C. Box - Nowhere to Run

“Keep your voice down,” Joe hissed, shoving the muzzle hard into Farkus’s neck.

From the shadows of the forest, Camish said, “I’m real surprised you came back, game warden.”

And fifty feet to the right of Camish, Nate said, “Guess what? I’ve got your brother.”

The standoff that occurred at 4:35 A.M. on the western slope of the Sierra Madre transpired so quickly and with such epic and final weight, and such a simple but lethal potential conclusion, that Joe Pickett found himself surprisingly calm. So calm, he calculated his odds. They weren’t good. He knew the likelihood of his sudden death was high and he wished like hell he had called his wife on the satellite phone and said good-bye to her and his precious girls. He also knew he would have apologized for dying for such a cause, and at the hands of the dispossessed. As if a man could choose his killer.

In this moment of clarity, Joe thought, sharp points elbowed their way to the fore:

• His shotgun was on Farkus and it would take one or two seconds to wheel and aim it at Camish;

• Camish had Joe’s heart in the sights of his rifle; knew Joe and Nate could cut him in half, so he must have a trump card, likely.

• Caleb had a.454 muzzle pressed against his temple and was unable to speak anyway;

• Farkus was clueless-he’d obviously been coerced by the brothers but hadn’t firmed up his storyline and he’d therefore stumbled into lies that piqued Joe’s interest;

• If one man pulled a trigger, a cacophony of exploding shots would throw lead through the void like a buzz saw and cut down all of them for eternity, and;

• Nobody wanted that .

At least Joe didn’t.

Joe said, “We all know the situation we’ve got here. It can go one way or the other. Things can get western in a hurry. If they do, I’m betting on my man Nate here to tip the scales, Camish. But I think a better idea may be sitting down and starting a fire and hashing this out.”

After a beat, Camish said, “You’re one of these folks thinks everything can be solved by talking?”

Said Joe, “No, I don’t believe that. No one has ever accused me of excess talking. But I think something really bad will happen any second if we don’t. I’m willing to sit down and discuss the possibility of more than two of us walking away from here.”

Camish said, “Caleb, you okay?”

The response was a muffled groan.

Nate said, “He’s about to lose the rest of his head.”

Camish’s voice was high and tight: “Don’t you hurt my brother.”

Joe realized his initial shocked calm had slipped away and he was sweating freely from fear. He struggled to keep his words even, hoping Camish would give in. It was easier to sound serious because he was.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s meet at that downed log a few feet from me. Camish can keep aiming at me. Nate can keep his gun at Caleb’s head. I’ll keep my shotgun on Farkus here. But when we get to the log we’ll sit down. How does that sound?”

From the dark, Joe heard Farkus say, “I’m kind of wondering where I fit into this deal.”

And Nate growl, “You don’t, idiot.”

Camish said, “Deal.”

Camish looked even thinner than Joe remembered him. It had been a rough few days. The man’s eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into hollows above his cheekbones and resembled marbles on a mantel. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, and all the silver hairs in his beard made him look gaunt and wizened. Like a Wendigo, Joe thought.

Joe and Nate sat on one log, the Grim Brothers on another. They faced each other.

Caleb sat in utter, pained silence. If anything, he looked more skeletal than his brother. His dark eyes flicked like insects between his brother and Joe and Nate as if hoping for a place to land. A dirt-filthy bandage was taped to his lower jaw. Caleb had an AR-15 with a scope across his lap, with the muzzle loosely pointed a foot to the right of Joe. Joe was sure the weapon was locked and ready to fire, and that Caleb was capable of spraying full automatic fire at him and Nate in a heartbeat. The weapon must have come from the Michigan boys, Joe thought.

In between them, they’d started a small fire. Farkus sat on a stump near the fire, positioned carefully equidistant from both logs. Farkus fed the fire with pencil-sized twigs. The fire shot lizard tongues at the darkness and occasionally flared due to a particularly dry piece of wood or because of time-concentrated pitch within the stick. The effect made Camish and Caleb’s faces fade in and out of the darkness in various stages of orange.

Nate sat silently on the log to Joe’s left. His friend didn’t even attempt to hide his proclivities, and he kept his.454 lying across the top of his thighs with his hand on the grip and his finger on the trigger. Joe knew Nate was capable of raising the weapon and firing at both of them in less than a second.

Whether Nate could take out both brothers before Caleb could fire his weapon at Joe and Nate was the question.

Joe said to Caleb, “I see your tactical vest now. I guess you were wearing it when I shot you with my Glock. Now I know why you didn’t go down.”

Caleb glared back at him, his eyes dark and piercing but his expression inscrutable.

“You know he can’t talk,” Camish said. “That shot to his lower jaw splintered his chinbone and somehow drove slivers of it into his talk box. The point-blank shot to his chest later probably didn’t help much, either. Anyways, he hasn’t spoken a word since that night.”

He said it matter-of-factly, and Joe let it sink in. Joe said, “I fired blindly when I hit him in the face. Not that I wasn’t trying to do damage-I was.”

Caleb almost imperceptibly nodded his head.

Joe said to Caleb, “I would have been happy to have killed you given the circumstances.”

Camish nodded, and he and Nate shared a look, which Joe found disconcerting.

“The circumstances are different depending on where you stand, I guess,” Camish said. “You have one version, we have a different version.”

Joe nodded. “Maybe so. But what I know is you boys came after me and killed my horses.”

Camish made his eyes big, and there was a slight smile on his face. “My version, game warden, is me and my brother were minding our own damned business and not bothering a soul when you rode up and wanted to collect a tax on behalf of the government, the tax being a license to fish so we could eat. And when we didn’t produce the license, you threatened our liberty. We, as freeborn Americans, resisted you.”

Joe held his tongue, but he shared a look with Nate. This confirmed his friend’s earlier theory.

Nate tipped his head toward Joe, but never took his eyes off Caleb. He said, “Joe’s kind of like that. It’s his worst fault. He’s damned stubborn.”

“My horses,” Joe said, glaring at Camish. “They belonged to my wife. She loved them like only a woman can love horses. You two killed them and butchered them.”

“Better than letting them go to waste, eh, Caleb?” Camish said, as if it made all the sense in the world, Joe thought. “Anyway,” Camish said, “we didn’t target your horses. They were collateral damage. We came after you so hard because there was something in your eyes when we met you. We knew you’d follow this goddamned stupid fishing license deal to the gates of hell. Otherwise, we’d just have let you ride away. We practically begged you to just ride out of here. But you wouldn’t let it go. You said you’d march us into court. All for a stupid twenty-four-dollar license.”

Joe said, “You boys are out of state. It’s ninety-four dollars for Michigan residents.”

Camish leaned back on his log and tipped his head back and laughed. Caleb snorted, sounding like the angry pneumatic staccato spitting of a pressure cooker on a stovetop.