Neil McMahon - Dead Silver

Then Madbird said, "We got company."

I caught the sound, the deep rumble of a diesel engine. A few seconds later, a vehicle came into sight, a backwoods redneck's wet dream-a big older-model Chevy or GMC pickup, jacked up so the floor was damned near three feet off the ground. The tires would have carried a semi and the body looked like it had plate armor welded on, including bumpers like sections of railroad track. A winch was mounted on the front and a heavy brush screen covered the grille.

The driver fit the picture to a tee; he was spare, lantern-jawed and handlebar-mustached, wearing a peaked hunter's cap, a threadbare brown duck jacket, and logger boots. He got out carrying a rifle, a lever-action carbine like the Winchester that Chuck Connors had made famous in The Rifleman. He held it the same way, with the barrel pointed down but ready to raise fast.

"You get one warning about trespassing, and this is it," he said in a hard voice.

My first reaction was that he must have bought the property at some point during the past several years. Infuriating though it was to be treated like this, especially with the bullshit prop of the gun, he was within his rights to run us off. Then it dawned on me that there couldn't have been a sale without Renee knowing. Her father's marriage to Astrid would have entailed a title search to clear any claim he might have, and Renee had had his power of attorney since he'd fallen ill.

She was right on top of that, and she came back at him just as combatively.

"This place belonged to my father's wife," she said. "Astrid Seibert."

That obviously startled him. "You're related to her?"

"I just said so. Who are you?"

He recovered enough to swing the weapon's barrel in a short arc toward the road, a commanding gesture like a soldier would use herding prisoners.

"Somebody that don't like trespassers, that's who. Now get on out and don't come back."

"What right do you have here?" she demanded. "I know the Seiberts, and I don't recognize you."

"They got me watching the place."

"I'll find out." She took a pen and paper from her purse, marched over to the big truck, and wrote down the license number.

"The Seiberts give you a key to the gate?" Madbird said. "Or maybe that's your own lock you put on there."

The rifleman swung to glower at him. "You look like you belong on the rez. What you doing around here?"

Madbird neither spoke nor moved-just locked gazes with him.

The guy's mouth opened to speak, then closed. A few seconds later, he tried again. Still, nothing came out.

Madbird finally turned aside and spat into the snow, releasing his invisible choke hold. He put his arm around Hannah's waist and they started walking toward the road. I did the same with Renee.

"That ain't something to be proud of," the rifleman yelled after us-probably meaning Renee's relation to Astrid. We kept going and there was no more sound from him.

But Christ, did my skin crawl from imagining those rifle sights on our backs.

As we drove away, Hannah said, "I've heard about that guy. He's just got a little place but he acts like he owns everything around it, and he's obsessed with keeping strangers away. He's threatened Forest Service workers on federal land. He parked a backhoe across a county road to block it off."

We talked for a few more minutes about him and the sad condition of the cabin. Then we fell quiet, with Madbird unusually so. That happened when he was seriously pissed.

Like my father, he'd never told me much about his military experiences. I knew he'd been a Marine forward observer in Vietnam-one of those men who slipped far behind enemy lines, alone, to radio back firsthand reports on the accuracy of artillery and air strikes. A lot of Native Americans had gravitated to that sort of particularly hazardous role; it fit with the skills that many had grown up with and the temperament that many possessed, including an unconcern for danger and even an enjoyment of it. That wasn't a trait I shared with them.

But once in a while, usually in the context of hard drinking, Madbird would let something out. Tonight's encounter made me recall one of those incidents, on the troop ship carrying his unit overseas. A couple of Merchant Marine officers had also been aboard. On a single occasion, he had thoughtlessly failed to salute one of them-not out of insolence, he just hadn't been paying attention, and the merchant seaman's appearance hadn't punched the same automatic buttons as a regular military officer's always did.

Maybe the guy was a martinet or just a prick; maybe bigoted; maybe he'd had a hard-on about being surrounded by combat Marines on their way to war. He'd gotten Madbird thrown in the brig for the duration of the voyage-eight days in a tiny stifling cell, where he'd been chained around the waist and forced to stand at attention sixteen hours out of twenty-four.

"Few years after I got back, I heard that guy was living in San Diego," Madbird had said.

That was the end of the story.

We arrived back at Renee's around eight o'clock, although it felt later. She invited everybody in for a thrown-together dinner, but Madbird and Hannah wanted to get on home and I figured I should do the same. They took off, leaving Renee and me standing in front of her house. I reminded her that she should check into a motel, and offered to help her find a room and escort her there.

"I've been thinking about that," she said. "Why don't you just stay here?"

There wasn't any pressing need for me to get back to my place. The tomcat was fine on his own; he foraged for himself, and I always left an open sack of dry food where he could get at it. I'd be spared the long drive there and back to town next morning.

"Well, if you're sure," I said.

"I'm glad for the company."

I was, too. Especially after seeing Astrid's cabin, the thought of a solitary night in my own was not appealing.

"Hang on a second," I said. I went to my truck, got my.45, and slipped it into my coat pocket. I'd intended to go inside with Renee anyway and look around to make sure nothing was amiss, and I figured I might as well have the pistol with me. Like with the bobcat, I felt slightly melodramatic. But between the Ackermans and the rifleman up in Phosphor, I was well reminded that criminals and sociopaths weren't all that hard to find.

When we walked through the house, she didn't notice anything out of place and the rooms and closets all seemed clear. But the signs of Ward's tenancy were painful to see-cracked plaster from objects being swung or thrown, scars on the floors, bathroom linoleum buckling from a sink that must have leaked for years. All the bedding and upholstered furniture was ruined; she'd had to buy a new mattress for her stay here, and had found a used Hide-A-Bed couch and armchair just so the living room wouldn't be too bleak.

We finished our tour and ended up back in the kitchen. "I'm starving, and you must be, too," she said. "I'll see what I can rustle up. Let me just see who called."

I poured us drinks while she checked the anwering machine-which she'd also had to replace, along with the phones, since Ward and his buddies had ripped off or destroyed the originals.

"Hi, Renee, it's Travis Paulson," a man's voice said briskly. "You know, we really didn't get to talk much, and I feel like we've got a lot of catching up to do. I'd love to take you to dinner." He left three phone numbers, starting with his cell.

Her face showed her distaste. "He must be kidding," she murmured.

The machine's beep signaled a second message.

"Hi, sweetie. Are you there?" a different man said. He paused, as if expecting her to pick up. "Okay-it's six-fifteen here. Give me a call." This voice wasn't pushy, but it carried a quiet authority. I didn't have to wonder who it was.