The Daisy Ducks (31 page)

"I won't forget," said Roantis with tight
lips.

The discussion with the Robbinsville law earlier in
the day had not only been "in depth" but intense. Joe and
Mary had come with us, which no doubt had made all the difference.
The mountain men seemed to mistrust and fear Summers, since, as a
rule, black people aren't seen west of Asheville. His fullback size
and facial glower didn't help, either. Gradually, however, as the
talk progressed, they seemed to grow more at ease with his presence.
They liked Tommy Desmond immediately, as anyone would.

And it was soon clear that they almost worshiped Fred
Kaunitz. With his soft Texas drawl, huge physique, and legendary
marksmanship, he epitomized the mountain man of old. They took to
Fred in a hurry. And so the deal was struck: we were free to roam
about in the woods, like any citizen. Yes, they admitted reluctantly,
we could carry firearms, like any nonfelon, provided we did it within
the law. They couldn't stop us.

"But I better not hear about any shootouts,
trespassing, or terrorizing," warned Sheriff Penland, "because
let me tell you, nevermine you guys been in VYETnam, you rile these
folks out here, you in a heap of shit."

I assured him we understood perfectly.

"And also," continued Hunnicutt, "Mr.
Brindelli let it slide that you, Mr. Roantis, have been in a few
scrapes with the law yourself up north. Fact is, you been on
probation several times."

Roantis said nothing; he continued to sweep the vast
wilderness beneath him with crinkly eyes and a tight mouth. It was as
if he wasn't even listening to the lawmen and couldn't wait for them
to leave. When Penland and Hunnicutt finished their lecture and we
could hear their feet clattering down the long wooden staircase,
Roantis took out the maps and his binoculars. We moved inside the
tower and spread the maps out on the ranger table mosaic fashion, so
that each section interfaced with its neighbors. From our vantage
point, and with the help of Jack Gentry, the ranger, it was amazingly
easy to match up the peaks and land forms on the map with the actual
ones outside the windows. Our binoculars and the ranger's transit
sight made the job easy, and we spent two hours examining the terrain
and the maps. Ranger Gentry gladly explained the gorges, coves, and
peaks to us, for he had been in almost all parts of Graham County at
one time or another. Roantis pointed to a symbol on the map, a
crossed pick and shovel.

"This mean what I think it does?" he asked
Gentry.

"Mine. Gems though, not coal. Mostly sapphires
and rubies. Some gold. Most of 'em are abandoned now. See, lookit all
of 'em here —"

"Anything else we should know about?"

"Watch the laurel hells. They'll kill you."

He explained that the mountain laurel, which is
really a rhododendron, could grow in vast jungles, with plants so
tall and thick that they were impenetrable. To get lost and entangled
in a laurel hell was serious indeed.

"And also watch out for cliffs, sinkholes,
quicksand, pison ivy, oak, and sumac, copperheads, mountain rattlers,
bears, wild boar, river currents, hornet's nests, wild dawgs, pison
berries, cold snaps, and —"

"Yeah, okay," growled Roantis, "I seen
all those. Listen, if you were on the run and wanted to stay hidden,
where out there would you go so nobody could find you?"

"Hell mister, anywhere out there would do."

Roantis returned his steely gaze to the vast mountain
wilderness that lay spread out below us.

"Yeah." He sighed. "I think you're
right."

"Course, like the other fellers said, maybe they
took off to Tennessee."

"No," said Roantis, shaking his head
slowly, "Bill Royce was born and raised in these mountains. He
knows them and feels safe here. He's somewhere out there, gone to
earth. I know it."

We trudged down the stairs, got into the camper, and
drove back to Robbinsville. On the way, I remembered making love with
Mary and kissing her good-bye before I slipped out of the motel bed
at six-thirty. She had been sweet, but as I put on the brush pants
and shirt and hefted my bulky pack, she started to cry and call me
names. She'd said I had four days. That was it. If I wasn't back
then, whole and in reasonably good health, she was going to do the
following: (1) put a contract out on Roantis, or kill him herself;
(2) forget I ever lived; (3) go back to Concord and sell the house;
(4) move to Phoenix or Vegas and start over with a man who was
sensible and rich.

I was running through this itinerary as the truck
swung into Robbinsville. We went to the tiny airfield, where Kaunitz
had already tied down the plane. We all thought it might come in
handy. He jumped in, and we headed on. Okay, four days. That was all
the time I was going to give it. We went through town and headed
toward the old logging road near Hanging Dog Creek. It was far enough
from the Royce residence and farm so they wouldn't be watching it.
Roantis was all business, grim-faced and quiet. In the three days I
had been with him, I noticed that he had not taken a drink. He smoked
less, and only tobacco. He was noticeably thinner, his leanness
showing the muscles and blood vessels under the skin. His eyes had
grown brighter, his whole being more alert, as each hour passed.
Roantis was back in his element; he didn't need booze or drugs. He
was on a constant high: he was going hunting.

He spread the maps out on the table again to show us
the lines he had drawn on them. He lighted a fresh Camel and outlined
the rough plan.

"I'm going on a hunch, based on what Doc's told
me so far, that they're within this radius. So we'll confine the
tracking to this area. We'll split into three teams at first to try
and pick up their trail. This way, we cover a lot of ground at the
start. When we find it or make contact, we'll regroup and go in
together. Mike, you and Tommy will take this ridge and cove here, to
the south, along Sweetwater Creek. Freddie, you take Doc and go up
the li'l road Doc found that Royce drove his truck up. Beech Creek
will be just north of you. I'll go alone, working fast along the
north ridge and this creek, here. We'll have two camps. One will be
this rig, the base camp. I think we should leave the rig here in this
cove. It's practically deserted and it's on public land in the
national forest, so the law can't say we're trespassing. Does this
sound okay? Remember, I'm not the CO this time; you guys speak up if
you want to change anything."

They all nodded. I guess I did too, but I was a
little uneasy. I especially did not relish the idea of being alone in
the bush with Kaunitz.

"Liatis, what if a team gets lost?" I
asked.

"Nobody will get lost. You and Tommy are each
with an experienced man. That's how I split up the teams. Now, we've
only got two field radios. Both belong to Freddie. There's one in his
plane too. And it's powerful. I thought we might stick Freddie up
there in the air later on if we don't make contact. But we know from
Nam that it's impossible to see much from the air, 'specially a li'l
group like the one we're after, right Freddie? Now I say you two
teams take the radios. When we decide where we think they are, we'll
set up a forward camp nearer the action. I'm sure it'll be in a place
where the camper couldn't go anyway, like up on a cliff with a good
view."

He paused to look at his new plastic digital watch.
We'd bought them the previous day, all the same model, and had
synchronized them to the second. They also had light-up dials
that Roantis said could be used for close-range
signaling in the dark.

"Now, it's almost two. I say we try the teams
out for a short hitch today. We'll be going out in midday, which is
bad, so we'll have to move slow and keep to high ground. You can bet
Royce has his back trail covered. We'll go light. Your prime weapon
and ninety rounds. One back-up sidearm. One canteen: we can fill them
almost anywhere. Thank God for that! Remember Nam? Each of us has a
pair of good glasses. We've got freeze-dried chow . . . That's it.
Let's do it."

He sat down on his ancient army duffel just outside
the camper's door and began feeding his Streetcleaner. Poor li'l baby
was hungry. He had taken out the old Remington Wingmaster scattergun
from its hiding place in the rust-resistant paper and laid it across
his knees. It was about as attractive as Lubyanka Prison. With its
shortened barrel, extended magazine, worn bluing, and battered stock
wound with electrician's tape, it wasn't exactly a dove gun. He
opened a box of double-O buck-shot and began feeding the red plastic
cartridges with "high brass" bases into the pump gun's
belly.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," I said.

"Why not?"

"I mean, do we need the artillery? I don't think
I want a rifle, Liatis. I couldn't shoot anyone."

"Oh yes you could. You did two months ago.
Remember?"

"But that was in defense. To protect you."

"That's all I'm talking about. Take it in case,
Doc."

I edged close to him and spoke in a low voice.

"I don't want to go with Kaunitz."

"Why not?"

"Because there's a chance he's in this thing
with Royce and Jusuelo, that's why. Because there's more than a
middling chance that he's the one who shot you. And therefore I have
shot him. Notice the limp? He still has it. And how about his prime
weapon? You get a look at it?"

"Yep. FAL assault rifle. So? I told you, Doc,
all the old-timers carry those. Best damn rifle ever made."

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"What else you want to hear? Listen, you're
nervous about going out. But don't worry. If things get hot, you
won't be anywhere around. I guarantee it. All we're going to do for
the
next coupla days is look and hope to
find. No fighting."

"You don't think there's even a chance Kaunitz
is involved with them?"

"Naw. No more than any of the others. Suppose he
did shoot me? Would he parade around here with the gun he used? Nah."

"Then how come he came so willingly? You didn't
offer to pay him, I hope. So he gives up a week to come help you. For
what?"

"For what? For the rush, Doc. For the rush. Look
over there. What do you see?"

"I see three middle-aged lunatics playing with
guns."

"Ha. You see three guys who are bored with
civilian life. Guys who don't fit into suburbia, corporate
allegiance, buying on time, and retirement planning. Guys who can't
do a nine-to-five job and who probably don't even belong in this
century. And you know what? You're one of them too."

"Oh bullshit."

"Oh yes you are, Doc. You just don't know it
yet. You wait."

He stood up, checked his sidearm, and walked over to
the other three. Kaunitz had a radio strapped to his back and the FAL
slung on his shoulder. He wore jungle boots with cleated Vibram soles
and a loose-fitting bush outfit of dark brown canvas. On his head was
a wide, floppy bush hat. We all wore rough variations on this same
outfit. I had my Browning on my belt, which I hoped I would never
need. Roantis pressed a rifle on me, a civilian-version Colt with two
spare magazines. I didn't take it eagerly, but if somebody started
shooting at us, I wanted more protection than a pistol. Roantis,
still not totally recovered from his wound, carried only the shotgun
and a canteen. The last thing he donned was a reed crow call, which
he wore around his neck. Kaunitz had given it to him. He gave another
one to Summers and kept one for himself. We stood around the camper
and ate candy bars and drank coffee. Roantis smoked a cigarette, and
I took a hit of snuff and passed the can around. It was popular. We
had parked the rig two miles up the old logging road, which hadn't
been used in years. Our base camp was secluded and hidden.

"Okay, you Ducks," growled Summers, "let's
get ourselves in a line and strut on outa here."

He swung off down the overgrown road. The field radio
rode high on the center of his wide back, and when he was two hundred
yards ahead of the rest of us, he and Kaunitz tested both of them. We
followed him down the winding road, cutting through a stand of pine
trees that were a hundred feet tall and straight as organ pipes. We
walked in silence, not saying a word. It was a habit the Ducks had,
and a good one. Birds sang, and the sun-dappled shade swept over us
in a pleasant fashion, with the shadows leaping up and down our
clothes as we passed beneath the boughs. The air was cool and dry,
and I felt as if I could walk a million miles.

This initial euphoria wore off soon, however, and
then it disappeared with a vengeance, you might say. By the time
Roantis peeled off on his own at Frank's Creek, my legs were singing
the blues. Now I run about thirty miles a week, but it's on level
land. Mountain walking with a load on your back will take the tar out
of you in a hurry. Still, Roantis showed no pain or strain, despite
his recent convalescence. He didn't seem to pant or puff either, even
though he smokes like a chimney. He simply waved at us, wished us
good hunting in a loud whisper, and walked right up the mountainside.
He amazes me.

After we crossed Beech Creek, which was the next one
over, Kaunitz and I peeled off and began to work our way up the
ridge. Summers and Desmond were to head south to the valley of
Sweetwater Creek, which would eventually lead to the little town of
Sweetgum. We set up a call time, a frequency, and some elementary
code words to keep in touch, then split.