Eddie worked his way along the ridge at the head of the canyon. Sorensen was sitting inside the Range Rover, so Eddie couldn’t see him. He made his way down the narrow wash until he was about fifty feet behind the vehicle. The engine was running, the metallic tang of exhaust from the catalytic converter smothering the smells of the creosote and the dampness from the recent rain. The quiet thrum of the big V-8 intruded into the desert silence. Smith was running the air conditioner. All the comforts of home. Eddie picked up a handful of loose pebbles and tossed them at the shiny red vehicle. After a moment, the driver’s window slid smoothly down. Eddie waited, scrunching down, out of sight. Smith stuck his head out and craned around, searching for the source of the gravel pelting down on the vehicle. Eddie tossed another handful of pebbles, five small rocks about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, big enough to make a racket. They struck the top of the car with a definite clatter and bounced onto the hood. The driver’s door flew open, and Smith stepped out, pistol in hand. It looked like a 9-mm Browning, an expensive handgun. Figures, Eddie thought. It went with the package—rich white guy, rich white guy’s car, rich white guy’s rifle, rich white guy’s pistol.
Eddie slowly raised himself to a standing position back of the rear right side of the vehicle. “Hey, don’t be shooting up your guide.” He grinned his best crazy Indian grin, exposing the blackened stumps and jagged remainders of his teeth. Eddie’s grin turned genuine as he saw Smith’s expression transform from that of disbelief to disgust
and then to anger. “How’re you doin’, Mr. Smith? You missed the turnoff by a quarter mile, but I guess you know that.”
“You scratched the paint. That will cost money.”
“Naw, they’ll be able to rub it right out. Besides, what’s a few bucks to a rich dude like you?”
“They’re not your bucks, little man. They’re my bucks.” He inspected Eddie with returning calm. “I see you’re carrying a sidearm”—his eyes moved appraisingly to the rifle slung over Eddie’s shoulder—“and my Weatherby, but I don’t see my ram’s head.”
“That’s because it’s still in my truck. The rifle here is part of a good-faith agreement.” He liked that “good-faith agreement” talk. Let Smith know he wasn’t the only one with smarts. “Now how about a little good-faith cash.”
Smith smirked. “Well, well, a legally trained mind. If the rifle’s not damaged, a ‘good-faith’ five hundred might be appropriate.”
Eddie unslung the rifle from his shoulder and handed it over to Smith. “Here you go.”
Smith took the rifle and pulled back the bolt. Eddie knew the magazine was empty. He’d taken out the last three rounds himself. Smith closed the bolt and dry-fired. The mechanism made a distinct click, metal on metal. Eddie saw a small frown flit across the calm facade of Smith’s face. Smith reached into the top pocket of his safari shirt and produced a money clip, from which he took five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Then he handed them to Eddie. Things were looking up. He rarely saw hundred-dollar bills, especially crisp new ones. He folded them in half and stuffed them into his pants pocket. Then he deftly produced the .44. It fairly flew into his hand. “Whadda ya think of my big ol’ forty-four, Smith?” He flipped it around to hand it to Sorensen butt-first for his inspection. As Smith reached for it, Eddie did the border shuffle, flipping it back around, the muzzle pointed at Smith’s torso. Smith’s empty hand waved uncertainly in the air as he found himself looking down at the large-caliber gun pointed at his midsection. “Never seen the old border shuffle, Smith?” Eddie was enjoying the equality bestowed on him by Sam Colt’s patented step stool for little guys. No more Mr. Big Shot, no more Mr. Smith, just plain old Smith, equalized.
For a moment, the hunter’s easy assurance peeled away like paint bubbling in the sun, but then the habitual arrogance of a lifetime reasserted itself. “I hope you know you’re fooling around with a loaded weapon.”
Eddie smiled. “Hope you know it, too.” He slipped the .44 back in its holster. “Just wanted to make sure we understand each other.”
Smith eyed Eddie with some care, a new appraisal. Not quite the clown he had taken him for. “I didn’t drive to this shit hole to stand around and watch a trick show. Let’s get on with it. Where’s your truck?”
“Where I left it.” Eddie looked smug. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He cocked his hip out, letting his hand dangle over the butt of the pistol. “You’re going to wait here. After a little while, you’ll see me pull up on the road. You walk down to my truck. I give you the head, and you give me fifteen thousand dollars. Right?” Smith nodded in sullen agreement. Eddie could see he didn’t like being told what to do, not calling the shots. Just too damn bad. No more crap from the big man. Hey, they’d been equalized.
Eddie pulled the battered Ford up at the mouth of the ravine, where he could see Smith standing beside the Range Rover. As Smith approached the truck, Eddie slipped out of the passenger’s side and stood by the truck, resting his forearms against the side of the bed. He was very glad he had listened to his voice. He didn’t trust this Smith at all. The mounted head lay in the back of the truck, covered with a plastic tarp. Smith was going to be really surprised.
Eddie watched the tall figure clad in clean khakis and straw hat cross the road with purposefully confident strides and lean against the opposite side of the truck bed as casually as if he were stepping up to a bar.
“Well?” Smith cocked a trimmed eyebrow.
Eddie reached over with a pocketknife and cut the cord holding the plastic tarp in place, then lifted it back, exposing the mounted head. Smith’s face lost its blandness. His eyes widened with excitement. “That’s good. That’s really good.” He looked back up at Eddie. “You didn’t say that you had mounted the head. Damn good,
too.” He nodded to himself, his gaze on the ram’s head, unable to take his eyes off the prize.
Eddie grinned with pleasure. Score one for the Indians—no, two. The big man had lost his cool, practically drooled, and he had complimented Eddie’s work. The compliment should be worth a few bucks. “So how about the dough?” He looked up and down the road, furrowing his face in a furtive grimace. This would be a bad time for a car to come by.
Smith encompassed Eddie with his open and frank expression, the one he used to engender complete confidence. “I don’t have the cash with me. I’d be foolish to carry that sort of money around.” Eddie’s good mood evaporated. He was gonna get fucked—again. He started to protest, but Smith raised his hand. “But I do have my checkbook.”
“Come on, asshole. I take the check. You stop payment. No way.”
“Wait a minute, Eddie, think it through,” Smith said, his reasonable voice smoothing the ruffles. “If I did that, you’d still have the check—the check that connects me with the hunting incident. I think we are at what’s called a standoff. I can’t afford not to pay you. You have me at a disadvantage, Eddie. I have to trust you. Besides, as you said yourself, what’s a few bucks to a rich dude like me?”
Eddie looked thoughtful. “How much cash you got in that money clip?” He gestured toward Smith’s pocket.
“Not much, Eddie, maybe another twelve hundred.”
Twelve hundred, better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. That was for sure. “So give me a check and the cash. Look at the work, man.” He pointed at the mounted head staring awkwardly skyward over his shoulder. “Mounting the head wasn’t part of the deal. That’s extra.”
Smith sighed in resignation. “As I said, it’s beautiful work, Eddie. Okay, it’s a deal.” He reached across the bed of the truck and took Eddie’s hard little brown hand in his soft white one. Eddie was grinning like the cat that had swallowed the canary. He didn’t hear the voice.
The light was fading fast. The sun had dropped behind the western escarpment and the still, clear air was beginning to chill. Eddie poured another can of oil in the truck. Man this had been
easy. Maybe too easy, the voice said. He glanced up and watched Smith hurry back to the climate-controlled interior of the Range Rover. They were both anxious to get out of there.
As Smith opened the rear door of the Range Rover, he heard Eddie’s truck sputter into life. He’d have to hurry. He pulled the leather shooting case to him and let the hinged top and front down, revealing boxes of ammunition: 9-mm, .30-caliber carbine, .357 Magnum, and .300 Magnum. He pulled five .300 Magnums from the box, the brass casings gleaming in the half-light, and pushed them into the Weatherby’s magazine. He slammed the rear hatch shut and hurried to the driver’s side, shoved the rifle into the front passenger’s seat, and started the Rover. He’d have just enough time for the right shot. He pulled out after Eddie’s truck. He was at least a quarter mile behind him, but Eddie had to slow for the wash, and the wash was directly below a bend in the road that he would reach before Eddie reached the wash. It would be a downhill shot, maybe 250 yards. Really not that difficult.
He pulled over on the shoulder, stepped out into the dusk, and listened. He heard the truck coughing down the canyon at a snail’s pace, coming closer, but still a bit too far away. He began to wonder if he was wasting his time. The truck would probably break down and the little shit would die of exposure, or asphyxiate from his own breath.
Then again, it was time to put Eddie out of his misery. As the truck came within range, he steadied the rifle against the hood and located the battered cab in the sight, shifting around in the crosshairs. Despite the waning light, it was going slowly enough to follow in the scope. He waited as the truck slowed to approach the drop into the wash. It was creeping along, almost stopped. He fixed the crosshairs on Eddie’s head, just in front of his left ear, took up the slack, and squeezed. There was a metallic click, metal on metal. He yanked open the bolt and ejected a live round, then slammed the bolt forward, chambering another round. He found Eddie’s head again and squeezed. Click, metal on metal. He removed the bolt and felt the
bolt face. No firing pin was protruding. Someone had blunted the firing pin, damaged his rifle.
He could hear the truck grunting and chugging its way across the wash. The little shit was getting away. The goddamn Indian had his check. He’d have to catch him. Make sure Eddie didn’t have a chance to expose him, make absolutely sure he didn’t leave Jawbone Canyon alive. If he hurried, and he would hurry, he could catch him before he reached the highway.