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The adrenalin pumping through his body made his hands shake. He took a step forward, easing around the jutting shoulder of a house-size rock, and that was when he heard the snick and clack of the grenade handle flying free.

He saw it spinning across the granite and he flung himself flat below the rock shelf.

The blast was ear-splitting. Shrapnel clanged off rock facets above his head and a chipped rock splinter fell hot against his calf.

He was still rolling, desperately spinning his head to catch sight of Hargit because Hargit had to be there somewhere drawing a bead on him; he tugged at the revolver in his pocket and it snagged, and he ripped the pocket wide open dragging the gun out, and now he saw Hargit in the dim shadows under a balanced-rock cave, the snow reflections pale against the graven face, the rifle muzzle black and steadying, and he knew he didn’t have nearly enough time to bring his revolver around before Hargit killed him but he had to make the try.

The rifle bore was dead-aimed at him and he waited with his body braced for the bullet while his arm came up incredibly slowly with the revolver. And still Hargit wasn’t shooting, Hargit’s eyes went wide with alarm and terror and disbelief, and Watchman snapped a shot from the ground. It missed; the bullet whanged off the rocks; and the rifle stirred in Hargit’s arms but did not fire, and Watchman lifted the revolver at arm’s length and pulled the trigger and saw, vividly, the jump and puff of Hargit’s coat as the flesh received the bullet.

The frenzied glitter of Hargit’s eyes changed focus. He was buckling, the rifle dipping toward the ground, he folded up over the rifle and fell over on his side with his knees drawing up against his chest.

Watchman ran forward and kicked the rifle away. The Major’s eyes brooded up toward him dully, not tracking properly, and slowly the Major’s right hand fell to his side. The fingers were bluish in the bad light and Watchman understood then: the man had kept his hand wrapped around cold steel too long, the fingers had gone rigid in the subzero night It was something Watchman had known and Hargit had not known and now, crouching down beside the man, Watchman heard himself say, “I guess I’m a better Indian, Major.”

He saw the puzzlement in Hargit’s dying eyes. Hargit had no idea what he was talking about.

The reaction hit Watchman then and his jaws began to chatter like a pneumatic hammer.

CHAPTER

The FBI agent was counting the money. He packed it back into the duffel bags and sealed it with adhesive tape from the first-aid kit and initialed it under the figure he had written: “931,670.” Watchman signed his initials in a crabbed hand below Vickers’.

They had laid out the two dead bodies—Hargit and Hanratty—and covered them with blankets and they were all waiting for the choppers. They had seen the first chopper, go over already; it had waggled its rotors and kept climbing toward the summit to pick up Mrs. Lansford and Keith Walker. Now they heard the flut-flut-flut of another helicopter coming up from the flats and Vickers got to his feet and shaded his eyes in the morning sun to look for it. The sun made little clouds of steam rise from the ice surface on the brush flat.

Baraclough and Burt were still cuffed together and Buck Stevens lay on a folded blanket with his hip bulky in bandages. Vickers turned to Watchman and said, “Thanks, Trooper. I guess you know what for.”

“No need to keep books on it.”

“I’m going to give you a hell of a write-up in my report.” It was said with the expansiveness of a man who could afford to be generous: Vickers had a livid feather to stick in his cap.

“Don’t bother with any purple prose,” Watchman said.

“It may creep in. I owe you, Trooper. I wish I had your skills.”

Sure you do. You took my buffalo and my land and naturally you want my skills too. It wasn’t what Watchman said out loud because it would sound like what it was: a stray thought in the head of a man who had gone too long without sleep.

What he said was, “I’d appreciate it if you’d save some room in that report for Buck. For a rookie he carried a considerable load.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vickers said, and turned to wave at the descending chopper. It created waves of blown-up snow under its rotors as it settled and Vickers shouted against the din: “Next vacation I get I’m coming up here hunting season. I’d like to go out after big game with you if it suits you.”

“Maybe,” Watchman answered, knowing Vickers wouldn’t do it, knowing Vickers knew it. He turned and walked over to Buck Stevens.

He carried Stevens to the chopper, although the back muscles of his legs almost gave way. When he set Stevens down on the litter pallet Stevens’ grin made a broad streak across his tired young face. He glanced back at Vickers and jerked his head conspiratorially and when Watchman bent down close to hear his words Stevens said, “Say, who was that masked man anyway, kemo sabe?”

Watchman smiled a little. And then he said, “Don’t call me that any more, Buck.”

Stevens searched his face and after a while nodded with slow understanding. “All right, Sam.”

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This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

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