Whistle Pass (21 page)

“Charlie?” Gabe shrieked. “Charlie! Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Stay low.” Charlie drew in a breath of cool air, embraced the chilly night against his sweat-covered face. He leaned over and pulled the hood off Gabe. Gabe heavily sucked air. Shadows of men scurried for cover in dense lines of trees on either side of the road.

“Shoot the son of a bitch!” somebody hollered.

“I left the shotgun in the truck. You shoot the son of a bitch,” another responded.

Charlie lay down next to Gabe, then poked his head up enough to see over the sides of the truck bed.

“Arnie! You got your pistol?”

Charlie turned left toward the voice.

“Yeah.”

Charlie pivoted right, the direction of that voice. “Phil’s got his too. We’ll get him.”

“Don’t shoot my damn truck! You don’t got a clear shot, wait, for Chrissakes! I’m still making payments!”

Charlie rolled on his side and drew his knees to his chest. With his fingers, he picked at the knot in the rope around his feet. It loosened. He pushed the rope over one boot heel, then the other. At least his legs and feet were free. He turned his attention to Gabe. “Roll on your side so I can untie you.”

Gabe scooted onto his left side; Charlie dug at the rope until it gave way. Gabe rolled over and fumbled at the knot binding Charlie’s wrists. His breath came short and static. Sweat drenched his features. His perfect hair was flat and matted, glued to his forehead. Hands busy at the rope, his gray eyes blinked fast and heavy in a battle against the sweat in them.

Bang! Zszs
. A red comet hissed and wheezed into the sky. A trail of dying, fading sparks of red and white feathered in its wake.

The night went stone quiet. A cricket chirped—a second pair of insect legs rubbed a reply. Charlie watched, stunned, as the flare hit its range, arced, fell limp, and burnt out.

Bang! Zszs
. Another screaming ball shot toward the sliver of moon.

“Edgar! What the hell are you doing?” A deep voice rattled out of the darkness.

Bang! Zszs
. Yet another ball of flame skyrocketed in an airborne game of tag with the first.

“Get that damn flare gun away from him! Edgar, you old drunk! I’m gonna kick your goddamn ass!”

Gabe sat up. Charlie grabbed his collar and slammed him to the floor.

Gabe smiled, proud as a new father. “I told you it would be all right.”

Charlie untied Gabe’s feet. “Oh, yeah? And just who’s he signaling?
Betty and her quilting bee?”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep
, sounded in the distance.

Aroogah. Aroogah
, echoed from another direction.

“What the hell is that?” Charlie asked. “Chevy mating calls?”

“Fricks.” A note of a chuckle tumbled out with the word.

Charlie ran his left hand over the barrel of the pistol and stared into Gabe’s intensely satisfied eyes. “What’s a Frick?”

“More trouble than any of these boys want to mess with.” Gabe placed a hand on Charlie’s forehead and brushed it over Charlie’s wet hair. “Friends.”

Aroogah. Aroogah. Beep, beep, beep
. The clamor had united and was steadily drawing nearer.

“Tom!” a voice yelled. “Nobody said nothing about having to deal with the Fricks.”

Out of the trees on the other side of the road came another’s evident concern. “Yeah! I didn’t plan on getting my head bashed in over a couple of queers, Tom! You better do something or I’m outta here.”

“Everybody sit tight! I’ll talk to Lester.” The voice shook like Jell-O.

Amusement snorted out Charlie’s nostrils. Whoever the Fricks were, they had some knees knocking out there in the dark.

A pair of engines roared, tires screeched. The motors eased their growls.
Thump thump
. The vehicles rumbled their way along the dirt road. A pinhole in a muffler spit a tinny chorus to the tension thick as river fog. Yellow light tented the truck bed. The motors stopped. Doors opened, then slammed closed.

“Gabe! You okay?” The snarl was throaty, deliberate.

“Lester, he’s all right, but we need to talk.”

“Shut the hell up, Tom. I don’t have a damn thing to say to you right now. Gabe!”

The clap of assholes puckering overrode the crickets.

Gabe sat with his back against the truck’s cab. “In the pickup. We’re fine. I think Charlie shot Terry, though. Might want to check on him.”

A rattled shout. “No, I’m okay. He missed. I fell off the truck.”

Charlie pushed himself off the floor and sat next to Gabe. He holstered the pistol in his boot.

“Lester!” Gabe yelled. “Arnie and Phil have pistols.”

Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk
. Charlie’s ears perked.
Shotguns. The Fricks don’t play
.

“Arnie.” Lester’s words eased out calm, almost sedated. Charlie’s muscles tightened. Just like Charlie, Lester obviously kept his wits about him when confronted with the extreme. “You boys better put those guns away unless you want to shoot yourselves every time you squat to take a shit.”

“This is none of your business, Fricks.” A new voice. Arnie?

“The hell it ain’t, Arnie Andrews.” Another new snarl. And this one sounded beyond merely pissed off. “You think you’re getting out of here without me beating the tar out of you, you best do some rethinking.”

“Oh, shit.” Gabe sank down an inch or two and crossed his arms over his chest.

“What?” Charlie whispered. “What’s going on?”

“That’s Lester’s daddy. Arnie cheated him on some spare parts twenty years ago. Sounds like he hasn’t forgotten about it.”

Bubbles of laughter leaked out of Charlie’s throat.

Gabe turned to him; red measles of fear peppered his face. “You don’t understand. Lester’s daddy makes Lester look like a choir boy.”

“They’re queers, Carl! You come to help queers?” Arnie obviously
wasn’t done with the debate yet.

“Lester came to help his friend. I came to kick your ass, Arnie Andrews.” Carl seethed the words. “My nephews came to help out if need be. A few of our cousins’ll be along soon enough to clean up the mess.”

“Cousins?” Charlie asked.

“Fricks ancestors used to sell whiskey to the Indians long before this county was formed. They’re related to half the people around here. There could be one or a hundred on their way.” His chin hit his chest. His eyes half closed. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?” Charlie had no clue what Gabe had to be sorry about. Old Betty had come through, and then some.

“About the Indians.” The man’s eyes danced everywhere but to Charlie. “I meant no offense.”

A rustle from the trees. Twigs snapped under feet. “Sorry, Tom.” Charlie cocked his head. Yet another new voice. “Me, Jerry, and Rod got to side with family. We stand with cousin Carl. Oscar? What about you and your brothers?”

“Yup,” Oscar replied. “Family comes first.”

Six shadows stepped into the glow—six men ambled toward the headlights.

“You think I’m an Indian?” Charlie smirked. This was interesting.

Gabe’s stare landed on Charlie’s face. “Aren’t you?” The gaze dropped to the floor. “I mean, it doesn’t matter.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.” Charlie stood.

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” Gabe pushed his way to his feet. “Aren’t you an Indian? I mean, I don’t care if you are.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Tom said. “This wasn’t our idea, Carl. Perkins ordered this. We didn’t want to do this. Gabe’s one of us. He was born and raised here.”

Charlie chuckled at the swing in denial of responsibility.

“So, are you?” Gabe asked.

Charlie leapt to the ground. “If you don’t care, why ask?”

“Well, you know… some folks… some folks are prejudiced.” The gulp echoed. “I’m not, of course. It’s not important if you are an Indian.”

“Then it’s not important.” Charlie took a step. “You going to introduce me?”

“Oh.” Gabe scurried over the side to the ground. “How….” Another loud gulp. “Sorry. I didn’t mean
how
like Indians say. What should I call you? Do you have an Indian name, like Eagle Feather or something?”

“Charlie Harris.” He strode in the direction of the gaggle of men embraced by the headlights.

Gabe hurried alongside. “Are you an Indian, Charlie?”

“If it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.”

“You okay, Gabe?” the man big as a delivery truck asked.

“Damn it, Charlie. I need to know. Yeah. I’m okay, Lester. My head hurts, is all. They knocked us out—”

The pocked face scrunched to a mass of fury. “Who the hell hit Gabe? Get your ass over here!”

Footsteps clomped across the ground. A car door slammed, and an engine roared to life at the front of the line of parked vehicles. Tires spun on the dirt, and the car made a beeline down the road.

“Ronnie Smith,” someone offered.

“I’ll catch up with Ronnie later.” The man cleared his throat and spat into the dirt.

Gabe made the introductions. “Lester, this is Charlie Harris. Charlie, Lester Fricks.”

Charlie squinted an eye. Old Lester was huge. He glanced at the older man standing next to Lester. Old daddy wasn’t. Lester towered an easy foot over his dad. But Carl was no slouch. The silver-haired man was solid as brick. Charlie grabbed Lester’s extended massive paw. The leathery skin was smooth and hardened from labor. “Nice to meet you.”

The two hills that served as shoulders shrugged. “Any friend of Gabe’s is a friend of mine.” He let go of Charlie’s hand. “Good grip. Tough skin. You work hard for a living.” The eyes scoured Charlie’s face. “You’ve seen some stuff. Bad stuff. But you made it through. Glad we’re on the same side.” He nodded slowly. “Man would be a fool to tangle with you. How about I buy you a beer later? We can talk more.”

Charlie smiled. Lester’d sized him up in the blink of an eye. Charlie liked him.

“They’re queers, Lester,” some brave, if not ignorant soul called out.

Lester’s eyes turned to stone. “Gabe’s my friend!” He glanced at Charlie. “And Charlie too! Anybody got a problem with that?”

“No, no, sir,” a myriad of voices muttered.

Carl slapped Lester’s arm. “I got some business to take care of.” He turned toward the trees to his left. “Where the hell are you, Arnie?”

“In that clump of oak. I’ll show you.” One of the men behind Carl stepped forward and led the way.

“Tom,” Lester said, “what’s this all about?”

Captain Tom shuffled over. Maybe it was the light that gave him such a pale complexion, but Charlie figured the mammoth man confronting him probably had more to do with Tom’s lack of color.

“Chief Perkins wanted us to bring Charlie out to the old Milford place.”

Lester’s eyes went dead cold. Charlie shivered. He’d seen the look before, in the faces of men about to kill with their hands.

“Why?” Lester hissed. “Perkins up there?”

Yeah. Why?

Tom shook his head. “I don’t know who’s supposed to be there. Perkins said we should rough up Charlie and take him there. Said we could do whatever we wanted with Gabe.” His hands and fingers moved in the air as fast as his mouth. “We weren’t going to hurt Gabe. I swear, Lester. We were just going to scare him a little. Christ, Lester, I swear.”

“Perkins.” The name blistered out of Lester’s nose like snot.

“Eee!”

“Come back here, you asshole! I’m not finished with you yet.”

Lester turned toward the trees. “Sounds like dad found Arnie.”

“What’s planned for me at this Milford place?” Charlie took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and rolled the odor of the firs, maples, and oaks over his tongue. Trees had flavor in their scents, and these tasted like home.

“I don’t know. Honest,” Tom answered. “That’s all I know.”

Charlie took another breath and held it in his lungs. A tack hammer
of foreboding chipped at his brain. His stomach wrenched. Sweat dampened his palms. He rubbed his thumbs over the moisture. The hammer cracked the cluster of confusion he’d been carrying around in his mind. The reason behind the mysterious telegram fell through the fissure.

Charlie Harris had been summoned to Whistle Pass to die.

Chapter 21

“
R
OUGHED
up, huh? How bad?” Charlie asked.

Gabe stared open-mouthed at Charlie. He couldn’t be saying what he hoped he wasn’t saying. Charlie couldn’t be thinking about going through with this? Could he?

Captain Tom shifted his gaze to his feet. “Enough you can still stand, but can’t fight so good.”

Looking at Lester, Charlie slipped off his pea coat. “Let’s get started.”

“Oh hell no!” Gabe’s stomach shriveled to a prune. His mind went numb as his knees. “You can’t go up there. I won’t let you!” How he could stop Charlie from doing anything, he had no idea, but he had to try.

“Excuse us a minute.” Charlie gripped Gabe’s elbow and pulled him along beside him to the back of the pickup truck.

Gabe’s feet shuffled as if caked in concrete. He laid his arms over the tailgate for support. All feeling below his waist drained out his toes. He leaned further over the gate, notching it into his armpits so he wouldn’t collapse. The fingers of Charlie’s left hand massaged his neck; the right hand stroked his arm. Gabe fought back the need to fall into his arms.