Way Down on the High Lonely (12 page)

Then he unpacked his binoculars, the little Peterson bird glasses that came so highly recommended by one Joseph Graham, and went for a hike.

He climbed up the north side of the spur, pulling himself up the flaky ground by grabbing onto pines, until he came to a shelf of rock on the top. He edged around that, gained another fifty feet of elevation, and walked along until he found what he was looking for.

It was a little outcrop on the south side of the spur. A small grove of aspens provided cover but left enough of the view; a lovely panorama of the main compound of Hansen’s a thousand or so yards down and away from his perch.

My hunch was right, Neal thought with an unbecoming degree of satisfaction. Just as the slope of the ground shields my cabin from Mills’, so does the same geography create dead ground behind Hansen’s. Except the dead ground is quite lively this late Saturday afternoon.

First of all, he could see the construction even with the naked eye. It was a frigging stockade. The center building was a large bunker—basically rectangular, but with circular gun ports built at the corners to provide a field of fire that could sweep all of the ground around it. It was built low to the ground with a sandbagged roof, over which was stretched a net stuffed with sagebrush. Neal imagined that the foundation was dug deep into the ground to protect against explosives.

There were three smaller bunkers on the other side of the main one. They were all circles of poured concrete; two had gun slits barely aboveground. Neal guessed that they were supply dumps of some sort, perhaps for food and ammunition. The other one looked like it might be for prisoners. All were similarly camouflaged in sagebrush.

Somebody knows what the hell he’s doing, Neal thought. A casual observer from the trails along the mountain would barely pick this out, and if he did it would look like an old mining operation or cattle pen. The bunkers would be impervious from fire directed from the mountain slopes. You’d need artillery or at least mortars to do any serious damage, and who was going to haul that up here? But the fort clearly had been constructed to defend against an attack coming from the valley, not the mountains. A charge across the flat sagebrush plain into these bunkers would be suicidal folly.

Three sides of the compound were flanked by a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The fourth side, the one that faced the Hansen house, was the one under construction at the moment. It looked like they were trying to build the fence to allow a gate to open onto a dirt trail that cut all the way back to the main Hansen compound. Even now men were unrolling wire along the trail.

What are they expecting? Neal wondered. Armageddon?

They probably are, he thought. Probably the idea would be to give up the big house and withdraw to the stockade. Fight it out there until the good guys win.

Neal put the field glasses to his eyes and adjusted the lenses for distance. Even with the powerful binoculars, the busy figures were indistinct against the dull gray of the sagebrush-covered ground. Neal could just make out the figure of Bob Hansen, mostly because of the cowboy hat. Neal scanned the compound to see if he could locate the rangy figure of Cal Strekker, but he didn’t find him.

Maybe he’s in one of the bunkers, Neal thought. Maybe Harley McCall and Cody are too. Maybe I should be as well.

Neal watched for a few minutes longer and then pulled off the outcrop and found himself a place to sit among the pines farther back. There was no sense in being exposed for too long, and he wanted to wait until the light got a little softer before trying to get any closer.

If McCall and the boy are in that compound, he thought while he sat, it isn’t going to be any easy bag job. I don’t care how much high-priced muscle Ed can bring in, we aren’t getting the kid out of there. We’re going to have to find a way to lure Harley and the boy off the place and then take them. And I don’t have a clue yet how to do that.

Neal waited for an hour before he got up and started to ease himself along the slope closer to the stockade. He figured that even a couple hundred yards might give him a shot at recognizing faces, primarily to see if Harley was one of them, but also to start getting an idea of just how many people they’d be up against.

Then the thought hit him with almost nauseating force: just how the hell many people know about this? Shit. Jory Hansen certainly, the same kid who is on a trail ride with Shelly Mills, the daughter of my friends Steve and Peggy. Do I tell them?

The second wave hit him: or do they already know?

Old friends … good neighbors … Steve’s remarks about the “goddamn federal government” … Steve from California … a rancher Harley knew from California …

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

A hand pressed tight against his mouth. A knee pressed into the small of his back while the forearm pulled him up and backward, arching his spine to the breaking point and threatening to snap his neck.

“You’re a dead man,” a voice hissed. The point of a combat knife pressed against Neal’s ribs.

Well, Neal thought, at least I’ve found Cal Strekker.

To Neal’s disappointment, Strekker didn’t take him to the compound. Instead he dragged him to a clearing farther along the ridge and slammed him down at the base of a small cedar.

He chose the spot pretty well, Neal thought. You can’t see or be seen from here.

Cal talked quietly into a small field radio. Neal made out the word
intruder.

“Mr. Hansen’s on his way up,” Strekker said. “But maybe I should just kill you and tell him you tried to escape.”

His voice had a dangerous edge to it. His eyes were shining with an excitement that was almost sexual. Psychotic. Neal knew all about psychotic—he had ridden the Broadway local train for years. So he also knew there was only one way to treat this kind of violent crazy, the type that gets his jollies off other people’s fear.

Strekker unholstered his pistol and waved it in front of Neal. “Why don’t I just blow your face off right now?”

“Why don’t you just eat me?”

He watched Cal’s face turn red. With the blush and the orange beard he looked like a mutant tomato. He was furious, but Neal saw something else come onto that face: uncertainty.

“You think you’re a tough guy?” Strekker asked.

“No, but I’ll do until the real thing comes along.”

“It has come along, shithead.”

Neal laughed. “You?”

There is a definite ebb and flow to this kind of interaction, Neal thought. Cal’s tide is going out.

“What are you doing up here?” Cal asked.

“What’s it to you?” Neal asked. “Oh, that’s right. You’re the dickhead of security.”

And a pretty damn good one, I must admit. I sure as hell never heard you coming. Fine “operational shape” I’m in. But you’re good. You’re very good. I’m going to have to find a way to deal with you before I can get Cody McCall back to his mother.

Strekker clicked the hammer back and pointed the gun in Neal’s face. “This is a 9 mm. Do you know what that would do to your head?”

Neal felt the almost paralyzing pins and needles of terror. He wanted to curl up in a little ball and cry.

But that would probably get me killed, he thought. So he answered, “Has anyone ever talked to you about handguns as phallic symbols? Listen, Cal, genital size isn’t everything. There’s also charm, good grooming, a sense of humor …”

Cal holstered the pistol.

“Get on your feet,” he said. “I’m going to beat the hell out of you.”

Neal had no doubt that if he got to his feet Cal would beat the hell out of him, so he stayed on his butt and said, “You’re going to do shit. Hansen’s on his way here? I’ll deal with the boss, not the hired help.”

He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. He didn’t open them again until he heard footsteps.

Hansen wasn’t alone. He had brought one of the other hands with him. A thick, broad-shouldered short man with black hair and a beard.

“Get up,” Cal barked at Neal.

Neal made himself get to his feet very slowly. He dusted off his jeans and looked at Hansen.

Hansen said, “What are you—”

“Just hold on a second,” Neal cut him off. “I have a question for you. I’m out taking a simple walk on public land and your goon here jumps me, holds a knife to my ribs, points his gun at my nose, and holds me prisoner. I make that three counts of assault, plus kidnapping and unlawful detention, and I’m holding you responsible. So you make sure you keep that ranch of yours in good order, because I want it nice and clean when I take possession.”

Something Joe Graham taught him: when you’re hopelessly on the defensive, attack. When they catch you red-handed, slap them with it. Neal dusted himself off some more and started to walk away. Cal’s hand went to his gun.

“Government land starts another two hundred feet up,” Hansen said. “You’re on Hansen Cattle Company land. I have a right to protect my property against rustlers and horse thieves.”

Neal spun around. “Where am I going to put a cow? In my pocket?”

“You could be scouting the place out,” Hansen replied.

True enough, Neal thought.

“What are you doing with those fieid glasses?” Strekker demanded.

Scouting the place out.

Neal made a show of calming down. He stared at the ground as if trying to recover his temper, and then said in a tone of determined reasonableness, “I wanted to see a mountain lion.”

Hansen and the black-haired man laughed.

“A mountain lion?” Hansen asked.

“Yeah, Steve Mills said there were mountain lions up here. I’m staying in his cabin, thought I’d take a walk and try to see one. I’m from New York. I’ve never seen anything like a mountain lion.”

Neal watched as Bob Hansen tried to decide how to react. Cal Strekker’s lupine grin left him in no doubt as to what would happen if Hansen gave the thumbs down.

“Well, you’re a friend of Steve Mills,” Hansen said, “so we’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But we’ll be keeping an eye on you.

Which is when Neal decided to push it. “Jesus,” he muttered just loud enough to be heard. “I might as well be back in the joint.”

“What?” Hansen asked.

Neal opened up the tap on his feigned temper a little. “I said I might as well be back in the joint! I came out here so I wouldn’t have people ‘keeping an eye’ on me!”

“Where were you in jail?”

“New York.”

“What for?” Hansen asked.

Do I push it some more? Open it up, step on the gas, let it rip? Or do I play it safe? “Shooting a nigger,” Neal answered, looking Bob Hansen straight in the eyes.

And the eyes told him that he had Hansen’s interest.

“Well, hell,” Hansen said. “I didn’t think you could shoot a gun in New York and not hit a nigger.”

His boys laughed.

“Mr. Hansen, I wish you’d been the judge,” Neal said. “He took it pretty seriously.

“Did you kill him?”

“The judge?”

“The nigger.”

“No. To tell you the truth, I’m not a very good shot.”

More laughter. The atmosphere was starting to change.

We’re getting to be buddies, Neal thought.

“What was he?” Hansen asked. “A pimp? A pusher?”

People will always tell you the answers they want to hear, Neal thought.

“Both.”

“I’ll bet the judge was a Jew,” the black-haired man said.

They’ll even tell your story for you if you just take the time to listen.

Neal nodded. “The judge and both lawyers. Mine told me to plead guilty. I got six to ten. Served three.”

Hansen shook his head angrily. “That’s the jew-dicial system we got. I’ll bet the nigger is back out selling women and dope.”

“I didn’t look him up,” Neal said. “Parole officers frown on that sort of thing.”

“Your parole officer know you left the state?” Strekker asked.

Neal picked up on the tone of doubt.

“What do you think?” he answered sarcastically.

“So you’re skipping,” Strekker said.

Let’s push it a little more, Neal thought. “I’m not going to live my life with Big Brother looking over my shoulder every minute, telling me what to do, what not to do, where I can work, who I can see. Seems like a white man can’t be free back East. I thought it would be different here. I guess I was wrong. I’ll stay off your land, Mr. Hansen, but you keep your eye on your own business,” Neal said. Then he looked at Strekker, “And if you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll kill you where you stand or die trying.” And, by the way, don’t tread on me.

Strekker leered at him. Hansen was sizing him up as if Neal was a bull he was thinking about buying.

“You’re a fighter,” Hansen said.

“I don’t want to be,” Neal answered. “But if I’m pushed …”

“We’re all being pushed, son,” Hansen said. “But some of us have decided to push back.”

Neal just shrugged.

“I can check out your story, you know,” Hansen continued.

I’ll bet you can, Neal thought. “It’s not a story, Mr. Hansen. I wish it was.”

“And if it turns out you’re lying you’d best be long gone from this valley.”

Mister, Ed Levine will have this cover story locked down so tight that I would believe it if I checked it out.

“And if it turns out to be true?” Neal asked.

“Then maybe I could use a man like you,” answered Hansen.

And maybe I could use a man like you, Neal thought. But he said, “What for?”

Hansen smiled. “Depends. Let me ask you, Neal, what did you see from up here with those glasses?”

Do I lie? Do I bluff? If I he and they don’t buy it, I’m dead. But if I tell the truth and they don’t like it, I’m dead.

So Neal gave them his best “ink blot” look, an enigmatic expression that allowed the other person to read into Neal’s face whatever it was he wanted to read—lips curled into the slightest of smiles, eyes just a shade widened.

“Nothing,” he said.

Hansen smiled back at him. “You’ll be hearing from me,” he said. Then he signaled to his boys to follow him and headed off down the slope.

Strekker bumped into Neal.

“You and me still have a date, shithead,” he hissed as he walked away.