okay, Cal thought, we just want a ride, too.

A little way down the road he asked, “You don’t suppose you could contribute some gas money, do you, Doreen?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have no money. That bitch back there wouldn’t give me my pay. Said I owed her for rent and towels and shit.”

Cal and Randy looked at each other and laughed like banshees.

“Well, that’s too bad, Doreen, but maybe we could work something out?”

Randy pulled the truck to the shoulder.

“You goddamn men are all the same,” Doreen said. “All right, who’s first?”

Cal looked at Randy. “Wait outside.”

“It’s colder than your momma’s heart out there. Are you kiddin’?”

Cal took his pistol from his waistband. “I ain’t kiddin’.”

“At least let me have a cigarette and a beer,” Randy grumbled. He lit up, popped open a beer, and got out of the truck. He leaned against the passenger door.

Cal pushed Doreen down on the seat. “You’re going to love me,” he said.

“I’ll bet.” She wriggled her jeans down to her boots. “Come on, lover.”

A couple of minutes later she said, “Is there something special I can do to help you…”

“It’s the cold,” he said.

“Sure, baby, it’s the cold.”

Randy rapped on the window.

“I ain’t finished!” Cal yelled.

He ain’t even started, Doreen thought. It might be quicker to walk to Austin.

Randy rapped again. “Cal!”

Cal looked up. “What?”

“A car’s pullin’ up!”

Cal zipped himself, tucked the pistol back in his waistband, and backed out of the cab. A big man in a black cowboy hat and shades was getting out of an old Cadillac and coming toward them.

Doreen kneeled on the seat and looked out the window. “Shit, it’s Harold!”

Cal thought he recognized the man as the bouncer at the whorehouse, but he asked her, “Who is Harold?”

“What are you doing with my woman!” Harold roared, answering the question.

Randy giggled and Cal answered, “I was just about to make her the happiest woman in America before you interrupted.”

“Get out of there, you whore!” Harold yelled. “Your ass is coming back to the ranch! You think I’m paying your bill?”

Doreen looked at Cal.

Cal said, “I’ll pay her bill.”

“Shut up, cowboy,” Harold said, “I wasn’t talkin’ to-”

Cal looked around at the empty road, pulled his gun, and shot Harold three times in the stomach. As Doreen watched in shock, Cal and Randy dragged the writhing, moaning man off into the sagebrush.

“Finish that up for me, will you, Randy?” Cal asked as he walked back to the truck. He climbed in and pushed Doreen back down. “I guess that makes you my woman now,” he said.

He didn’t need any special tricks this time, and Doreen lay on the seat listening to his grunts and Harold’s whimpering. Then she heard the shot and felt Cal finish.

They were a few miles up the road when Doreen said she had to take a pee.

While she was squatting behind a bush, Randy said, “She saw you kill that man, Cal.”

“Us. She saw us kill that man, my friend.”

Randy pulled his gun. “This is as good a place as any.”

“What’s the hurry?” Cal asked. “We’re having a party tonight.”

Randy frowned. “Hansen ain’t gonna like us bringin’ no whore to the ranch.”

“He don’t have to know. We’ll sneak her in.”

Randy slipped his gun back inside his jacket as Doreen walked to the truck. Cal opened the door and Doreen climbed inside.

Steve Mills stood on the penultimate step of the ladder, gathered the lasso, and tossed it over the chimney. Then he took the other end, tied it around his waist, and hauled himself up onto the slippery roof of his house. He stood for a moment to get his footing and watch the snow of the valley turn sparkling orange as the sun blazed in the late dusk. Then he got to work; he didn’t have a hell of a lot of time.

“Carter seeks out these custody cases,” Graham told Neal. “He encourages the father to skip the state, cool out for a while, and then enter one of the cells. Once Daddy is completely committed to the cause, Carter persuades him to give the child up for ‘racial adoption.’ A boy Cody’s age will be hidden somewhere until he forgets he ever had a family outside the Identity movement.”

Neal pulled on the reins to slow his horse down. He wanted to stay in back of the herd, well out of earshot of the rest of the gang.

“The idea,” Graham continued, “is to raise the perfect Aryan warrior. A child completely indoctrinated in Identity philosophy. Someone without personal connections or loyalties to anyone or anything except Reverend Carter and the white supremacist movement.”

“Are there many of these kids?”

“About a dozen so far,” Graham answered. “As soon as we’re finished here we’ll turn the files over to the Feds.”

Neal felt a chill go through him that didn’t come from the sharp north wind.

“Maybe Harley wouldn’t give them his son.”

“And they whacked him and took the boy.”

“So where is he, Graham?”

“I’m not sure,” Graham answered. “But Carter likes to use a child in these swearing-in ceremonies.”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Bob Hansen guzzled coffee to try to soothe his nerves. It didn’t help much that his house guest was a model of serenity.

“Trust to Yahweh,” Reverend Carter said once again. He sat at the kitchen table. The three bodyguards he had brought with him from Los Angeles stood in each doorway and beside the window. They were wearing their uniforms-starched khakis with crossbelts and red Nazi armbands.

Bob looked out his kitchen window to the south. The boys should be coming in now, if everything went as planned. If…

“If Yahweh means us to have the money, we’ll have the money,” Carter intoned.

“I have a son out there,” Hansen reminded him.

“They’re all my sons,” Carter replied. “And Yahweh’s.”

But Carter was edgy too. The money would mean so much for the cause. It would give them the ability to wage a holy war.

He watched Hansen as Hansen watched the south pasture.

Craig Vetter looked down from the Toiyabe slopes. He thought he saw something coming up the valley from the south, but he couldn’t be sure it was the herd. He wasn’t worried. He had a good view of the ranch and could see that it was in the clear. If the law had set up a stakeout, he would have seen it.

He turned to Jory and Bill, who sat shivering beside their horses. The boys were beat, but they had done well. They’d ridden hard across miles of frozen sagebrush, then down into the creek, where they’d first headed south, then turned around in the water and worked their way back north. It was hard, cold work, especially when they’d come out of the creek into thick pine and had to walk their exhausted horses up to the lookout. And now the sun was setting, and even though the fierce wind was dying down, it was bone-aching cold. Craig wished they could make a fire.

He looked south again.

No doubt this time, it was the herd.

He kneeled down and offered a quiet prayer of thanksgiving to Yahweh. Then he turned to his comrades and said, “Let’s go home, boys.”

The two cowboys got up stiffly, then started down the mountain.

They came home to a hero’s welcome.

Hansen shook their hands, and the Reverend C. Wesley Carter himself embraced each and every one of them and just couldn’t stop gushing, “Wonderful, this is just wonderful. God bless you brave men. You Aryan warriors.”

Hansen introduced Neal to Carter, “This was the mastermind, Reverend.”

Carter shook Neal’s hand, hugged him, shook his hand again, and said, “Your name will take an honored place in the roll call of those who stood and fought for our race.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s a great joy to meet you,” Neal answered. He pushed Graham forward. “I guess you know this guy.”

“Joe Gentry,” Carter said. “We did it!”

Graham grinned. “Yes, Reverend, we did.”

Carter looked around at the group. “This man sat in the back of my church twice a week for months… and never put anything in the plate.”

They all laughed.

“Well, isn’t this wonderful?” Carter asked. “Isn’t this Yahweh at work? You put a little in the plate today, didn’t you?”

“We should put that money away,” Neal said to Hansen.

“It can go in my office safe,” Hansen said. “That way it’ll be handy for tomorrow.”

Say what? Neal made himself not look at Graham.

“What happens tomorrow?” Neal asked.

Hansen and Carter smiled at each other as if they’d been caught planning a surprise party.

“I guess we can tell them now, Reverend. What do you think?”

I guess you goddamn can.

“I think it’s okay now,” Carter answered. “Tomorrow the arsenal of Yahweh comes.”

Crates of Bibles? Swastika stencils? A singing group?

“M-16s, rocket launchers, land mines,” Hansen explained. “State-of-the-art modern fighting equipment. Everything we need to start the shooting war against ZOG.”

Carter added, “And it is heroes like you who have provided the money to wage this holy war.”

Great, Graham thought, The Man will be delighted to hear he just laid out 300K to arm a band of violent, neo-Nazi loonies.

Neal could feel Graham’s eyes boring through the back of his neck.

“And I have even more good news for you,” said Hansen.

More?

Hansen beamed and said, “Neal, Reverend Carter is here to personally swear you in as a Son of Seth.

“I’m honored,” Neal said.

“You’ve earned it, my son.”

No shit, Reverend.

“Go get cleaned up,” Hansen ordered. “We’re holding the ceremony tonight.”

Tonight, Neal thought. A few more hours is all we need.

“He was a real son of a bitch,” Doreen said as she knocked another whiskey back. “Left me just cuz I did a nigger.”

Brogan opened his eyes and leaned forward in his chair to check this one out. Brezhnev shifted and whined at the unaccustomed activity.

Cal filled her glass from the bottle on the bar.

“You gonna want another one?” Brogan asked.

“This oughta do her,” answered Cal.

Brogan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “She looks done to me,” he muttered. Brezhnev looked at her a little longer before he set his head back on the floor.

“So, Doreen,” Cal asked, “what do you think about my proposition?”

She snorted. Wasn’t much of a proposition. Go out to some shit-kicking sagebrush ranch to pull a train for a bunch of cowhands. But it wasn’t like she had a whole lot of options, and she would need some money if she was ever going to get off The High Lonely. Besides, if Cal here liked her enough to shoot Harold over her, maybe he’d give her a ride down to Vegas, where she could get a fresh start. There was only one problem.

“I’ll do it,” she said, “if you can promise me he ain’t there.”

“He who?” Cal asked.

“The son of a bitch,” prompted Randy. He’d had enough whiskey to almost forget what they were planning for Doreen. And to hope that he had a chance with her before they did it.

“Harley McCall,” Doreen stated with the exaggerated pronunciation of the defensive drunk.

Which was when a little chill came over the party.

Cal looked at Randy. “Harley McCall.”

They both knew. They both remembered “Paul Wallace,” his legs propped up on saw horses, Cal standing over him with a sledgehammer, screaming his real name.

“Harley McCall,” Randy repeated.

“-is a son of a bitch,” muttered Doreen.

Cal put his arm around her shoulder and said, “Darlin’, I can absolutely, positively guarantee you that this Harley McCall won’t be at the party.”

Randy giggled. He remembered Cal swinging the hammer down on Harley’s shin, first one and then the other. Harley had stared down at his bones sticking out of his flesh and howled like a coyote in a trap. They’d stuck a rag in his mouth when the screaming stopped being funny.

“You know,” Doreen blubbered. She started to cry. “I’d like to find that son of a bitch. I loved the son of a bitch. And the little boy. Maybe you could help me find him?”

“You bet we could,” Cal answered. He looked over her shoulder and grinned at Randy. “I’ll bet we could take you right to him.”

“Come on,” Randy said, “we’d better be gettin’ back to the ranch.

He hoped he’d have a little time with Doreen. They’d have to sneak her into the bunkhouse so Hansen didn’t see, and then they’d have to go to the ceremony. But he hoped that left a little time before they killed her.

Neal and Graham walked toward the bunkhouse. “Okay, okay,” Neal hissed, “no problem. After they teach me the secret handshake we get the boy, slip away in the darkness, get to Austin, and phone Ed. He calls the FBI, they roar in, get the gang, the money, and the arms. It’s a cinch.”

Graham grabbed his crotch. “Now I know why cowboys walk the way they do. Here’s the deal: you go to the frat party and I’ll do some snooping around. If I find Cody and can get away with him, I will. Otherwise I’ll get out of here and get someplace I can call in an army. You stay in place.”

They stopped walking and looked at each other in the gathering darkness.

“And if we don’t find Cody?” asked Neal.

Graham started to grind his artificial hand into his real one. “Hansen has a kid, doesn’t he?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“We snatch him and trade. Beautiful business we’re in, isn’t it?”

“Lovely.”

Then Neal asked, “Think we stand a chance?”

“Sure I do.”

“Neither do I.”

They started walking again.

“Maybe,” Graham said, “it’ll be like one of those old movies. Maybe the cavalry will ride in.”

They looked at each other again and laughed.

Hansen finished recounting the money again and put it into his office safe. Carter sat at the desk watching him, his bodyguards watching the door and window.

“Do you trust them?” Carter asked.

“I trust Neal. I don’t even know the other one,” answered Hansen.

“Gentry is white trash,” Carter said. “A low-life drifter and a cripple to boot. His usefulness is at an end. Your Neal Carey I’m not sure about.”

“You can count on Neal,” Hansen said. He was ready to dig his heels in on this one.

“I don’t know, Robert, I don’t know. That’s what you said about McCall. Maybe you’re wrong again.”

Hansen flushed, thinking about everything that had happened because he’d been wrong about McCall. “What do you suggest?” he asked Carter.

Carter looked up at the ceiling and stroked his chin. “A test,” he said. “Now that I think about it, maybe Gentry can do one more thing for us.”

Shoshoko crawled to the mouth of the cave and sniffed the north wind. There was time, but not too much time. He wrapped his blanket around him and went to gather more wood for the fire.

A storm was coming, and it was almost time for him to die.