Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) (6 page)

It felt like only seconds had passed when the bushes around them were shaken violently. Rick's eyes snapped open, Eve's wide stare only inches away. They heard panting, and the brush shook again.

They rolled on their backs and looked up. A buffalo's head was right above them, nostrils wide, and eyes furious. Well, at least Rick assumed they were angry—admittedly, he hadn't much experience with buffalos.

The buffalo jerked violently against the branches, but they were apparently too strong for him to get any closer. The head lowered until the broad muzzle was only inches from Rick's forehead. He could hear inhalations as the nostrils opened and closed. The head was twisted to one side. Rick realized it was because, up this close, the animal could see only out of one eye at a time. The large brown eye seemed to regard him without any particular approval.

Without thought, Rick reached up and laid his hand on the short curls of hair under the eye. The massive head didn't move. The curls were soft and tight. He dug his fingers in and scratched hard to get under the heavy coat. The buffalo moved his head slightly to bring other areas into reach, and they kept it up until Rick had given him a thorough scratching on both sides.

Snorting abruptly, the head pulled back, and they could hear the animal's heavy hooves crunch away through the grass. They could hear other buffalo moving around them as they followed the lead bull.

In the silence, Eve looked closely at Rick. "Pretty damn brave for a white boy."

"You think?"

"I know."

"Hell, every dog I've ever known has loved to get a nice deep scratching. How different could a buffalo be?"

"About two thousand pounds and a fair amount of mean different. I think he was trying to tell us to get our butts out of this comfortable little bed and back to work." Eve started to wriggle backward out of the brush. "Anyway, he may be my sacred animal totem—I'm quite sure that this wasn't accidental—but he still had fleas."

Larissa burst through the back door and dodged the fresh wash hanging on the line in Iron Crow’s back yard. She was holding a shotgun as if it were a second child and scanning in all directions. Without looking at them, she said, "Hurry up and get inside!" As soon as they were in the kitchen, she slammed the heavy wooden door and shot the bolt.

"Trouble?" asked Eve.

"The Goon Squad has been here three times already." The young woman set the safety and laid the shotgun on the kitchen table. "That's to be expected. You heard about Wounded Knee?"

Rick and Eve shook their heads.

"Oh, shit." She turned to pull down the heavy cups and checked to see that the percolator was hot.

"I hate to be the one to tell you. AIM decided to surrender. One of the nicest kids in the entire Pine Ridge reservation died in that big firefight and it just took the heart out of them."

She started pouring coffee so strong it looked like diesel fuel. "Of course, only those who aren’t guilty of anything are going to stay behind to surrender. Everyone else will walk out like you did. We should be seeing them over the next few days."

"Come on, have some coffee." She gave Eve a critical look. "Damn, girl, you look like you slept under a bush. Did this white boy try to take advantage of you?"

Eve sat in one of the arrow back chairs and took a grateful sip. "No, he was a complete gentleman."

"What the hell's the matter with you, boy?" Larissa asked as she handed Rick a cup. "Out in the prairie night with the prettiest girl in two states not enough for you?"

Rick sagged into a chair across from Eve and smiled weakly. "There was a chaperone."

Larissa raised an eyebrow at Eve who said, "Nothing will put a chill on desire more than the appearance of a one-ton spirit guide with bad breath. Father Buffalo was very clear that we should be up and moving."

"Well, that I can understand." Larissa headed out of the kitchen. "So we should get you two on your way. Your bus is in the barn under a pile of hay bales. I'll get Robbie started on clearing it out."

Larissa stopped as she became aware of the silence that filled the kitchen. She turned slowly, her face already hardened, braced for unpleasant news as if she were facing into a winter storm.

Rick said, "We came out with Pete Talltrees. He gave me a message for your father."

"He's not coming?"

"Pretty sure he's dead."

Larissa slumped against the kitchen counter, all the energy gone from her body. "Dammit. Dammit. Dammit."

Eve nodded agreement. "A brave man and a good one."

Larissa looked at Rick. "Who did it? Goon Squad?"

"I don't think so." Rick shook his head slowly. "I think they were outsiders, not from the reservation. In fact, I doubt they came from the West at all. I think they flew in from the East. Except for Flick."

Larissa burst out, "Flick Crane? That asshole has the nerve to show his goddamn face around here? After what he did to little Ann Marie, the whole Swift Bird family is ready to rip him apart, and I think they'd be going easy on him. Personally, I'd like to bring back 'burning at the stake' just for him. But Flick wouldn't be man enough to take on Pete Talltrees."

"No, he sure wasn't," said Rick. "Flick was working with that bunch of strangers I was talking about. The other night these outsiders were firing at both sides, Indians and marshals. That's what really caused the firefight. Then they came after us, and Pete split us up and led the hunting party off in another direction. If Flick was there at all, he had plenty of help."

He took a deep breath. "There were a lot of them out last night on bikes and trucks. When they caught up to Pete, we could hear his rifle fire for a while. But there were a lot more of them, and eventually Pete’s rifle stopped. I don't think Pete had a chance."

Larissa bowed her head and was silent for a time. Then she looked up and said slowly, "Well, that might explain the guys who came by twice yesterday. I thought they were agents or marshals except they didn't flash their badges or show off their guns. These fellows just came up to the door and asked if we'd seen anyone pass by on foot. Strange folks, now that I think of it."

"Clothes all brand new?” asked Rick.

Larissa's head came up. "Yes! How did you know?"

"Sounds like the same people who've been following us. I think they flew in and just bought jeans and shirts to blend in." Rick took another sip of coffee. It was so strong that he swore he could feel it in his fingers and toes.

Larissa snapped her fingers as she remembered something. She said to Eve, "You got a message yesterday. It was bounced around from your parents and then people down here just spread the word on the party lines. Hell, everyone always listens anyway."

She pulled a slip of paper out of her jeans and handed it to Eve. "It's from someone named Kristee. Said she's in DC and in trouble. The number is right there."

Rick unzipped his jacket and began to bring out his pack of Winstons. He stopped cold when his fingers brushed the small leather bag. The warmth from the coffee seemed to drain out of his body.

"One more thing." Rick brought out the bag and handed it to Larissa. "Do you know who this belongs to? A little girl who may have been reported missing in the past days or weeks?"

Larissa stared at the medicine bag, turning to see all sides. "Yeah, this is Beth Pine's. Her parents put the word out to look for her three days ago. Where did you find it?"

Rick looked at the girl, already showing her fear, and said, "Eve, can you do this?”

She nodded solemnly.

Rick stood and said to Larissa, "I need to speak to your father. In private."

Larissa waved a hand. "He's out in the garage. It's just past the barn." There was a pause, and then she said softly, "Damn."

She looked at Eve and shook her head, begging for a denial. Eve nodded slowly, stood up, and took Larissa in her arms.

Rick shut the door on the silence.

The weathered and split boards of the two-car garage matched the old barn and looked like they both would blow away with the first winter blizzard. Rick knocked, and a deep voice said, "Come in."

Rick swung open the right-hand door and found himself inches from the muzzle of a shotgun. Behind the trigger was an old man with intense brown eyes in a deeply lined face so tanned it looked like burnished leather. He was wearing denim coveralls that showed a lot more grease and oil than denim.

Rick slowly raised his hands. "Hello. We didn't meet when we stopped on our way into Wounded Knee, but my name is Rick Putnam. I've got a message from Pete Talltrees."

"OK."

"Do you mind if I come in?” Rick gestured to his shirt pocket; "I'd really like a smoke, especially if you're going to keep that thing pointed at me." Rick lowered his hands and dug for a cigarette. "So, if you're going to shoot me, just hang on for a minute." The Zippo flared on his thigh, and he lit the Winston.

The brown eyes behind the shotgun glanced at the lighter, and then returned to Rick's face. "Seventh Cavalry? Tell me, who were you up against at Ia Drang?"

"I was told later that it was the 1st and 66th Regiments of the Army of North Vietnam, but at the time, I only saw a shitload of gooks with real uniforms and way too much ammunition." Rick took another drag, "I do remember a fast mover with an eagle feather who passed by. I believe that was your plane, Sarge."

The gun muzzle dropped. "It's good to meet you…”

"Rick Putnam."

"Rick. Right. Elvis Iron Crow." They shook—Rick felt a strong hand weathered and callused from years of hard work—and the older man placed the shotgun in a rack custom-mounted on the left-hand door.

The inside of the garage was very different from the weathered and dilapidated exterior. Clean and well lit, with a long tool bench down the length of the right wall and a rack of power tools down the left, it would have fit right in at Pit Road in Daytona or Gasoline Alley in Indianapolis. Rick noticed that, on the inside, the garage walls were strong with no gaps. Obviously, there was an element of camouflage in the construction.

There were two hydraulic lifts but only one was in use. The car up in the air was painted a scalding red and looked dangerous just sitting still.

"GTO?” asked Rick.

"Yeah, that's The Judge." Iron Crow ran his eyes lovingly over the length of the sleek body. "Moves like crazy once you get it out on some blacktop." He laughed and turned back to the tool bench. "Of course, there's not all that much blacktop out here on the rez, so I'm rigging the shocks and springs to give it more ground clearance. Car like this can't really go fast on dirt, but at least I can keep it from killing the passengers before they can get it on a highway. Now, tell me about Pete. Where did you see him and when is he coming out?"

Rick didn't say anything. After a second, Iron Crow gave a long sigh. "Yeah, that's what I was afraid of. Just figured there might be a chance. What happened?"

Rick told him the story of the past two nights. The old man rested against the tool bench; the dark eyes never left Rick's face, and the lines in his face seemed to deepen, every vestige of the humor Rick had seen just moments before fading into stone.

"He told me to give you a couple of messages," Rick concluded. "Said thanks for all your work in 'Nam and to tell his dad to come by and pick up the Buick."

"The Buick, huh?" Iron Crow turned back to the bench and began idly to put a set of wrenches in order by size. "He didn't have any damn Buick. He found a '55 Roadmaster somewhere in Saigon and had it dragged out to
Bien Hoa
. Presented it to me and expected me to fix it—said it was perfect except for the bullet holes across the driver's side door.

"But hell, there are hardly any parts anywhere for those old Buicks. Sure as shit weren't any over there. It never got off cinderblocks, but he used to get in, lean back, and smoke whenever he was waiting for assignment. Said he could hear the radio playing. Frank Sinatra, usually."

He placed the last wrench down on the bench with utmost care and turned back to Rick. "Whenever he took off on a particularly dangerous mission, he'd tell me to make sure his Dad got the Buick. I'd say it would be waiting for him when he got back."

"OK…” Iron Crow paused, swallowed, and then continued. "OK, clearly he was telling me to treat you the same way I treated him. What do you need?"

Rick felt that saying anything sympathetic would be a mistake. Iron Crow would grieve alone. "He gave me something to deliver."

"What?"

"Can't say."

"Who's it going to?"

"Can't say."

Iron Crow gave a short laugh. "Well, that's helpful. Can you at least give me an idea how far you need to go?"

"About three or four hundred miles tonight," Rick waved at the GTO. "I'm more used to motorcycles than this kind of big iron. I'd probably put that right into the ditch on the first turn. You know of a bike I can borrow?"

"Hey, you're forgetting that out here you could easily go a couple of hundred miles before you'd have to turn at all, but, yeah, I think I've got a two-wheeler back here somewhere." Iron Crow headed toward the back of the garage, pulled aside a pallet filled with crates of motor oil—Rick noticed the pallet was on wheels—and revealed a hinged steel panel closed with a hasp and padlock.

The older man looked back and smiled. "We used to steal ponies to prove our courage. Now the young men like to 'borrow' a good motorcycle. From the outside, the walls just continue. No one notices that there's a separate space back here."

He reached in and flipped a light switch, then duck-walked through the low opening, Rick following. On the other side was a small narrow space, as clean as the rest of the garage.

Two motorcycles were up on rocker lifts. One was a classic Harley, a Sportster with the chrome touches and leather fringe of a classic. The other wasn't anything Rick recognized, a mean-looking orange and black with one big cylinder pointing straight ahead, and the other straight up. "What's this?"

"This is Ducati's answer to the Japanese superbikes." Iron Crow rubbed his hand along the bench style seat. "Top speed of 125 and enough torque to pull the front wheel up in fifth gear. I put a custom race fairing on it, and some tank padding for your chin in case you want to get flat at top speed, but the rest is stock."

"Never seen one before." Rick crouched to get a better look at the engine. "Pretty slick."

He stood up. "How does it handle?"

Iron Crow stood on the rocker pedal and lowered the bike to the ground. "Here, see how it feels."

Rick threw his leg over the seat and grasped the front grips. "Nice. More solid than I'm used to with anything Italian."

"Yeah, that's the part that Ducati really got right. This is the first inline twin 750 Ducati made and, by rights, it should be a piece of crap." He leaned down and buffed an invisible speck of dust off the front fender. "Taglioni, their chief engineer, is a goddamn genius. It's not only faster than hell, but it has great handling, good brakes, and these Pirellis hold on the road like glue."