Brian Garfield: Relentless

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.”