The airplane was a mile east of the runway when it turned and began to lower toward the dusty strip.
When he was maybe a quarter of a mile out and maybe a hundred feet above the ground, Jonas switched on the airplane's landing lights for about two seconds, just long enough to make sure there was not a big animal on the strip. Nevada understood that Jonas's eyes were adjusted to the dark, so he did not want the glare of landing lights as the plane settled on.
The tires squawked as they touched the hard ground, and the airplane rolled down the strip almost to the end. A thousand feet was little enough runway for the Cessna Skyknight, which weighed two tons and had hit the ground at more than eighty miles an hour.
As he turned the airplane toward the house and taxied, Jonas switched on the landing lights and illuminated the porch and Nevada — and Martha, who had now come out. Martha waved. Nevada waved. But he had a big, troubled question —
Why?
2
The sun wasn't up, but Nevada sat down with Jonas on the porch with a bottle of cognac and poured them two generous drinks. Martha was in the kitchen, happily making a big breakfast.
"So you see how it is," Jonas said. He had just told Nevada about the telephone call from Phil in Washington and what he had done about it. "I figured I'd hole up here with you for a little while — that is if it's okay with you."
Nevada had gone to the bedroom and pulled on an old buckskin shirt. He had wrapped a red-and-white bandanna around his neck in anticipation of the heat of the day and of the sweat it would catch. The man didn't seem to age. His shoulders remained broad, his posture straight, his chest deep, his belly flat, his arms muscular, his hands deft and quick. His hair was white. The old story was that Indians' hair did not turn white, which was foolishness; but Nevada's had turned white. Of course, he had blue eyes, too. He was only half Kiowa. He was almost seventy years old.
It would have been easy for Jonas to say that Nevada was Nevada because he had stayed away from cities, that he was a product of the open country, of the blood of his Kiowa mother, of an outdoor self-reliant way of life. The truth of course was that Nevada had seen his share of city living. He was Nevada Smith of the movies, Nevada Smith of the Wild West shows. He'd lived in New Orleans and Los Angeles.
Jonas's father had died with Nevada's secret in his heart, never disclosed. Jonas, who had discovered it accidentally, had kept it since. Nevada's real name was not Nevada Smith but Max Sand — the initials on his old revolver: MS. He'd killed the men who killed his parents, tracked them down and killed them without mercy. He'd spent time in prison and had escaped. He'd done other things the law did not allow. Technically, he was perhaps still a fugitive. But for more than forty years he had been Nevada Smith and — among other things — the hero of Western pictures the whole world respected. To Jonas he had never been anything but a hero and the best friend a man ever had.
"I don' hardly have to tell you," Nevada said, "that you're welcome to stay here as long as you want to. Nothin' would pleasure me more, and nothin' would make Martha happier. Nothin' but having Monica and Jo-Ann here with you. But we gotta figure that there'll be a problem."
"I think I know what you have in mind," said Jonas.
"Well, let's suppose I was a law feller, a United States marshal," said Nevada, "and I come to your house and find you've skedaddled. Now, where'd I go lookin' fer you, if I was a law feller?"
Jonas took a swallow of Nevada's fiery brandy. He stared out at the eastern mountains, where the sky was turning and the sun was about to show itself. In the red light now blooming on a few gentle clouds that had developed overhead he could see a big old rattler coiled alongside the runway, probably moved into a defensive posture because of the mysterious disturbance that had shaken the land half an hour ago. A silly tiny animal skipped past, but the rattlesnake was apparently still so alert for danger to itself that it took no notice of what otherwise would have been a tasty meal.
"I see what you mean."
"I'd say, 'Jonas Cord, where'd he go?' And I'd say, 'What you bet out to Nevada Smith's place?' I could hide you here. I got places where we could hide you. Course, we'd gotta get rid of the airplane. But, problem we got is that that plane was see'd landin' here. Hands that work the place. Folks around. An airplane landin' on my strip before dawn ... The word's all over. Now, if you'd druv—"
"They'd still look for me here," said Jonas.
"I'm afeard so," said Nevada.
"It's not so easy, is it? I mean, running away from the law."
Nevada turned toward Jonas with a small ironic smile on his lined face. "No, it ain't. But it can be done. Some folks do it for a lifetime."
"I'm not planning on doing it for a lifetime," said Jonas.
"Fellers don't, generally," said Nevada. "Question is, just what have you done so far? Like, did you tell Monica where you were goin'?"
"No. I told her I'd be in touch."
"That airplane out there belongs to you. They'll look for it. First place they'll look for it is here. We got ... what? Two, three hours? You gotta eat, then take off. I got drums of aviation gas on hand. We'll pump your tanks up, like usual."
"Going where, Mexico?" Jonas asked.
"No. You fly 'cross the border, they track you. No. You gotta go somewheres else."
"I guess an airplane's an impediment," said Jonas. "Wherever it sits, it's got its numbers painted on it. You can hide a car, but —"
"Right."
"Shit," said Jonas. "I got away for a few hours, but —"
"You got a problem, Junior," said Nevada. "You're business smart. You turned out to be surprisin' business smart. Your daddy never guessed how business smart you were ... or how fuckin' stupid you can sometimes be about life-type things. I don't know if you should've tried to duck that subpoena. That ain't a judgment for me to make. I know one thing. You gotta lam, and you gotta lam smarter than you've done so far."
"Can you help me, Nevada?"
Jonas reached for the cognac bottle, and Nevada caught his hand short of it and pushed it back. "You gotta fly, so you don't need no more of that. I gotta make a telephone call or two. What I think you oughta do is eat what Martha's cookin', then stretch out on a bed and get some shut-eye. Hour or two, you'll have to take off. By that time I may know where you can go."
3
Jonas lay in a cool dark room and tried to sleep. He dozed only, and odd, half-real dreams ran through his head. In his dream his father was still alive, and they were very angry with each other. About Rina. The old resentment.
In the waking part of his dream, when he was aware of himself and where he was, he regretted never forgiving his father. More than that, he regretted that his father had not lived to see him take over the company and expand it into what some people called the Cord empire. Of course ... if his father had lived, his son would never have had the chance to do it.
Jonas didn't believe his father was in heaven or the other place, or somewhere out there watching him. But he wished he were. God, how he wished that! Everything he did he measured against one standard: Would his father have approved? He tried not to. He tried not to think of how his father would judge. But he caught himself constantly asking, "Did I do it right, old man?"
It was no easy standard. What would his father say, if he knew, about ducking this subpoena? What would the old man think?
He went to sleep finally and was asleep when Nevada entered the room and told him to wake up.
Jonas sat up and put his feet on the floor. He hadn't slept enough and felt as if he had a hangover. Nevada handed him a mug of strong black coffee.