Three Sisters (33 page)

Having spent most of the past hour asking himself,
what am I in such a hurry for?
and getting no answer aside from the wordless urgings from his subconscious (to the general effect that this was no time to dawdle), Charlie Moon’s boot was heavy on the accelerator, and when he rolled down the north grade of Little Elkhorn Pass, the Expedition’s speedometer needle was jittering just below the ninety-mile-per-hour mark. By any sensible measure, this was reckless driving. Officer Jackson would have put a big ticket on him.

The tribal investigator was about a minute too late to witness the deliberate murder-by-truck of brother lawman Elmer Jackson, and the twisted wreckage of the state-police vehicle at the bottom of the rocky embankment was hidden from Moon’s view. What he did see was the monster pickup ahead of him, rear-ending the classic 1957 Cadillac.

Without waiting for his mind to consider issues like who or why or what should I do, the Ute’s mind instantly switched to instinct mode. While his right hand found the Ruger .357 Magnum revolver, his right foot pressed the accelerator all the way down, his left hand lowered the driver’s side window, the Columbine Expedition skidded to a broadside stop between the overturned Caddy and Hurricane Hazel—now about sixty yards down the road. The tribal investigator poked the revolver out the window, took aim, fired. As the monster truck approached a blind curve, the first copper-jacketed lead projectile passed through the cab’s rear window, missed the driver’s right ear by inches, shattered the windshield into several thousand shards, went on for a half mile to bury itself deep underneath the pinkish bark of a ninety-year-old ponderosa pine.

As an astonished (and now stone-deaf) Nicholas Moxon cursed and raged, another lump of lead passed his head to follow the first projectile through an almost-empty windshield frame, a third slug struck the inch-thick steel rear bumper. These shots were followed by others.

As the huge machine rounded the distant curve and vanished from view, Moon, smoking revolver in hand, sprinted to the wreckage. It took only a heartbeat to take in the scene of the accident. Make that scene of the
crime.
The upside-down Cadillac had flipped over two and a half times. All four doors had sprung open (as had the trunk), leaving a trail of debris along the highway, which included a spare whitewall tire, a stainless steel Thermos bottle, a woman’s black purse, a small blue pillow, and Scott Parris’s crumpled felt hat. Like Moon’s arrival, the site of the attack was fortuitous. If there had not been a wide spot between the road and the stream—if the state highway department had not removed a jumble of basalt boulders to provide a pull-off where tourists could enjoy the view of the towering canyon walls—Cassandra’s sedan would have impacted the boulders or rolled down the steep, rocky bank into the chill waters of Granite Creek.

That was the good news. Now for the bad.

Charlie Moon found his best friend on the ground, one foot pinned under the overturned automobile, groaning, bleeding from both nostrils, left arm snapped just above the elbow. The Ute knelt by the sandy-haired white man, pressed a thumb on Parris’s right wrist. The pulse was erratic. “Scott—talk to me.”

Scott Parris blinked bloody eyes. “Charlie?”

“It’s me, pardner.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody rammed you.”

A puzzled frown. “I…heard shots.”

“That was me.”

Parris’s lips parted in a ghastly smile, a chuckle pumped scarlet liquid over his lips. “You
shot
at somebody for reckless driving?”

“Damn right I did.” Moon tried to grin. “The rascal tossed a candy-bar wrapper onto the highway.”

“Well, that makes it all right.” A groan. “Did you nail the miserable litterbug?”

“I put some holes in his truck.” Moon blinked away the tears. “But he got away.”

A cough. More blood. Parris’s head lolled to one side. “Charlie…Charlie…”

Moon picked up a limp hand. “I’m here, pardner.”
Oh,

God—please don’t let him die!

“I think I’m…finished.”

The shouted
“No!”
caught in the Ute’s throat, hit the air as a strangled croak.

Parris gripped the Indian’s hand. “Don’t leave me, buddy.”

“I won’t.”
Hell will freeze over first.

Hell was determined to have the last word on the matter.

They heard the rumble of an engine. Big engine. The hum of tires. Big tires.

The Ute looked down the highway, barely able to believe it.
He’s coming back
.

He was. Hearing nothing but the awful roaring in his skull, staring through the empty place where Hurricane Hazel’s windshield had recently been, Nicholas Moxon addressed his dead passenger in a comradely tone, as if the murdered man were a trusted accomplice. “We can’t run, Tiger. The shooter’s probably another cop. He’ll call in a report and they’ll pick us up a few minutes after I ditch our truck.” He worked the clutch, shifted down to second gear. “Our only option is to finish this guy off—then, we’ve got a good chance of getting away.” As he came closer, Moxon squinted at the tall, dark form who had—as all men must—taken his position.
There’s no turning back now.
But as the sight of the tribal investigator was focused more finely on his retinas, Moxon eased up on the accelerator.
I’m sure I’ve seen that guy somewhere.
He pondered the prickly situation.

Charlie Moon was standing by his friend. So close that one of his boot heels touched Scott Parris’s arm. So close that he could hear the injured man’s rattling breaths. Long arms straight out, the tribal investigator held the heavy six-shooter in both hands, looked down the black barrel at the man behind the wheel, recognized Nicholas Moxon.
I’ll wait till he’s so close I can put one right between his eyes
. His nostrils picked up the scent of gun smoke.
Actual
gun smoke. An unsettling thought occurred to the lawman, who had not reloaded his revolver.
How many times did I shoot?
Moon counted off. Came up with the number. Which rhymed with “fix,” which was what he found himself in.
Well, ain’t this one helluva note.
For the best poker player in sixteen counties and for the best friend a man would ever have, there was only one thing to do.
Bluff.
Moon estimated his chance of pulling it off. Recalled the chilling phrase
snowball in hell.
An astute observer would have concluded that the Ute did not have to die. Only yards away, there was a pile of basalt boulders that had been bulldozed from the scenic stop. A little farther away, the steep riverbank. But taking cover—abandoning his fallen friend—never entered Moon’s mind. Here he was. Here he would stay.

A kindly motorist, heading north toward Granite Creek, gaped as she spotted the overturned Cadillac, was about to stop and offer assistance when she saw the tall, thin, grim-faced man with the big gun in his hand. And the huge pickup. And decided to pass. But not between them. The sensible woman braked, made a tight U-turn, stepped on the gas.

The gray-haired lady and her brand-new Subaru might as well have been invisible; neither Moxon nor Moon took the least notice. This time, this place, belonged entirely to them.

Minutes later, when the tourist from Little Rock, Arkansas, was out of the canyon, she would place a 911 call, report
a bad car accident and there was this man with a gun who looked like he was just itchin’ to shoot another fella if he as much as said ‘howdy’ so I got outta there and called you soon as my cell phone picked up a signal but I’m on Roam so I don’t aim to talk too long because last time I did them telephone-company bloodsuckers charged me nine dollars a minute.…

Two GCPD black-and-whites would respond pronto. For all the good it would do.

Mr. Nicholas Moxon, who was heading upgrade, had been barely twenty yards away when he allowed the monster truck to slow—almost to a stop. The driver frowned at his skinny adversary.
He’s waiting for me to get so close he can’t miss
. His choices were elegantly simple.
I can make a run at him, duck behind the dashboard, hope he misses. But this guy knows how to shoot
. Deep breath inhaled, the brain’s oxygen replenished to consider the sensible alternative.
Or, I could back off, ditch the truck a couple of miles down the road, hike back to town. I’d have at least a slim chance of getting away.

Hmmm. Double hmmm.

Moxon glared at the man with the pistol.

The Ute glared back. Knew what the bald white man was thinking. Charlie Moon grinned. Cocked the empty pistol.

Moxon was impressed.
This is a sure-enough game customer. It’s a wonder he hasn’t already taken a pop at me. If I were in his place, I would’ve
—Like the approaching thunderstorm’s first stroke of lightning, the sudden clarity startled him.
If he didn’t take time to reload, his pistol may only have a couple of cartridges left in the chamber. Or maybe only one
. His heart raced.
Or none!

Charlie Moon watched the bald man’s lips split into a triumphant grin.
He knows.

The truck driver saluted his worthy opponent. With an index finger.