Barnum finally persuaded Joe to at least load his shotgun with magnum double ought buckshot shells so if he had to be could "knock down a house." But Joe thought how odd it was to be loading the shotgun he had used since boyhood for ducks and pine grouse with shells designed solely to kill a man. But he did it, and he filled one pocket of a saddle bag with a dozen extra rounds.
Barnum briefly took Joe and Wacey aside while they waited for Deputy McLanahan to secure his panniers. "Guess who is on the way to observe this rodeo, boys?" Barnum asked them. Joe and Wacey exchanged glances but neither knew.
"Vern Dunnegan!" Barnum clapped Joe and Wacey on their shoulders. "Your mentor. He called and left a message with the dispatch."
"Why is Vern here?" Joe asked. Wacey shrugged. "He was in the area and heard about it on the radio, I suppose," Barnum said. "So don't screw up, boys. Not only will the entire valley be watching, but Vern will be watching, too." There was sarcasm in Barnum's voice.
Most of the gear, including the chuck box, they left with Barnum and the bustle of people and equipment. As they finally mounted and had turned their horses to the trailhead, they could hear Sheriff Barnum, flanked by the two retired Korean War vets from the VFW post, on his radio trying to track down his missing helicopter.
"How close are we?" Joe asked Wacey as he nosed his horse through the silent pocket of aspen. In timber this thick, it was best to let Lizzie pick her own way through. He just pointed her in the general direction, which was behind and to the left of Wacey. Wacey was a few yards ahead, and he reined in his mount and leaned to the side of his saddle.
"Coupla hours," Wacey said, also in a murmur.
"That's what I was worried about." Hedeman nodded. They would not make it to the outfitters'
elk camp in daylight, even though getting there before dark had been the purpose of the trip.
Joe walked his horse abreast Wacey's palomino. Two aspens as thin and round as baseball bats stood between them. The grove was heavily timbered, and black roots curled up through a carpet of lemon-colored leaves.
"And here comes the reason why," Wacey grumbled.
It was hushed in the middle of the trees, the light was dappled and muted, but they could hear the clinking of Deputy McLanahan and his packhorse skirting the grove on the outside. McLanahan had fitted the packhorse with hunting panniers, and the bulging canvas bags were so wide that he couldn't follow Joe and Wacey into the grove. Joe and Hedeman caught a glimpse of the deputy down a narrow chute in the trees; it was clear that McLanahan was much less of a horseman than Joe on his worst day.
"When I'm elected I'm going to fire his butt before I even order business cards," Hedeman whispered, looking down the chute where McLanahan had passed.
Joe didn't respond. There was no need to.
They Waited for Deputy McLanahan in the clear of a saddle slope that was bordered on each side by juniper pine. Commas of snow from that morning lay in long pools of shadow cast by boulders and trees. Groves of aspen were bright yellow with fingers of crimson coursing through them. The evening sun made the colors intense, almost throbbing. Joe thought of the contrast of the last few hours. At Crazy Woman Creek, he had seemed crowded by admirers and he felt like a member of a powerful force. Here, in the cool darkening stillness of the Bighorns, he felt tiny and insignificant.
"I'm gonna be real sore tomorrow," bellowed McLanahan as he approached.
Joe noticed Wacey shift his weight sharply in his saddle, a familiar sign of irritation.
"When you're sneaking up on somebody, you might consider keeping your voice low," Wacey hissed as McLanahan approached. "It's an old, sly Indian trick. We're assuming that the people we are sneaking up on have ears mounted on each side of their head."
Deputy McLanahan, clearly angry, started to say something but caught himself. Wacey was not fun to argue with.
"You're slow and we're late," Wacey continued in the low hiss. "We aren't going to get there with any light. We're going to have to cold camp up here and go into the outfitters' camp at dawn to see if we can catch anyone."
McLanahan's jaw was tight, and his eyes glistened. Joe felt sorry for the deputy. Much of the delay had been the deputy's fault but Hedeman was pressing the point.
"Starting late ain't my fault. Barnum read me a list of supplies to bring that was as long as your arm," McLanahan finally said, and his voice caught.
"The hell it ain't," Wacey answered, turning away and nudging his horse forward.
"Don't worry about it," Joe assured McLanahan. "Let it go."
"He don't need to say that," McLanahan answered, his bottom lip trembling. "Not that way."
Don't cry, for God's sake, thought Joe. He clicked his tongue, and the buckskin walked. He left McLanahan alone to compose himself, and he wondered what was with Wacey. Wacey seemed uncommonly irritable. He hoped it didn't have to do with the fact that the success or failure of this venture would likely become an issue in the future sheriff's race against Barnum.
They Picketed their horses by the blue light of fluorescent battery lamps and spread out sleeping bags tight against a granite bluff. They were close enough to the elk camp, Wacey said, that a fire was out of the question.
Marybeth had made a half-dozen ham sandwiches, and they ate them in the dark. McLanahan passed around a pint of Jim Beam bourbon, which seemed to improve Hedeman's mood, at least a little.
"I missed my son's football practice tonight," McLanahan said unexpectantly.
"I'm the defensive line coach."
"You have a son?" Joe asked. McLanahan was just too young for that, he thought.
"Well, he's not actually my son." McLanahan sounded a bit sheepish. "He's the son of my fiancee. We're livin' together. She's been married a couple of times before. She's quite a bit older."
"Oh."
Wacey snorted. "What in the hell does that have to do with the price of milk?"
"First practice I missed," McLanahan said. "Twelve Sleep plays Buffalo on Friday. Home opener."
"The mighty Buffalo Bison, our nemesis," Hedeman said sarcastically. Then: "Why don't you go find your radio and tell Barnum where we're at and what we're doin'. All those folks down there will want a report so they can spend the rest of the evening second-guessing us. Let him know we'll move on the elk camp before dawn tomorrow."
McLanahan nodded and wandered away to dig through his panniers.
"Jesus," Wacey complained after McLanahan was gone. "Havin' him on the payroll is like havin' two good men gone."
"Take it easy on him," Joe said.
Wacey grunted and chewed his sandwich. "I'll be interested to find out what was in that cooler Ote had with him."
"Yup."
"I suppose it coulda been anything," Wacey continued. "Of course it might not mean a goddamn thing in the end, I guess."
Joe nodded. Then he reeled off the number of ranch houses between Crazy Woman Creek and the Pickett home that Ote Keeley could have gone to for help.
"There was a reason he came to our house," Joe said. "I just don't know what it could be."