The men from the government vehicles were almost through the timber and about to enter an old clear-cut where they would be completely exposed. What fools, Johnny thought. He got to his feet and tightened the sling of his left arm, steadying the carbine against a pine trunk. He was breathing hard now, his heart tripping, a stench like soiled cat litter rising from his armpits. For just a moment he thought he heard the clatter of armored personnel carriers and tanks lurching over sand dunes, then he heard nothing at all, only wind and pinecones bouncing down the hillside
He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and opened his mouth to clear a popping sound in his ears. Up on the hill behind him he heard feet running and twigs breaking. When he turned, he saw a flash of clothing, like an olive field jacket, moving fast through the trees. Somehow they had flanked him and gotten around behind him.
But who cared? He’d waste them front and rear, blow brains and feathers all over the brush, and let the devil sort them out.
On the far side of the clear-cut he saw sunlight glint on brass, on a helmet, on steel, then the government men began to emerge out of the shadows. Johnny aimed through the peep sight on the point man’s breast and felt his finger tighten inside the Lee-Enfield’s trigger guard. In less than a second, a .303 round would be on its way down-range, perhaps starting to topple before it cored through its target.
Then he saw the green workclothes of the man he was about to kill and the red, white, and blue patch sewn above his shirt pocket. The man came on into the clear-cut, oblivious to the threat up on the hillside, a string of black and Indian Job Corps kids behind him, all of them carrying tools and surveyors’ equipment.
“Johnny!” he heard Amber call behind him.
He stepped back from the tree and lowered the carbine, just as a helicopter lifted out of the next valley, its engine roaring, a huge log suspended by a cable from the airframe.
“Johnny, we’re free! I talked to Billy Bob! We can go back!” Amber shouted, waving her arms.
The world seemed to tilt against the horizon. Johnny dropped the Lee-Enfield from his hands, the sling sliding off his bad arm, his eyes swimming. Then he picked the carbine up again, pulled the bolt free, and threw it down the hillside. He smashed the stock across the pine trunk a
gain and again, the wood flying from the metal parts, as though he were vainly attempting to hew down an intransigent monument to his own rage.
“Did you hear me?” she said, skidding down the side of the hill, fighting to keep her balance, the Army field jacket she wore streaked with dew from the trees.
But he sat down on a rock, his head in his hands, and could not answer.
Epilogue
WE HAD INDIAN SUMMER that year. The nights were crisp, the days warm, the maples heavy with gold and red leaves all over Missoula. College kids climbed every day to the big white cement “M” overlooking the university, and hang gliders turned in lazy circles on the warm updrafts rising from Hellgate Canyon. The evening news at our health club showed brief clips of burned-out American Humvees in the streets of Baghdad but never images of the wounded or the dead. Nor did the camera visit civilian hospitals. The war was there, not here, and Indian summer came to us every morning like a balmy wind laced with the smell of distant rain.
I wished for a dramatic denouement to the events of the last few months, a clap of divine hands that would reassure us of an ontological order wherein evil is punished and good rewarded, not unlike the playwright’s pen at work in the fifth act of an Elizabethan tragedy. But neither the death of Darrel McComb nor the revelations of the recorder he had hidden on his person could usurp the tranquillity of the system or dampen our desire to extend the beautiful days of fall into the coming of winter.
But Darrel’s worst detractors had to take their hats off to him. He had created a preface on the tape, explaining how he had anonymously called in a fire alarm on Brendan Merwood’s office, then had planted the recorder in the restroom when he entered the building with the firemen. The material on the tape caused the resignation of Fay Harback, who was discovered to have accepted large unsecured loans from a Mabus lending institution, and it brought about the arrest of Greta Lundstrum for the murder of Charles Ruggles. But Greta died in custody of coronary failure. And the security men who had tortured Darrel McComb to death and who had probably murdered Seth Masterson fled the area and to this date have not been found.
Romulus Finley and Brendan Merwood denied any knowledge of wrongdoing of any kind and were widely believed. If their careers were impaired in any fashion, I saw no sign of it. They played golf together on the links by old Fort Missoula, lifting the ball high above the fairways, their faces glowing with health and good fortune and the respect of their peers. Mortality and the judgment of the world seemed to hold no sway in their lives, but I sometimes wondered if Romulus Finley did not find his own room in hell when he had to look into his daughter’s eyes.
If there was a dramatic turn in the story, it was one that few people will ever know about. After the federal and state charges against Johnny American Horse fell apart, I saw Amber and Johnny coming out of the old city cemetery on the north end of town. The sky was an immaculate blue, the saddles in the mountains veined with snow, the maple leaves cascading like dry paper across the tombstones. I stopped my truck by the entrance and waved at Amber, who seemed lost in thought, a scarf tied tightly under her chin, a clutch of chrysanthemums in her hand.
“Oh, hi, Billy Bob,” she said, as though awakening from sleep. “We couldn’t find Darrel’s grave.”
“It’s in back. I’ll show y’all,” I said.
We walked up a knoll, though trees, into shade that was cold and smelled of damp pine needles and fresh piled dirt. I could see rain falling on a green hill by the river, and the sun was shining inside the rain.
“You think the dead can hear our voices?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
“The sheriff told us Darrel was probably tortured for hours. At any point he could have given up our whereabouts,” she said.
“They would have killed him anyway, Amber,” I said.
Johnny took the flowers from Amber’s hand and spread them on Darrel’s grave. Then he drew himself to attention and saluted.
“I think he’d appreciate that,” I said.
When we came out of the cemetery, the sunshower on the hill by the river had turned itself into a rainbow. I saw Johnny’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and I wondered if, in his mind, the Everywhere Spirit had just hung the archer’s bow in the sky.
So maybe this story is actually about the presence of courage, self-sacrifice, and humility in people from whom we don’t expect those qualities. Not a great deal was changed externally by the events I’ve described here. Wyatt Dixon’s newspaper friends in Dallas published the story of Karsten Mabus’s connections to the sale of chemical and biological agents to Saddam Hussein in the 1980s, but no one seemed to care. In fact, Karsten Mabus is currently underwriting legislation in the U.S. Congress that will open up wilderness areas in this country for oil and gas exploration while, at the same time, his companies are receiving contracts for the rebuilding of Iraq’s infrastructure.
But as the old-time African-American hymn admonishes, I don’t study war anymore. I made my separate peace regarding my own excursion into violence at Mabus’s ranch, an event that left two men seriously wounded, consoling myself with the biblical account of Peter, who, after drawing blood with his sword in the Garden of Gethsemane, received only a mild rebuke from the Lord.