C. Box - Free Fire

“How can you find balance in a place where the same boys who participate in a sundance where they seek a vision and pierce themselves are also obsessed with Grand Theft Auto on PlayStation Two?” she asked. Nate had no answer to that.

She said her struggle was made worse when her brother Bob intimated that he always knew she would come back since everybody did when they found out they couldn’t hack it on the outside. She told Nate that during the walk she had been arguingwith herself about returning, weighing the frustration of day-to-day life on the reservation and dealing with Bobby against her desire to teach the children of her friends, relatives, and tribal members. Later, Nate showed her his birds and invitedher on a hunt. She went along and said she appreciated the combination of grace and savagery of falconry, and saw the same elements in him. He took it as a compliment. They went back to her house that night. That was three months ago. Now he spent at least three nights a week there, and it was Alisha’s house where Joe located Nate.

Nate was still wanted for questioning by the FBI but thus far had eluded them. Apparently, the FBI had its hands full with more pressing matters. It had been months since Special Agent Tony Portenson had been in the area asking Joe if he’d seen his friend lately.

“What, you think I’ve been domesticated?” Nate asked, incredulous.“You think I’ve lost my edge?”

Joe didn’t answer. He had noticed how Nate’s middle had gone soft as a result of Alisha’s good cooking. Before Alisha, Nate had survived at his stone house on the banks of the river by hacking off cuts of antelope that hung in the meat cellar and grilling the steaks. Now, he sat down to real meals at least twice a day.

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’ll never go back on my word,” Nate said, in reference to the vow he’d made to help Joe when he asked or when he simplyneeded it whether or not he asked. Nate had made the promiseyears before when Joe proved his innocence after Nate had been charged with a murder he didn’t commit.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Joe said.

At that moment, the door opened and Alisha Whiteplume entered carrying two bags of groceries. Joe and Nate stood, and each took a bag and put it on the counter.

“Hello, Mr. Pickett,” Alisha said cautiously. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Alisha.”

She was slim and dark, with piercing, always amused eyes and a good figure. Joe could see why Nate was enchanted.

“Are you here to take my boy away?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.

“If he’s willing,” Joe said.

“Are you willing?” she asked Nate softly.

He hesitated, looking from Joe to Alisha.

Joe thought, He’s got it bad. Don’t tell me he’s going to ask. .

“What do you think?” Nate said to her.

She began to pull cans out of a sack and put them away in the cupboards. “I think Joe wouldn’t ask for your help if he didn’t think he needed it, and I’d be disappointed in you if you refused because you wouldn’t be the man I know and love.”

Nate said to Joe, “It’ll take me a couple of days to finish up some business. Where will you be staying in the park?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Joe said, choosing as always not to ask Nate what his business was. “It’s about to close for the season. Either Mammoth, Old Faithful, or West Yellowstone. Those are the only places still open. I’ll call when I know.”

Nate nodded. “Come with me for a minute.”

Alisha said good-bye to Joe and resumed putting groceries away. Joe followed Nate outside to Nate’s Jeep.

“She’s something,” Joe said.

“Damned right,” Nate answered, swinging up the back hatch and flipping open the lid on a large metal toolbox. He removed the tray of tools on top to reveal a stash of weapons underneath. Nate’s.454 Casull, manufactured by Freedom Arms in Freedom,Wyoming, was a heavy five-shot revolver of incredible power and accuracy in Nate’s hand. It was on top.

“What are you carrying up there?” Nate asked.

“My shotgun, I guess,” Joe said. He hadn’t given weapons any thought. “And I’m not even sure about that. It’s illegal to have a firearm in the park, like I mentioned.”

Nate’s look of disdain was epic. “Fuck the Park Service,” he said, digging into the box. “We’re Americans last I looked. That’s the only thing about this situation that causes me heart-burn: helping out the Feds.”

“Actually, I’m working for the governor.”

“They’re all the same,” Nate grumbled, digging into the box and handing Joe a semiautomatic Glock-23.40.

“You’ve used one of these, right? Thirteen in the magazine and one in the chamber, so you’ve got fourteen rounds of high-caliberhell. Buy some shells, practice a little so you get familiarwith it. It’s a damned good weapon, and practically idiot-proof. Rack the slide and start blasting. No hammer to get caught in your clothes, no safety switch to forget about.”

“Fourteen misses,” Joe said, alluding to his ineptitude with a handgun. “That’s why I’m bringing my shotgun.”

“Twenty-seven misses,” Nate said. “There’s an extra full magazine in a pocket on the holster. Take it anyway. You never know. It’ll make me feel better if you have it.”

Joe started to protest, but Nate’s expression convinced him not to start an argument. He’d carried a Glock.40 before since it was the assigned weapon of the Game and Fish Department. His last weapon was thrown into the Twelve Sleep River after the situation with the Scarlett brothers. At the time, Joe had thought he’d never carry a handgun again, and that was fine with him then, and fine with him now. Handguns were good for only one thing: killing people.

“What about this letter to the governor,” Nate said. “Can you figure anything out about it?”

Joe shook his head.

“Or the fact that four of the Gopher State Five got whacked? Who is Gopher State One?”

“No idea.”

“The governor is okay with me assisting?”

“He doesn’t want to know about it.”

“I can’t say I blame him,” Nate said, reaching for the.454.

Joe found bud Longbrake in the Quonset hut working on the engine of his one-ton truck. Bud was perched high on the front bumper, leaning in over the engine. Eduardo stood on the dirt floor next to the truck handing up tools as Bud called out for them. They’d not fired up the propane heater in the corner of the building, so it was colder inside than it was outside. Bud had a policy about not turning on the heaters before November, as if to defy the coming of winter until its proper time on the calendar. Joe noticed he wouldn’t even use the heater in the truck until then.

“I’ll take over if you don’t mind,” Joe said to Eduardo.

“No problema ,” Eduardo said, stepping away from the toolboxand blowing on his hands. “I need to eat some hot lunch.”

“Seven-eighths socket,” Bud called down.

Joe snapped the attachment on the wrench and handed it up.

“Goddamn mice get in the engine and chew up the belts,” Bud grumbled. “I gotta put new belts on every year.”

Although Bud hired contractors in semitrucks to haul cattle to buyers, he liked to move his brood stock to lower pasture himself behind the one-ton. His plans were always delayed untilhe got the truck running again.

“Bud, I got offered my old job back,” Joe said.

There was a slight hesitation in Bud’s hand as he reached down for the socket wrench.

“I took it,” Joe said.

Bud cranked on a bolt. “I figured you probably would.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bud said. “You need to do what you’re good at.”

“Thank you.”