The next business would not be pleasant at all. But like burning the Miller's weasels, it needed to be done. Boy, he thought, he had sure sunk low. He had gone from killing three heavily armed hunters to shooting an unarmed woman. Now he was waiting for a seven-year-old. Strangely, it wasn't all that hard to do. He would make a damned good sheriff, he thought. He had a good understanding of the criminal mind.
Wacey placed the cup on the table. He started to reach for the .30-06 but decided that if she saw him come out with a rifle now, she might turn and run right back up the mountain. He didn't feel like chasing her or possibly missing her with a long shot. She was remarkably fast for a girl her age--especially one with glasses, he thought. Instead, he would wait until she got to the backyard. Then he would step out and run her down. He knew of a sump hole at the base of Wolf Mountain where some hunters had once trailed a wounded elk. The animal had gotten caught in the sump and sunk out of sight, much to the hunters' dismay. It would be a perfect place to throw a body. He would weight her down with rocks.
He waited until she ran through the back gate before he stepped out on the porch.
When she saw him, she froze in place. Her green eyes were so huge. He tried his best smile on her as the screen door slammed behind him. What he didn't understand was why those eyes had moved off of his face toward the side of the house. He followed them.
"Wacey," Vern said in his deep voice, "it's over, buddy. Our deal is done and we had better get the hell out of Dodge while we still can."
Wacey turned toward him, confused. Vern looked like he just got out of bed and had walked all of the way from Saddlestring.
"You look real stupid, Vern," Wacey said. "What'd you do, piss your pants?"
***
Joe came around from the other side of the house near the garage. Wacey's back was turned to him; he was facing Vern. Sheridan was out in the yard. Her clothes were tattered and she was smudged with dirt and blood.
"What are you doing here? What are you saying?" Wacey asked Vern, his voice high-pitched.
"I wiped out the rest of the weasels, and we're almost home free."
He gestured toward Sheridan and spoke to her. "Don't you move, darling'."
Sheridan stood absolutely still. But Joe knew she could see him. Don't give me away, Joe silently implored.
"Let's get out of here while we can," Vern said to Wacey. "They know about the weasels, and Barnum's on the way now."
"How in the hell did that happen?" Wacey demanded, almost in falsetto.
"I'll tell you in the car," Vern said, shaking his head from side to side.
"Tell me now."
Vern sighed. "Clyde Lidgard woke the fuck up and told everybody what happened. Somebody found some pictures he took up in the mountains with both of us in them." His voice cracked again, like it had in the pickup. "Remember Clyde and his goddamned camera? We've got to get out of
here NOW!"
"Not yet," Wacey said, reaching down for his 9mm pistol. "I've got to finish up here."
Joe thought Wacey would turn on Vern. But the pistol started to raise toward Sheridan, started to arc up from the holster as Wacey held it with a stiff arm, started to flush up into the air like a pheasant exploding from the brush into the sky, and Joe heard his daughter start to scream ... How could Wacey, the same Wacey who had shared coffee with Joe on so many mornings while they watched the elk come down from the mountains to eat hay in a rancher's meadow, the same Wacey who scrunched in between Joe and Vern on the bench seat of Vern's Game and Fish pickup, the same Wacey who, with that goofy laugh, recalled riding both bulls and buckle bunnies at the National College Rodeo Finals in Bozeman--how could this be the Wacey who was now leveling his 9mm pistol at Joe's older daughter?
With the shotgun, Joe shot Wacey's arm off at the elbow. The blast spun Wacey around until he was facing Joe. Joe had never seen terror in Wacey's face before. Wacey's disembodied forearm, with the fist still gripping the pistol, flew end over end through the air and dropped to the ground near the base of the cottonwood tree.
Joe racked the shotgun and, with two more lightning blasts, blew both of Wacey's knees back in the wrong direction. Wacey buckled to the pavement on top of himself, howling.
Vern stood stock still with his palms out and his mouth open. His robe was spattered with Wacey's blood.
Sheridan rushed to Joe, and he bent to catch her. He didn't know she could squeeze his neck so hard. She was sobbing, and he kissed her and hugged her back.
"Your mom is okay," he told her, picking her up and rocking her as if she were an infant.
"I saw her last night and she's okay."
"I was so worried about her," Sheridan sobbed. "It's all my fault."
"No it isn't, darling," Joe said, wincing. "Don't ever think that. Don't ever say that. You are such a brave girl. You are such a hero. Your mom will be proud of you."
"Is he dead?" she asked.
"I'm sorry you had to see all that," Joe said to Sheridan. "It makes me kind of sick."
"He deserved it. Nobody ever needed it more than him."
He lowered her to the grass when he noticed that Vern had bent over and dug the pickup keys out of Wacey's pocket and had started to walk away.
"Where do you think you're going?" Joe asked.
"We're through, remember?" Vern said over his shoulder. "I did my part. And shit, you sure did yours. I forgot what a wing shot you were." Out came the chuckle.
"Don't take another step, Vern," Joe cautioned.
"We're waiting for Barnum now. You're going to prison."
"We're through, Joe. We had a deal." Vern was angry. "Remember that one you owe me." He never stopped trying.
On the porch, Wacey moaned. He was alive, but blood was pouring out of
him. His legs were grotesquely bent backwards underneath him.
"Stop, Vern," Joe said. He didn't yell, but he knew Vern could hear
him.
Vern continued to walk along the back of the house.
"Honey, turn your head," Joe said sternly to Sheridan.
"No, I want to see this," Sheridan said.
"Turn your head!"
Sheridan reluctantly obeyed.
Joe raised the shotgun and waited until Vern was far enough away that the shot pattern wouldn't be tight. Then he shot him in the hip. Vern dropped like a rock.
"Jesus!" Vern cried, writhing on the ground. "I can't believe you shot me in the ass!"
"It was the least I could do," Joe said. "If you try to get up, I'll shoot you again."
Joe found Wacey's pistol in the grass, and tucked it in his belt. He walked back to the porch and squatted on the pavement. Wacey was balled up with his back against the door. His good arm was pulling a smashed leg to his chest. His wounded arm, now a hamburger-like stump pulsing gouts of arterial blood, flopped about like a broken wing. Wacey s eyes were wide, and his mouth was fixed in a waxy snarl.
"Can you hear me, Wacey?" Joe asked.
Wacey grunted and nodded through the pain.
"Wacey, the only reason I didn't kill you for what you've done to my family is because if you were dead, you wouldn't think about it much," Joe said. "Do you understand what I'm saying? I want you to be able to think about what you've done to my family, and to me, and to those outfitters. Not to mention the Wyoming Game and Fish Department."
"Get an ambulance!" Wacey hissed through chattering teeth. "I'm bleeding to death!"
"Do you understand what I'm saying?" Joe asked again, calmly.
"Yes! Goddamn you!" Wacey spat. He was trembling violently.
"No," Joe said, standing.
"Goddamn you to hell, Wacey. And take Vern Dunnegan along on the same
horse."
Joe picked up Sheridan and carried her around the house and through the front yard to Bighorn Road. He put her down near the gate.