High Desert Barbecue (22 page)

“
Trade you.”

“
You want me to try my hand?”

“
Why not? Sounds like you’re our resident sniper.”

S
cott hefted the rifle. It was as heavy as it appeared. The metalwork, including the receiver, bolt handle, magazine and muzzle were all a dull black color. The wood was dark brown and non-reflective. It looked lethal.

T
he bolt action was similar to that of the few hunting rifles he’d handled, but there was no scope mounted on top. Still, the sight was easy enough to figure out. You peered at the front sight located near the muzzle through a wide ring mounted on the receiver—a similar setup to the sights on the little .22 rifle he’d been using. If you lined up the sights properly, the bullet went, more or less, where you looked.

“
Go ahead,” Rollo urged. “Let’s see you do your stuff.”

S
cott lifted the bolt handle and drew it to the rear. An empty casing shot from the chamber, arcing back and to the right. It made a cheery ringing noise as it clattered against rock. He pushed the bolt forward to pick up a round and insert it into the chamber. The bolt resisted being returned to its position, and then gave up the fight as he slid the handle back into place.

H
e rested his cheek against the stock of the rifle. The world became what he could see through the ring and beyond the front sight: brush, trees and rocks. Vague movement fluttered past his tunnel-like field of vision. He scanned the rifle slowly, right to left, across the canyon. A flash of light on something metallic caught his eye. He focused. Air slipped out through his lips. His lungs reinflated half way, and then he stopped his breath and took up the pressure on the trigger.

T
he gun leaped. Something banged into his forehead.

“
Ow. Son of a bitch!”

“
Oh yeah. Watch that. That rifle has quite a kick.”

“
Thanks for the warning. What’s that howling sound?”

R
ollo peered into the canyon. He hooded his hands over his eyes and stared at a flurry of activity on the ground below.

“
I’d say you’re a better shot than me after all.”

“
I told you so.”

S
cott pressed himself forward and joined his friend in a dangerously exposed position, leaning out into space for a view of the damage he had wrought.

I
n the air, carried on the slight breeze, a small fragment of silvery foil-like material fluttered and scattered the sunlight.

Chapter 50

A
high-pitched scream split the air. It echoed and rebounded from the canyon walls, which seemed to magnify and refocus the aural assault on the small party scurrying among the rocks.

J
ason gritted his teeth as he slowly dragged Ray’s writhing body around the bend in the canyon to—if only temporary—safety. The wannabe-G-man weighed more than the expedition leader, so Jason’s mission of mercy proceeded at a snail’s pace until Samantha jumped in to lend her muscles to the effort.

“
Oh Christ,” Ray moaned. “Would somebody please shut him up?”

J
ason and Samantha turned to stare at Rena, who stopped in mid-stride on her way to offer help. She in turn glanced back at Bob, who clutched at his bandaged shoulder. Bob shrugged—a lop-sided motion that caused him to wince. He walked over to where Terry lay curled in a fetal position on the ground and kicked the man, sharply, in the ribs.

T
he screaming stopped.

T
erry shot bolt upright, snuffled and wiped at his eyes.

“
You didn’t have to do that.”

B
ob tilted his head and gave another half-shrug. He walked away.

U
nder a razor-leafed desert holly, Jason and Samantha deposited their cargo. He instantly yelped in pain.

“
Take it easy, man,” Jason mumbled as he bent to check on Ray’s wound.”

“
Take it easy yourself. It feels like I’m on fire.”

R
ena muscled Jason aside, almost sending him sprawling. She kneeled by the patient and poured water from their dwindling stock over the wound.

L
ooking over her shoulder, Jason involuntarily sucked air through his teeth.

“
What?” Ray demanded.

“
They shot your ass off.”

“
Funny! Really, what—”

“
I’m serious. Your ass has a divot in it you wouldn’t believe.”

“
It’s OK,” Rena cooed, her breasts swaying pendulously. She patted gently at the injured man.

“
I’ll patch you up. You’ll be just fine.”

R
ay sighed.

“
Thank God somebody here has some medical training.”

R
ena paused, and then leaned to one side so she could meet Ray’s gaze.

“
Oh, you mean that nasty Western stuff? No, I use traditional healing techniques.”

J
ason braced himself for a tirade from the man on the ground, but instead of yelling he just seemed to droop.

“
Please tell me … please … that traditional healing includes something that resembles an antibiotic.”

T
he kneeling woman pulled bandages and a vial of something from her pack. She began to chant.

“
Huh,” Bob said. “She didn’t chant for me.” He looked at Jason. “This must be serious.”

J
ason forced himself to smile. He gestured Bob away from their makeshift hospital bush and called for Samantha and Terry to join them.

T
erry snuffled a bit. Jason shot a concerned glance at his colleague, but said nothing.

I
n a huddle, his arms around Samantha on one side and Terry on the other, Jason forced himself to act more cheerful than he felt.

“
Well … Things haven’t gone exactly as we planned. We’re a little low on ammo and supplies. We have two injured team members. And the enemy seems to … well … be better equipped than we’d anticipated.”

S
amantha met his eyes with her own soft, wide orbs. Once again, he felt himself falling into their bottomless depths.

B
ob’s reedy, strained voice snapped him back to reality.

“
Yeah. And I don’t think Ray is as gung ho now as he was a few hours ago.”

J
ason nodded.

“
That’s probably true. I think we need to reappraise the situation.”

“
Reappraise?
” Terry shrieked. “I can give you my appraisal. “We’re fucked.”

Chapter 51

“
Where are all these damn hippies coming from?” Martin Van Kamp wondered aloud.

H
e stood outside the Beaver Street Brewery, south of the railroad tracks that ran through Flagstaff. A train rumbled by just a block away. It was early evening—too early for one of the two passenger trains that still rolled through town, serving the dwindling number of travelers who cared to pay more money for less-convenient service than they could get from the bus companies. That meant a long freight train was inching its way from one side of the old lumber-and-rail town to the other, helping the residents slow their pace of life—whether or not they appreciated the assistance—by cutting the town in half during its journey.

V
an Kamp belched. He decided his Mongolian beef salad and hefeweizen tasted just as good the second time around. The scent of smoke hanging in the air from the now officially dubbed Woody Mountain fire actually enhanced the flavor.

“
I mean,” he added. “I know this is a college town, but this is starting to look like that scene from the Hitchcock flick … you know the one I mean … “

F
ailing the test in film history, his companion, the BLM official, remained silent and stony faced.

“
The Birds
! That’s it. Except this time with damn hippies.”

T
he two men surveyed the picnic tables along the edge of the parking lot, and the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop across the street. Sure enough, they were more crowded than usual with t-shirted, clove-smoking, bike-riding twenty-somethings who, apparently, had some time to kill.

V
an Kamp was troubled. It wasn’t that patchouli oil and sandals were all that new to the area. To the contrary, they were a regular part of the scenery. Flagstaff wasn’t just a college town, it was a college town in the mountains with easy access to ski slopes, climbable cliffs, hiking and biking trails and ATM machines. These characteristics exercised a powerful magnetic force on outdoorsy young adults who had turned their recreational preferences into an all-consuming lifestyle that drew nearly theological devotion from its adherents. The town’s relatively thin economy might deter families and career-minded singles looking for a place to settle, but it was little barrier to devout nature lovers who could weather the comparatively high cost of living with trust funds, shared apartments or semi-permanent campsites along forest roads. And so, year-by-year, Flagstaff saw a growing influx of wilderness devotees who sought to shape the town into a shrine to Mother Earth, and her prophets: Gary Fisher, Mountain Hardwear, The North Face and Patagonia.

F
rankly, the trust-fund hippies were easier to deal with than the big-hat and pickup-truck brigade. The old cowboy types were forever trying to drive him out of a job—or into a ditch on more than a few occasions. The growing ranks of tree huggers meant job security for a guy who administered trees.

B
ut this was something different. There was an air of tension among the beads-and-dreadlocks set.

T
he BLM official crunched something between his teeth. A whiff of mint reached Van Kamp’s nose as the official rolled a plastic candy wrapper into a ball between his fingers and tossed it into a garbage pail.

“
It’s Greenfield’s people,” the official said. “He’s champing at the bit to settle this mess in Sycamore Canyon and get the fire season rolling before the monsoon rains get the forest too wet to burn. He’s gathering his people here before sending them out to Fredonia, Payson and the rest of the targets.”

“
Greenfield … ?” Van Kamp stuttered, remembering his last encounter with the animal-hating prophet.

“
How in Hell did he get his people up here so fast?”

T
he BLM man cleared his throat. He spat the hard candy to the ground where it clattered and rolled into the parking lot. A half-dozen pairs of environmentally conscious eyes immediately bored into the man like death rays of disapproval. He quickly stooped, retrieved his candy and flicked it into the trash.

R
elieved of the barrage of glares, the BLM man turned his attention back to his co-conspirator.

“
I don’t think these people
do
much of
anything
but show up where he tells them to go.”

V
an Kamp snorted.

“
The last bunch he sent our way had to bicycle their way to Flagstaff from Tucson. I don’t think this crew did that overnight.”

“
Well, it’s an emergency, don’t you know,” the BLM man responded. “He probably let them pile into a VW minibus.”

V
an Kamp sighed and shook his head.

“
To have that kind of power over people …”

“
Goddamned impressive, isn’t it?”

T
he two men admired the flow of people on the sidewalk, many of them summoned by the whim of their colleague. But there was that escalating energy in the air, a buzz of bottled-up antagonism marinated in wood smoke. The hippies, outwardly part of the same tribe, slowly gravitated into two overlapping clusters on the sidewalk.