Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

Cal holstered the pistol.

“Get on your feet,” he said. “I’m going to beat the hell out of you.”

Neal had no doubt that if he got to his feet Cal would beat the hell out of him, so he stayed on his butt and said, “You’re going to do shit. Hansen’s on his way here? I’ll deal with the boss, not the hired help.”

He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. He didn’t open them again until he heard footsteps.

Hansen wasn’t alone. He had brought one of the other hands with him. A thick, broad-shouldered short man with black hair and a beard.

“Get up,” Cal barked at Neal.

Neal made himself get to his feet very slowly. He dusted off his jeans and looked at Hansen.

Hansen said, “What are you-”

“Just hold on a second,” Neal cut him off. “I have a question for you. I’m out taking a simple walk on public land and your goon here jumps me, holds a knife to my ribs, points his gun at my nose, and holds me prisoner. I make that three counts of assault, plus kidnapping and unlawful detention, and I’m holding you responsible. So you make sure you keep that ranch of yours in good order, because I want it nice and clean when I take possession.”

Something Joe Graham taught him: when you’re hopelessly on the defensive, attack. When they catch you red-handed, slap them with it. Neal dusted himself off some more and started to walk away. Cal’s hand went to his gun.

“Government land starts another two hundred feet up,” Hansen said. “You’re on Hansen Cattle Company land. I have a right to protect my property against rustlers and horse thieves.”

Neal spun around. “Where am I going to put a cow? In my pocket?”

“You could be scouting the place out,” Hansen replied.

True enough, Neal thought.

“What are you doing with those fieid glasses?” Strekker demanded.

Scouting the place out.

Neal made a show of calming down. He stared at the ground as if trying to recover his temper, and then said in a tone of determined reasonableness, “I wanted to see a mountain lion.”

Hansen and the black-haired man laughed.

“A mountain lion?” Hansen asked.

“Yeah, Steve Mills said there were mountain lions up here. I’m staying in his cabin, thought I’d take a walk and try to see one. I’m from New York. I’ve never seen anything like a mountain lion.”

Neal watched as Bob Hansen tried to decide how to react. Cal Strekker’s lupine grin left him in no doubt as to what would happen if Hansen gave the thumbs down.

“Well, you’re a friend of Steve Mills,” Hansen said, “so we’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But we’ll be keeping an eye on you.

Which is when Neal decided to push it. “Jesus,” he muttered just loud enough to be heard. “I might as well be back in the joint.”

“What?” Hansen asked.

Neal opened up the tap on his feigned temper a little. “I said I might as well be back in the joint! I came out here so I wouldn’t have people ‘keeping an eye’ on me!”

“Where were you in jail?”

“New York.”

“What for?” Hansen asked.

Do I push it some more? Open it up, step on the gas, let it rip? Or do I play it safe? “Shooting a nigger,” Neal answered, looking Bob Hansen straight in the eyes.

And the eyes told him that he had Hansen’s interest.

“Well, hell,” Hansen said. “I didn’t think you could shoot a gun in New York and not hit a nigger.”

His boys laughed.

“Mr. Hansen, I wish you’d been the judge,” Neal said. “He took it pretty seriously.

“Did you kill him?”

“The judge?”

“The nigger.”

“No. To tell you the truth, I’m not a very good shot.”

More laughter. The atmosphere was starting to change.

We’re getting to be buddies, Neal thought.

“What was he?” Hansen asked. “A pimp? A pusher?”

People will always tell you the answers they want to hear, Neal thought.

“Both.”

“I’ll bet the judge was a Jew,” the black-haired man said.

They’ll even tell your story for you if you just take the time to listen.

Neal nodded. “The judge and both lawyers. Mine told me to plead guilty. I got six to ten. Served three.”

Hansen shook his head angrily. “That’s the jew-dicial system we got. I’ll bet the nigger is back out selling women and dope.”

“I didn’t look him up,” Neal said. “Parole officers frown on that sort of thing.”

“Your parole officer know you left the state?” Strekker asked.

Neal picked up on the tone of doubt.

“What do you think?” he answered sarcastically.

“So you’re skipping,” Strekker said.

Let’s push it a little more, Neal thought. “I’m not going to live my life with Big Brother looking over my shoulder every minute, telling me what to do, what not to do, where I can work, who I can see. Seems like a white man can’t be free back East. I thought it would be different here. I guess I was wrong. I’ll stay off your land, Mr. Hansen, but you keep your eye on your own business,” Neal said. Then he looked at Strekker, “And if you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll kill you where you stand or die trying.” And, by the way, don’t tread on me.

Strekker leered at him. Hansen was sizing him up as if Neal was a bull he was thinking about buying.

“You’re a fighter,” Hansen said.

“I don’t want to be,” Neal answered. “But if I’m pushed…”

“We’re all being pushed, son,” Hansen said. “But some of us have decided to push back.”

Neal just shrugged.

“I can check out your story, you know,” Hansen continued.

I’ll bet you can, Neal thought. “It’s not a story, Mr. Hansen. I wish it was.”

“And if it turns out you’re lying you’d best be long gone from this valley.”

Mister, Ed Levine will have this cover story locked down so tight that I would believe it if I checked it out.

“And if it turns out to be true?” Neal asked.

“Then maybe I could use a man like you,” answered Hansen.

And maybe I could use a man like you, Neal thought. But he said, “What for?”

Hansen smiled. “Depends. Let me ask you, Neal, what did you see from up here with those glasses?”

Do I lie? Do I bluff? If I he and they don’t buy it, I’m dead. But if I tell the truth and they don’t like it, I’m dead.

So Neal gave them his best “ink blot” look, an enigmatic expression that allowed the other person to read into Neal’s face whatever it was he wanted to read-lips curled into the slightest of smiles, eyes just a shade widened.

“Nothing,” he said.

Hansen smiled back at him. “You’ll be hearing from me,” he said. Then he signaled to his boys to follow him and headed off down the slope.

Strekker bumped into Neal.

“You and me still have a date, shithead,” he hissed as he walked away.

That is a distinct possibility, Neal thought.

He waited for a few minutes to let his heart slow down and started the hike back to the cabin.

Steve Mills was waiting for him with a gun.

“I forgot to give you this,” he said just as Neal was about to drop into a fetal ball on the ground.

Steve looked at the binoculars. “Sightseeing?”

Neal ignored the question and gestured at the rifle. “What do I need that for?”

“You’re a long way from the nearest policeman, Neal,” Steve answered. “And a lot closer to the nearest cougar. Not to mention coyotes.”

“Or goofball survivalists.”

“Or goofball survivalists.”

“I don’t want to shoot a cougar or a coyote.”

“Oh, hell, the noise will scare them away,” Steve said.

“In that case…” Neal reached for the rifle.