Potshot

"They shot me," Bernard said, as they came up to where I stood. "Fuckers shot me right in the goddamned leg. In the fucking leg. Hurts like a bastard."

"Great shooter," Sapp said. "Hit a target as small as you."

"Bobby?" I said.

"Tore up my left knee," he said.

Chollo stood in front of The Preacher for a moment and then gri

He said, "We deal in lead, friend."

The Preacher showed no sign that he'd heard Chollo, or that he knew we were there. He was still rigid beside the ratty Scout. Tedy Sapp put Bernard down in the shade of the Scout and let him lean on the front right tire. Hawk helped Bobby Horse onto the ground beside him. Bobby didn't lean. He lay flat on his back and stared straight into the pain. I looked at my watch. The whole fight had taken twenty minutes.

"What about your neck?" Vi

"A piece of rock," Chollo said, "chipped off and nicked me."

There was movement on the left periphery. Five of us turned to shoot; and Dean Walker came out of the scrub, where not so long ago the deer had walked, carrying an AR-15, and looking a little sweaty. His radio was strapped to his belt, the microphone clipped to one of his shoulder epaulets.

"I already called for some EMTs," he said.

He spoke to The Preacher.

"You're under arrest," he said, "for assault with deadly force, for trespassing, and probably for leading an insurrection. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…"

From out of sight, faintly at first, down the road toward town, I could hear the whoop of the ambulance siren growing louder.

Chapter 61

SHOWERED AND SHAVED, comforted by ten hours sleep behind me and six buckwheat cakes, I sat in Dean Walker's office drinking coffee from a white mug that said Santa Monica on it in red script. He drank from one just like it.

"Been a cop too long," Walker said. "I couldn't let it slide."

"Good," I said. "How about the Dell."

"Most of them have split," Walker said. "I managed to convince the county that the ones left were squatting on county land, and there's a bunch of sheriff's deputies up there now evicting them."

"Also good," I said. "How about your cops?"

"They resigned," Walker said.

"Didn't care to fight the Dell?"

"Not at these prices," Walker said.

My coffee was gone. I went over to the Mr. Coffee on the top of the file and poured another cup. I brought it back and sat down again across from Walker.

"I wish I owned a swell cup like this," I said.

"I know," Walker said. "I feel very lucky."

"Preacher got anything to say?"

"Not yet."

"He will," I said, "when it's time to save his ass."

Walker smiled.

"How cynical," he said.

"I'm trying to change," I said.

"Never too late," he said. "Cawley Dark's coming down to talk to The Preacher about Steve Buckman."

"I don't think The Preacher did it," I said.

"He did something," Walker said.

"I don't want to bag him for something he didn't do," I said.

"I'll take what I can get," Walker said.

We were quiet. We drank some coffee in the cool empty room. Mr. Coffee had done a nice job. The coffee was good.

"What about Mark Ratliff?" I said.

"I don't got Mark Ratliff in a cell," Walker said. "I got The Preacher."

"And you're willing to railroad him?"

"The Preacher's a creep," Walker said. "He was out to kill you. He's probably killed a lot of people. Just because maybe he didn't kill Stevie Buckman is no reason not to hang him for it."

"How cynical," I said.

"I'm trying to change," Walker said, and smiled.

We drank some more coffee. The hushed sound of the air-conditioning made the room seem even quieter than it would have with no sound at all.

"Ratliff's missing," I said.

"That's what his secretary says."

"You been looking for him?"

"I'm a one-man department," Walker said. "I been kinda busy."

"I owe you for that time in the street," I said. "And I owe you more for showing up when you did yesterday."

Walker nodded and said nothing.

"But I don't owe you everything there is."

"You don't owe me nothing," Walker said. "I was doing what I'm supposed to do."

"And now you're not. I came out here to find out who killed Steve Buckman, not just clear the case."

Walker was silent.

Then he said, "I think maybe it's time you went home."

"Not yet," I said.

"Whatever you might think," Walker said, "I'm what this place has got for law. I could shoot you dead for resisting arrest, and no one would say shit."

"Someone might," I said.

Walker smiled again, but not because he was happy.

"You're an optimistic bastard," he said.

I finished my coffee and put the empty mug down on the edge of Walker's desk and stood up.

"Persistent, too," I said.

Chapter 62

IT WAS OUR last breakfast together. We were eating omelets with onions, made, and beautifully, by me. Everyone was at the table in the kitchen, except Bobby Horse, who was propped up on a couch that Chollo and Hawk had dragged in from the living room. A local doctor had done what he could for Bobby Horse, put a cast on the knee, and had given him a large supply of Percocet. The Percocet made him quieter, which I would have thought impossible.

Bernard J. Fortunato wasn't as badly hurt. The bullet had gone through his thigh without breaking any bone. It had destroyed some of the tissue around the entry hole, and it would take awhile to heal. Bernard had Percocet too, and its effect was to make him more talkative. Between him and Bobby Horse, they averaged out about normal.

"So what I wa

"We did," I said.

I put an omelet on a plate with some biscuits. Chollo took it to Bobby Horse.

"You need me to feed you?" Cholio said.

Bobby Horse shook his head.

"So if we was going to ambush the fuckers anyway," Bernard said, "how come we didn't do it first, climb up there and shoot them down right in the canyon?"

"They hadn't come for us then," I said.

"That's why I got fucking shot," Bernard said.

I nodded. I was at the stove again, making another omelet. You have to make omelets in small batches or they don't work. And the pan needs to be cured, and the heat needs to be right. You don't just break a bunch of eggs.

"I don't get it," Bernard said.

"You get used to it," Vi

"But we did the same fucking thing," Bernard said. "And I got fucking shot doing it, and so did Bobby Horse."

The current omelet had firmed up just enough. I folded it over, shook it around in the pan a minute, and slid it onto a plate. I gave it to Bernard.

"Are you going to explain it?" Bernard said to me.

"Just eggs and some pan-fried onions," I said.