William Krueger - Heaven's keep

“Ms. Grant seems to think this one is real.”

“Hell, maybe it is,” Rude allowed.

“So what about Baby’s Cradle?”

“You want my advice?”

“Yes,” Stephen said.

“I think we ought to stick with the flight plan for today. I want to fly low and slow. If there’s anything sticking out of some snowdrift on those high plains, I want to find it.”

“What about the search of the mountains?” Cork asked.

“There are ten aircraft working the mountains. I talked with Dewey Quinn this morning, and he spoke with Commander Nickleson in Cody. We agreed that a low-level flight over the area between the Absarokas and Casper is worth a shot. If that plane tried to limp back to the airport and had to come down, it could be lying in a deep wash somewhere, buried in snow. That’s what we call the Red Wall country. It’s rough and it’s empty. I’d rest easier knowing we took a good look at it. Wouldn’t you, Stephen?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And if we come up empty-handed, I’ll take you to Will Pope myself and make the introductions.”

“You know him?”

“I’m part Arapaho. I know everyone on the rez.”

“All right.”

“Okay, buckos. As Superman used to say, ‘Up, up, and away.’ ”

They flew toward Meeteetse, a tiny western town where, Rude told them, Butch Cassidy had once resided. From there they turned southeast along the corridor that the plane, if it had indeed flown over the snowmobilers, would have followed back to Casper. They spoke little, and their eyes were glued to the ground below. Once they’d flown beyond the relatively gentle basin of the Bighorn, the land took on the feel of Armageddon, of upheaval and warring elements, a place where gods had battled and it was the earth that had suffered most. Long ridges had been chopped in half, leaving ragged cliffs the color of blood. In other places, the earth had been cut into deep arroyos or scraped to clean, hard flats. It appeared to be an area where nothing, human or otherwise, could possibly survive.

“Hole-in-the-wall country,” Rude said. “This whole stretch is part of what used to be called the Outlaw Trail. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Jesse James, just about every other desperado of that period was reputed to have hid out here at one time or another.”

They reached the outskirts of Casper without spotting anything hopeful, and Rude turned back. He altered course so that on the return trip they’d fly over different country. The land below them was the same, however, just as empty of hope.

“Got stuck out here in a blizzard once,” Rude said. “Not much more than a kid then. Tried to race a storm to Casper. Thought I was immortal. Wind came up, snow began blowing like a son of a bitch, next thing I know I’m way off the road, up to my windshield in a big drift. Got out to check the situation and suddenly I’m in a whiteout. Up, down, left, right, didn’t mean anything. Confused as hell. Finally stumbled against my car and crawled inside to wait it out. Took a day and a half for the whole thing to blow over. By then, the snow was so deep, it completely covered my old Crown Victoria. Had me a couple of Snickers bars that I nibbled on and about a gallon of Mountain Dew. When the sun came back, I dug my way out, and a few hours later a plow came along. Was pretty hairy there for a while.”

“Why’d you do it?” Stephen asked. He never stopped scouring the landscape below them, even when he was part of the conversation.

“Best reason in the world for a man to do stupid things, Stephen. A girl. She lived in Casper and I was desperately in love with her. Still am, for that matter. She’s my wife.”

They reached the airstrip at Hot Springs a little after 3:00 P.M. Rude radioed in and checked the status of the rest of the search effort. Through their own headphones, Cork and Stephen heard the reply: No one had spotted anything.

“You want, we can go back up and fly a grid. Or we can go talk to Will Pope. Your call.”

“Will Pope,” Stephen leaped in.

Rude looked at Cork.

“Pope,” Cork agreed.

Rude radioed Dewey Quinn and explained what the plan was. Cork and Stephen had removed their flight helmets, so they couldn’t hear the deputy’s response. But Rude laughed and said into his mic, “Give ’em a break, Dewey. When they meet Will, they’ll understand.”

Rude shut down the chopper and explained that because it would be best to keep their visit to the reservation low profile, it would be more prudent to drive. They squeezed into his pickup and headed west.

Red Hawk lay beyond the Owl Creek Mountains, fifty miles from Hot Springs, at the convergence of two narrow streams. It was a small town in the middle of nowhere on a back highway that would be used only if you wanted to go to Red Hawk, which, from the poor condition of the road, Cork suspected not many people did. The village was a scattering of run-down BIA-constructed housing. At its heart was a school, a nursing home, a two-pump Chevron gas station with a mini-mart, a tiny stucco church named St. Alban, and the Reservation Business Center, which held the tribal offices. The business center looked new. Everything else looked as if it hadn’t been worked on since the Korean War. Rude drove in from the alkali flats to the east. The day had been sunny and the temperature almost balmy. The snow was melting, and the grid of streets-half a dozen running north-south and again as many running east-west, most unpaved-had turned to mud. Will Pope lived at the end of a street that ran past the little church and was called St. Alban Lane. His trailer sat on cinder blocks. A gray station wagon, rust-eaten and mud-spattered, stood parked next to a big propane tank. Behind the trailer, a satellite dish was positioned to catch a signal from the east, and beyond the dish lay a hundred yards of snow-laden sagebrush that ended in a line of cottonwoods growing along a stream bank. There was nothing beyond the cottonwoods except the distant, inevitable collision of white earth and blue sky.

Rude parked beside the station wagon, and they all got out and walked to the trailer. Rude mounted the three steps to the door. As he lifted his hand to knock, a furious barking began inside and an old voice called out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Jon Rude, Will. I’d like to talk to you. I brought some visitors. And I brought some beer.”

The door opened just wide enough to reveal an old man wearing a ratty blue hooded sweatshirt, jeans faded nearly white, and a pair of thick black socks on his feet. Beside him stood a young German shepherd with its tongue lolling out.

“Beer?” the old man said. He gazed at them with an unspecific focus, and Cork quickly understood that the old man was blind or nearly so.

“Coors, Will. Know how you like it.”

“You got someone with you?”

“Friends. Been showing them the country from my chopper. Mind if we come in?” He reached out and took the old man’s hand and guided it to the six-pack he held.

The old man grasped the beer, turned around, and indicated his visitors should follow.

Compared with the glare off the snow outside, the trailer seemed especially dark. The curtains over the windows were drawn closed and there were no lights on. It took a moment for Cork’s eyes to adjust. What he saw then was a place sparely furnished. A short couch, a stuffed easy chair, a standing lamp, a coffee table. In the kitchen area, there was a dinette with a Formica top and two metal chairs. On a stand in one corner of the room sat a big, new television. The television was on, tuned to a football game. The trailer smelled musty, as if long in need of a good cleaning.

“Listenin’ to the Broncos beat the crap outta Oakland,” the old man said, settling into the stuffed chair. He put the six-pack on the floor, where he could reach it easily with his right hand. Cork and Stephen sat on the couch. Rude stood near the old man. Will Pope held out a bottle of beer, waiting for it to be taken. Rude eased it from his grip and handed it to Cork. The old man offered a second, which Rude kept, and then he offered a third.