The transmission stopped abruptly. Coop’s face was slack and haggard, but his eyes gleamed.
“Does Frank really have that stuff?” Joe said.
“I don’t know,” Botree said.
“It might be more of his bullshit.”
“Coop picked up people on the scanner. I heard it, too. You can tell it’s official.”
“Probably firefighters.”
“It sounds like Feds,” she said. “ATF or somebody. Other people in the valley heard them, too. Frank’s been calling for volunteers all morning.”
“I hope Johnny didn’t go.”
“I got word to him at the Wolf. Asked him to come home. Then he radioed in and said there was a roadblock a few miles north of the ranch. He said he was going to leave the truck and follow the river home.”
Joe studied the topographical map. The black circle was ten miles from the ranch, accessible only by a narrow draw. It reminded him of Morgan’s place — one way in, one way out. Morgan had lasted forty years. With the weapons Frank claimed to have, he could repel all but the most fierce attack. The Bills would have to be overrun, bombed, or burned out.
The scanner sputtered and Coop turned slowly, his body moving like a machine that needed to be taken apart and cleaned. He squelched the noise and adjusted the scanner’s controls until a different voice came.
“White Dog to Delta. What’s your sitrep?”
“The approach is in our control. Repeat, the approach is in Delta control.”
The voice gave way to a buzz of static, Botree was right, it sounded like a military operation rather than firefighters. Joe realized that White Dog was the command post while Delta was a ground force moving into position.
Coop leaned over the map and drew a small line with a pen. There were other marks that Joe hadn’t noticed, tiny black dots that progressed up the draw. The last one was at the top of the hill near the F in a circle. Joe understood that he was seeing Frank’s holdout, and the advance of the attacking force. He wondered how many people had joined Frank.
From the CB came Frank’s voice again.
“Come and get it, heathens,” he said. “Your day of calamity is at hand. Thomas Jefferson warned us two hundred years ago—‘The strongest reason for the people to keep and bear arms is to protect themselves against tyranny in government.’ ”
The transmission ended, leaving a sudden silence in the tiny room. Joe hoped each side was attempting an elaborate ruse designed to make the other surrender. The attackers might have superior firepower, but the Bills knew the terrain and wouldn’t be bluffed.
Coop reduced the volume on the scanner and began changing channels on the CB, revealing scraps of talk along the valley as he moved slowly down the band.
“… won’t let you drive past the Jackson place…”
“… a trick, I’m telling you. They wouldn’t…”
“… plenty of water and ammo, what else…”
“… she thinks it’s Armageddon but I say the FBI…”
Joe felt as if the walls of the tiny room were compressing him. He left the room, feeling empty as last year’s bird’s nest. Missing his mother’s funeral was the worst blow of all.
The sound of gunfire startled Joe, three quick shots. He thought it came from the radio until Botree ran down the hall.
“That’s outside, Joe.”
“Where?”
“Toward the back pasture.”
“Put the kids in the tub.”
“What?”
“It’ll protect them.”
He withdrew the.38 from the nylon holster on his belt and went to the mud room. He found a towel in a corner and wrapped one end around the pistol and placed the other in his mouth. He peered through the window. As he turned his head, the pistol moved with him like a snout. The pasture was empty. Wind cleared smoke from the air, and the sky shone like the waters of a lake. When his eyes burned, he reminded himself to blink.
The shadows of the treeline stretched along the grass of the pasture. His bad knee began to ache and he shifted his weight. He was hungry. Metallic voices issued from the radio down the hall. Joe strained to recall the gunshots, hoping to gauge their caliber, but the memory eluded him. He wondered if they had been a signal to a team that was preparing to attack the house.
Joe shook his head to concentrate on the pasture. Lines of smoke rippled along the distant peaks. A man left the woods and ran toward the house. Joe leveled the pistol sights at the man’s chest. His hand swayed back and forth as the strained muscles of his arm began to quiver. He steadied the gun and inhaled. He wanted to wait until he was certain of his target. The man was close, running very fast, and Joe recognized Johnny.
Joe leaned against the wall, his legs trembling, the pistol aimed at the ceiling. Johnny slammed the door open. He was panting. Mucus ran from his nose. His shirt was gone and deep scratches covered his body. He opened his mouth, but could not talk. He began to shiver.
“It’s all right,” Joe yelled. “It’s Johnny.”
Joe led him through the house to the kitchen. Johnny held his hand on the wall as he walked, like a man with unsure legs. He was wearing an empty holster with the end tied to his thigh. Botree met them at the table and helped ease Johnny to a chair. She talked in a low murmur, more a constant soothing tone than speech. She used a wet cloth to clean blood and dirt from Johnny’s wounds. His face twitched, the muscles jumping. She applied disinfectant, working down his chest, along his arms to his hands, and Joe remembered the gentle efficiency of her hands. She gave Johnny two of Joe’s leftover pain pills.
She sent Joe for a blanket and he walked through the house, trying to comprehend the events of the day. Coop sat immobile as stone before the CB and scanner, flanked by shelves of skull and bone. Joe peeked in the bathroom, where Abilene slept in the tub. Beside him, Dallas was hunched over an Etch-A-Sketch, duplicating the posture of Coop and his radio. The sky through the tiny window was bright blue, as if a panel of dyed deerhide was stretched within the frame.
At the kitchen table Johnny was drinking coffee, and Joe wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. Color had returned to Johnny’s face. Botree sat beside him. Joe felt as if he were watching them from a great distance. They seemed like strangers with whom he was forced to share a table at a busy diner.
“What happened?” he said.
“There’s Feds all over out there,” Johnny said. “They’re wearing armored vests and helmets. They got M-i6s, radios, and Jeeps. I mean there’s an army.”
“But you got past.” Botree’s voice was soothing and warm, as if talking to her kids. “You came home.”
“We got to tell Owen. They got helicopters, Botree. Black helicopters, just like Frank said.”
“We heard the shooting,” Botree said. “Were they shooting at you?”
“No,” Johnny said, his voice a low moan.
He looked at his injured hands, which were beginning to swell. The steady sound of static came from the door to Coop’s room. A voice spoke briefly and after a few seconds, they could hear Frank’s voice reciting coordinates for an airstrike, daring the Feds to attack. Joe rose and closed the curtains.
“Is someone out there?” Botree said to Johnny. “By the house?”
“No.”
“Was there?”
Johnny nodded.
“Is that who shot?”
Johnny shook his head. He moved his hand to the empty holster. He looked from Botree to Joe and back to his sister. He began to talk, each word separate and precise, like a man who’d discovered the power of speech.
“Somebody was hiding in the woods,” he said, “I was moving quiet like Owen taught me. I couldn’t see who, but I figured it was one of those Feds. An ATF or FBI, or whoever they got out there. One of the spies they sent out. I guess he heard me because he turned around and aimed a rifle at me. I already had my gun out. I don’t know how it got in my hand. I was scared, but I didn’t want to do him like I done Joe. I was too scared to be yellow this time. I shot him three times. He fell down, but he wasn’t a Fed. All he had was a little.22 rifle. He wasn’t no older than me. Oh, Botree, what’d I do?”