CHAPTER 1

The sound of the ancient truck easing up Cougar Creek Road faded in and out.  Old Ford transmissions make a unique sound; a steady reassuring groan as oily gears mesh not quite perfectly.  Matt Halford could almost track its progress as the vehicle negotiated the switchbacks that lifted the road up the narrow canyon.  It was closer now; occasionally he could hear the tires scratching and digging in the rough-crushed rock. The tailgate chains clashed sharply.  That would be the level crossing at Miner Creek—and the pothole.  Matt snorted, closed the book he held and put it on the table beside him.  Lifting his feet from an up-turned milk crate, he leaned away from the wall, his chair settling back on the porch-planks with a hollow thump.  A few minutes later the narrow canyon went silent for several seconds, and then the sound returned.  His dog lifted its head, looked at him— not directly, more an irritated glance—and nestled its chin back between its paws.  “Through the gate, Hobo.  I’d say our beans and bacon are about to show up.”  The bristle-haired dog blinked but his head remained settled on the dusty wood.  “Sure, now you don’t give a shit.” 

Matt levered his lean six-foot body out of the straight-backed chair, stood up, hands held high and stretched hard for a few seconds.  Tanned, his skin had a weathered look, and a short-back-and-sides haircut gave him a fit appearance.  Massaging a spot on his lower back, he went to the edge of the porch, and looked down the canyon.  Before long he caught a glimpse of reflected light and then waited for the nose of the tired-green ‘51 Ford pickup to poke around the last turn a hundred yards away.  It creaked up the hill and grumbled to a stop in front of the sturdy cabin.  A hand reached through the open window, pushed down on the door handle and the driver climbed out.  

“How long you going to put up with that busted door?” Matt asked.

The driver, an elderly woman with collar-length cotton-white hair, pulled pair of buckskin gloves from his back pocket, and swatted a cloud of dust from her jeans.  Standing five foot six in heel-worn cowboy boots, there wasn’t a hint of stoop in her back and her shoulders were square.  She spat in the dirt.  “Ain’t busted,” she said, and jammed her buckskin gloves back into her pocket. 

“The hell ya say.”  Matt went down five stone steps and walked over to the woman.  “How’s things down in the valley, Bea?”

“Hot, hot and hot, in that order.” She threw an arm around his waist and gave him a quick hug.  She smelled of hot motor oil, gasoline, road dust——and gardenias.  “Even as risky as this trip is, it’s worth it to get up here in the summer,” she said.  “I love this place.”

This place was a 120-year-old, sixteen by twenty foot log cabin.  Solar panels covered half of the green steel roof and a black metal chimney reached ten feet into the air with four guy wires angling down.   A covered porch with a rail extending along the front had steps on either end and in the center.  Set snug against the hillside, the structure blended into a stand of mature pine trees.  At one end of the cabin a 300-gallon propane tank stood between the wall and a supply of split firewood stored under a twelve-foot-square blue tarp.  The other end of the building butted against a trail that climbed sharply up the mountainside.       

“You have trouble getting up here?”

 “Nope.”

Matt thought she said it too quickly.

Bea patted the butt of a heavy semi-automatic pistol, one of a pair she carried in shoulder holsters. “My Russian friends here, and their ugly cousin ridin’ shotgun, encourage cooperation.  And if they don’t, I’m always ready to offer up your grub.”

“You would.”  Matt glanced at the canvas-covered load.  “Did you bring me a beer?”

“Is a wet frog cold?”

“And a newspaper or magazine?”

“You’re startin’ to piss me off.  I brought everything you need.”

“Well, let’s get the beer off there and have one.”  Matt hustled to the rear of the pickup, Bea right behind.  A minute later the cover was folded back, the tailgate dropped, and he grabbed both handles on a fifty-quart cooler.  Taking short, quick steps, he trundled it to the porch and set it down.

“You handle that like it’s empty.”

“People don’t appreciate iced beer.  I do.”  Matt fetched a second chair from the end of the porch, set it down by the table, and went to the cooler.

Bea threw her sweat-grimed felt hat on the table and shrugged out of the well-used pistol rig, letting it clunk to the floor.  Sitting down with a sigh, she jabbed a thumb in Hobo’s direction.  “Is that dog dead yet?”

“Don’t know him that well, so it’s hard to tell.  Here.”  Matt handed her a frosty-wet bottle and took a seat.  “Bottoms up.”

“Mud.” Bea clinked her bottle against Matt’s.

They chugged about a half each and then sat in silence staring into the basin below.  A milky-blue sky fused with the time-worn mountains fifteen miles to the west.  The range seemed to melt into the earth; foothills obscured, naked flanks an uninspired drab-brown.  The town of Calliope Springs, though only four miles away as the crow flies, wasn’t visible through a reddish-brown haze that choked the land.  The new State Highway 6 ran the length of the valley north and south.  Straight as a die, it crossed the meandering Chute River eleven times in eleven miles.  The old road used to run along the west side of the river.  Two paved county roads run parallel to it, the first a mile west of town, the second, two.   “Looks like crap down there.  Windy?”

“As a corn-fed mule.  And like the mule, it’ll blow itself out.”  Bea tipped her beer back, drained it, and stood up.

“While yer at it.” Matt drained his bottle and set it on the table.  “Two down and forty-six to go.”  He twisted the cap off his second beer and bounced it off the sleeping dog’s head.  Hobo took a deep breath, opened one eye, and then rolled over on his side.

“Why the hell would anyone keep something that ugly?” Bea asked. “Talk about a bad-hair day.  Hell, you could braid his eyebrows.”

“He’s good company.”

“But all he does is lay there.  I don’t think he even knows I’m here.”

“Oh, he knows.”

“Why ain’t he over here mooching or something?”

“Like I said.  Good company.” 

Bea huffed.  “I don’t think I’d keep a creature that just lay there—and did nothing.”  She twisted the top off her bottle. 

“It’s not his job to entertain me, and he does what he does just fine.”  Matt challenged her with a sideways look.  “And I don’t keep him.  He’s free to walk out of here just like he walked in.”

Bea’s beer stopped halfway to her lips.  “Why’d you ask about that damned broken door?”  She scowled at him. 

“Ya said it wasn’t broke.”

“Don’t bandy words with me, Matt Halford.  I know you.”

“My, my, aren’t we feisty today.”  He studied her for a few seconds.  “Old memories keep me in touch, Bea and even the bad ones serve their purpose.  I try to imagine what Calliope’s become.  That’s not easy when I’ve missed all the changes.”

She put her beer on the table and studied her wrinkled hands—then:  “Funny.  People.  I admire the young ones who can hardly wait for change, but I sympathize with the old ones like me whose morning prayer is for the coming day to be no worse than the day before.”  She looked up.  “And then there are those few who can make changes to suit the situation.”

He swept his hand towards the empty canyon.  “I’m sure as hell not going to make any changes from here.”

“For now we have to wait, Matt,” she said quietly.

Hobo scrambled to his feet to stand at the edge of the porch.  He gazed down the canyon, nostrils flared and mouth opened slightly to taste the air.  Then he turned to look at Matt, made a low grumbling sound deep in his chest, and lay back down.

Bea pointed at the dog.  “Is that what you mean by doing his job?”

“Yep.”

“Smells something, grumps about it, and goes back to sleep?”  She shrugged.  “Reminds me of my second husband.” Her brow knit for a second.  “Or was it the first?”

“He watches while I’m not.  He hears folks coming up the road fifteen minutes before they get to the gate.  I think that sound there just means he’s irritated about getting up for nothing. ”

Bea picked up her beer and took a swig, then another, then put the bottle on the floor beside her chair.

“Spit it out, Bea.  You’re nervous as a Hong Kong cat.”

“I thought about it all the way up here.  Whether to bring it up or not.”

“And decided to let me twist in the wind?  Bring what up?”  Matt glanced into the valley.  “Somebody know?”

 “Nope.  Still just me.  And that’s the problem.”

“Hell, I trust you, Bea.”  He shrugged.  “Obviously.”

“And what happens if I take sick suddenly—or die?”

“Ah crap, Bea, that’s years away.  Let’s cross that creek when we get there.  And drive around the damned pothole.”

“I’m getting old, Matt, 68 years, and some days I feel old.”

“So?  You’re still looking down at the daisies aren’t ya?”  He studied the rough planking for a moment and then lifted his eyes to look into Bea’s weather-worried face.  “Shit!”  He slammed his fist against the tabletop and Hobo’s ears perked.  “Why don’t you let me come down to Calliope and clean house?  When you asked me to come back, I didn’t expect to be stuck up here all summer.  I’m not used to running from a fight.”

“I’m well aware of that, but memories are long around here.  I’ll come and get you when I’ve got a couple more things lined up.  Then we’ll even up a score or two.” Her eyes misted and a tear suddenly broke free to zigzag down her lined face.  She roughly wiped it away, almost a slap.

“How is-”

“The same, Matt, she’ll always be like she is now.  I don’t even visit anymore.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair.  “I’m sorry.”   Hobo watched him for a few more seconds and then relaxed again.

“Not your fault; you did all you could——at the time.”

“You halfway blew me off when I asked about your trip up here.  How bad is it getting?”

“Washington’s complete partisan gridlock since the ’16 election hasn’t helped.  Who’d have thought we could be nostalgic for Bill Clinton?  The Backers are now all over Womack County; five thousand square miles of mountainous desolation and a sheriff with three patrolling deputies.  Even if he wanted to, he can’t keep track of five hundred newcomers who don’t want to be kept track of.”  She shrugged. “Only good thing is most of the so-called survivalists don’t have the balls to back their brass.”

“You’re going to run onto one who does, you know that.”

“Then I guess we’ll see if I got my money’s worth.”  She nudged the double rigged set of pistols with her boot.

“If it gets that rough you can’t come up here anymore.”

“I don’t do can’t for sour apples, Matt.”  She reached across the table and took hold of his arm.  “It’ll all sort out.  Sometimes we don’t get to see it, but justice usually prevails.”  She squeezed and then settled back in her chair.  “Let’s enjoy the afternoon.  I love it up here.”  She gave him a wan smile. “I think I already said that.”

CHAPTER 2

Matt saluted her from the front porch, and then reached down to scratch Hobo’s alert ears.  “Get out of here before dark catches you,” he shouted.

She let out the clutch and started down the mountain.  Just before rounding the first turn, she glanced in her mirror to see Matt kick his chair back and position his milk crate footrest.  Bea wished he were sitting in the passenger seat with the AK-47 in his lap.  The memory of the polished black Range Rover she’d passed on the way in brought with it an uneasy feeling.  Parked just around a corner with at least two men inside, she’d been less than fifty yards away when she saw them; her casual wave ignored.  Backed into the hillside, they weren’t showing a license plate.

Bea rattled across the cattle guard at the gate and stopped on the other side.  Climbing out, she grabbed the end of the heavy steel barrier and swung it into place against the stops.  “What the hell?”  A cold chill crept up her back as she searched the ground at the base of the ten-inch well casing that served as a latch post.  “Dammit all,” she muttered and let the gate swing open again.  At the edge of the road by the hinge post she tugged her gloves on, picked out as big a rock as she thought she could lift, and lugged it across the road.  After a glance down the hill, she swung the gate shut again and maneuvered the boulder into place.  Taking her gloves off, she swatted at a bullet-riddled “Private - Keep Out” sign.  “Not a chain and lock, but it’ll have to do.”  She climbed back into her pickup.

Bea allowed the Ford to gather more speed than usual on the steep grade into Miner Creek.  With an expert double-clutch, she downshifted to cross the shallow stream, and then grit her teeth a split second too late as a front wheel dropped into the pothole.  The rear wheel followed a second later.  “Sorry, old truck.  Gotta fix that.”  Scratching out of the creek bed, her eyes were focused on the top of the bank, her mind anticipating the right turn she knew came next.  As she wheeled around it, the angular black SUV blocking the road startled her.  Slamming on the brakes, she skidded to a stop and grabbed for the rifle as it slipped off the seat.  Jerking the parking brake back, reached through the open window and pushed down on the door handle.

Out of the pickup and partially shielded by the open door, Bea eased loose first one of her Tokarev pistols, then the other.  The shiny outfit had an Arizona license plate and she noted the number/letter combination—CAN450. “Can of Colt 45,” she thought.  Two men got out and walked toward her.

One was slim, neatly dressed in light slacks, white cotton shirt and tasseled loafers.  His eyes were hidden by wrap-around sunglasses, and even in the lowered light his gold watch glinted.  “Slick,” shot through Bea’s mind.  His gut-heavy partner wore grime-shiny jeans, a sleeveless Raider’s tee shirt that exposed muscular arms covered in grotesque tattoos.  Dirty, sockless feet were stuffed into scruffy, unlaced Nikes.  Grimy was armed: stuffed halfway around his back and partially hidden, Bea guessed it to be a Colt 1911.   

“We were hoping you’d come down before it got dark.” Slick had a slight Spanish accent.  “I am looking for my dog.”

Bea stepped away from her truck.  “And you have to block the road to do that?”

Both men’s eyes flicked to her holstered pistols and then to each other.  “You did not stop on your way up,” Slick said.  “We think that maybe you will not stop going down either.”  He shrugged.  “It is a very valuable dog.  A hunting Griffin.”

 “There’s your answer then.”  Bea smiled.  “He’s gone hunting Griffin.”

Slick winced, and when he did, Grimy took half a step forward.  Slick stopped him with a single raised finger. “What would he find if he went hunting up your road?”

“Me—coming down.”

“You are very clever with words.  Be careful you are not too clever.”

Her heart picked up speed.  “I don’t know you, and I’m not used to being questioned by strangers.”  She focused her attention on the armed one.  “I know you’ve been up the road half a mile past the gate because that’s the only place to turn around short of the end.”

“I do not deny that.  And at the end?”

“The end is private, just like the sign says.”

“I would be very interested in buying such a private place.”

“So would a lot of people.  It’s not for sale.”

“Perhaps I-”

“Perhaps you can move your outfit and let me go on my way.”

“Si, Señora.”  He dipped in a slight bow.  “I meant no harm.”

“Then maybe you can let me have my gate chain back as well.”

Irritation flickered in his eyes.  “Gordo,” Slick said sharply. “La cadena y el candado.”  He slipped his hand into his pocket and a moment later the rear door of the Rover swung open.  “He cannot resist picking up anything that is not secure.”

Gordo turned around and went to the vehicle.  Bea could see the pistol clearly.  Not just a Colt.  Kimber maybe, carved ivory colored grips and pricey.  The sloven thug dragged the chain and padlock out of the cargo space, let it drop to the ground, and returned to stand next to Slick.

“There.  We will now leave.  If you should see my dog?”

“If he shows up, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

Confusion swirled in his eyes for a second, and then he smiled.  “Clever words.  Adios, Señora.”  He turned on his heel and both men got back in their vehicle.

Bea waited until they were out of sight before she carried the chain to the truck and threw in it the back.  “Crap,” she muttered as she climbed into the cab.  “Two miles down to a turnaround, then three miles back up, or reverse for a mile.”  She thumped the steering wheel.  “I’d have a cricked neck for a month.”  She released the brake, dropped the transmission into first and let out the clutch.

Twenty-five minutes later she opened the gate again and drove on to the turnaround.  When she got there Matt and Hobo were standing in the middle of the road.  Matt held a scoped M16 rifle high across his chest, ominously ready.

“I was afraid you’d hear me coming back.  Hop in and I’ll drive you back to the cabin.”

“I can get back okay.  What the hell’s going on?”

“We almost had visitors.”  She set he brake, climbed out and started to look around.  “Here.”  She pointed at a set of wide tracks next to the bank.  “Hobo the wonder dog must have been sleeping.”

“He heard them. And he heard them leave.  What’s that got to do with you being back here?”  Matt’s tone was sharp. 

“They stopped me a couple miles downhill.  Slick looking devil in a brand new Range Rover—and another guy.”  She wrinkled her nose.  “Filthy thing.  Said they were looking for a dog.”

“That doesn’t sound unreasonable.”

“Reasonable people wave you down friendly-like, they don’t just block the damn road.  On top of that, they stole my gate chain and lock.  Nobody does that unless they’re used to stealing stuff.  And what the hell good is a padlock without the key?”

Matt looked down the road in the failing light.  “Did they leave?”

“Far as I could see.  The Dandy was real interested in what was up here.  He said he’d be interested in buying a private place.  Nowadays that means another whacky survivalist, except he didn’t look that type.”

“Armed?” Matt’s hold on the M16 tightened.

“The dirty one was—high-end Colt knockoff, very expensive.  Again, fancy guns, expensive cars, and gold watches mean drugs.  All that was missing was the big-busted blonde in a skimpy-ass dress.”

“Dammit, Bea, I feel useless as tits on a slab of bacon.  They could have done anything they wanted down there.”

Bea glanced down at her pistols.  “These ugly Russkies don’t have safeties for a reason.  I’m quite sure both Slick and his buddy knew that.”

“But what if they’re waiting down there?”

“I know every twist, turn, dip and rise on that road.  They might be waiting, but they aren’t going to surprise me.”

“They have before.  I’m serious, you can’t dodge a bullet.”

“If it comes to that, there’s not a damned thing I could do anyway, so I’m not going to fret about it.”  She put her hand on his arm and squeezed.  “It’s bad, but it’s not near that bad.”

“Crap!”

“Gimme a week, ten days at most.  I’ve got a couple more ranchers to talk to and we’ll be ready.”

“If that’s the only way.”

“You stay put, Matt.  I mean it.  I can’t be worrying about you showing up one morning, or worse yet, getting a call from Henny to identify your body.”

“You said it wasn’t that bad.”

“For you?  It’s that bad.  Now promise.”

Matt shook his head, then launched a rock out of the road with a savage kick.  “All right.  Promise.  Now get out of here before it’s completely dark.  And by the way, you’ve lost your right tail light.”