Ancient Shores

The guns were disabled now, but for a wild moment Max wished he had them available.

He was leveling off at nine thousand feet when he saw another plane. It was at about fourteen thousand feet, well to the north. Too far to identify, but it occurred to him he should assume they would be watching.

He was tempted to fly over the Roundhouse, dip his wings, deliver some sign that Adam could trust him. But he knew it would be prudent not to draw anyone’s attention.

The other plane was propeller-driven, so he would have no trouble outru

He made a long, casual turn toward the south and goosed the Lightning.

Twenty minutes later he landed at Casper Field and rolled to a stop in front of a series of nondescript terminals. Casper was home to several freight forwarders, a spraying service, and a flying school. And to Blue Jay Air Transport. He climbed out of the plane almost before it had come to a stop and hurried into the little washed-out yellow building that housed Blue Jay’s business offices.

He’d been listening to air traffic control out of Grand Forks, and he knew that one of his charters was already on approach and the other was about thirty minutes out. The Sioux had sent someone to meet the planes, but Max knew he was going to have to coordinate things if they were to have any chance of getting Walker’s mysterious friends back to the ridge in time to do any good. He found a pay phone and put in a quarter.

Bill Davis sounded as if he’d been in bed. “Say all that again, Max?”

“Got a job for two choppers, about a dozen passengers. And a couple people from the TV station. Say fourteen, fifteen in all.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“I can’t get anything out that quickly, Max. I don’t even know who’s available.”

“It’s an emergency,” said Max. “We’ll pay double your rates. And a bonus for the pilots.”

“How much?”

“A thousand. Each.”

He considered it. “Tell you what I’ll do. You say you need two aircraft?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Look, I can only get one guy on this kind of short notice. But I’ll fly the second chopper myself.”

Max thanked him and punched in another number.

“KLMR-TV. If you wish to speak with the advertising department, press one. If…”

Max looked at his watch. It was twenty to eleven. He listened through the litany of instructions, and when the news desk came up, he pushed the appropriate button.

“News desk.”

“This is Max Collingwood. One of the people from the Roundhouse. I’d like to speak with the news director.”

“Hold one moment, please.”

There was a brief silence. Then a familiar baritone was on the line. “Hello. This is Ben Markey. Collingwood, is that really you?”

“Yes. It’s really me.”

“You’re supposed to be on top of the ridge. Are you calling from the ridge?”

“No. Listen, I don’t have much time to talk, but I can offer you a hell of a story.”

“Okay.” Max could hear the man light up over the phone. “Where can we meet?”

Max gave him instructions, hung up, and called the airport tower.

“Operations,” said a male voice.

“Duty officer, please.” Max was grateful not to have to deal with another automated call-answering system.

“May I tell her who’s calling?”

“Max Collingwood. Sundown Aviation.”

“Hang on, Mr. Collingwood.”

A long delay, during which he was twice assured that the duty officer would be with him presently. Then a familiar voice: “Hello, Max.”

Max knew most of the senior air people at Grand Forks. This was Mary Hopkins. She was a former vice president of the Dakota Aviation Association. She was tall, quiet, unassuming, married to an irritating stock brokerage account executive. “Mary,” he said into the receiver, “I know you’re busy.”

“It’s okay. What can I do for you?”

“There are two charter flights coming in. One of them must be landing about now. The other is close behind.”

“Okay,” she said. “I see two.”

“I’m going to bring in a couple of choppers from Blue Jay to pick up the passengers. If you could arrange to keep them together and allow a direct transfer, I’d be grateful.”

“You want to keep the passengers in the planes until the helicopters get here?”

“Yes. Just park them out somewhere, if you can, where they’ll be out of the way, and we’ll bring the choppers in right alongside. Okay?”

“Max—”

He knew this violated normal procedure and that she wasn’t happy with the idea. “I wouldn’t ask, Mary. You know that. But this is important. Lives depend on it.”

“This has to do with the business up on the border?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You could say that.”

“I’ll do what I can,” she said. “Where can I reach you?”

Bill Davis was three hundred pounds of profit motive and cynicism with a dry sense of humor and four divorces. He had recently suffered a minor heart attack and now had a tendency to live in the past, to talk as if his days were numbered.

His paneled office was filled with pictures of aircraft and pilots. A signed photo of John Wayne guarded the top of a credenza.

“Good to see you, Max,” Davis said. “I’ve got George coming down. Where are we going?” He filled a coffee cup and held it out.

Max took it. “The ridge,” he said.

Davis frowned. “Isn’t that where they’re trying to get the Indians out? National Guard, right?”

“Not the Guard,” said Max. “U.S. marshals. They’re going to shut the place down tomorrow, and the Sioux don’t want to leave.”

“Hell, Max, I can’t send anyone into that.”

“Make it two thousand, Bill.”

“Then you do expect trouble?”

“No, I don’t. I just don’t have the time to argue.”

Horace did his final reco

“This is not good,” he said.

“What’s the problem, Horace?”

“The wind. Wait one night, Carl. Give us a chance to use the smoke. Otherwise it could be a bloodbath out there. Everything’s too exposed.”

“Can’t do it,” said Rossini.

“Son of a bitch, Carl. We can’t wait one night? Listen!” He held up the receiver so Rossini could hear the wind roar. “What the hell is the big hurry?”

“I’m sorry, Horace,” he said. “Get it done before dawn. I don’t care what it takes.”

“Then I’m going to work over the mounds before I put anybody on the ground. You’re going to have a stack of dead Indians in the morning. Is that what you want?”

“Whatever it takes, Horace.”

Horace banged the phone down. It missed its cradle and fell into the snow.

“Do not aim to kill,” said the chairman, “except as a last resort.”

“Why?” objected Little Ghost. “We are going to be in a war.”

Walker nodded. “I know. But time’s with us. The longer we can delay the decision, the better for us.”

They were gathered in a small circle at the edge of the pit. The wind howled against the tarps that shielded them from the glow of the Roundhouse.

“Please explain,” said Andrea.

“Help is coming. If we’re still here when it arrives, and if the situation by then isn’t beyond retrieving, I think we can survive the night. And maybe keep the wilderness.”

“But they’ll be trying to kill us. Why should we not—”

“Because once we spill blood,” he said, “there’ll be no stopping it. Keep down. Shoot back. But take no lives. Unless you must.”

Adam took Andrea Hawk and George Freewater aside. “I want you two on the flanks,” he said. “George, out by the parking lot. Be careful. They’ll have a problem. We’re going to show them they can’t bring helicopters in with impunity. And they can’t advance directly on us. So they’ll have to try a trick play. Maybe they’ll try to bypass us and seize the Roundhouse.”