Circles in the Sand (12 page)

“She didn’t say there was any injuries?” Radecker said.

“No, nothing else. Not even where on the Glasgow road.”

Radecker rubbed his face. “Any chance that was the same woman called about the stuff on the runway?”

“Could have been. She’s sure secretive. Y’know…I’m thinkin’…maybe that wasn’t a woman at all, maybe a guy disguising his voice.”

“Huh? You’re not sure?”

“Well, she sounded funny.”

“Balls. Well, you stay here. If she calls again, listen a little harder. I’ll pick up Greybull, and head out that way to see what’s going on.” Radecker found Clint At Q-1. “Want to go with me to see about Jeep in a ditch?”

“Huh? You think it might be mine?

“Yours is the only one I’ve had calls about. Reported on the way to Glasgow…by a very mysterious female…or maybe by a very mysterious man.”

“Someone playing games, huh?  Sure, I’ll ride along with you. Any report on injuries or damage?”

“Naw. She hung up on Tommy soon as she said that. You all by yourself out here?  None of your troops hanging around?”

“Not here. They’re all out busting their ass building a RADAR target.”

“Moving right along, huh, Sarge.”

“Doing what we can, with what we got.”

“RADAR target, huh. That mean we’re going to hear some bombs goin’ off pretty soon?”

“No. That’s the one thing we can do right now. We’re a long ways from setting up the impact targets…and even when they start, they’ll only drop duds.”

Out on the main road, Radecker said, “I don’t know how far the Jeep is. Keep an eye on that side. Be easier to spot if  both of us is looking.”

Neither man had much to say for the first few miles. Remembering his visitor, Clint asked, “What do you know about any Indians on that gunnery range? Any that are unfriendly and wear coyote skins?”

“Wal, I never heard of any up there. There’s some over on the reservation with the Sioux. No trouble I know of.  Don’t come over this way. Why?”

“One of that description threatened a couple of my troops out on the gunnery range. They said he chopped his hatchet at them.”

“Huh? Wild Indian? You sure your guys aint smoking that wild mustang berry grows up there?”

“I don’t think so. Claimed the Indian said not to defile their burying ground.”

“That’s news to me. There is a burial ground up there about twelve miles, but I believe its  early pioneers buried there.”

“We’re talking about a place three mile or so north of the south boundary, and maybe three miles in from the center road, on the river side of the range.”

“Beats me.”

“What is this wild mustang berry?”

“Kind of a cactus. Grows close to the ground. Don’t want to step on it barefoot. I’ve heard that some Indians use it in their rites. Crushed up dry, mixed with water, when it ferments, you  get a buzz from it. Too bitter for a white man to drink.”

As near as he judged, six miles up the center road, T/Sgt. Patton called a halt. He jumped from the weapons carrier and took in the surrounding landscape. He looked for a reasonably level place close to the road, but not in it.  Walking about ten yards from the vehicles, he said, “Here’s where we build it. Alcocke, bring six stakes and a maul over here. Put one in right here.” He began pacing off to what he reckoned was about six feet. He scuffed the dirt and said. “Put ‘nother stake right here,” and stepping away about a foot, “and another right here.”

Alcocke pounded the second stake and then looked at Patton, who was pacing off the remaining stake spots. “Hey, Sarge, you’re not using a tape measure, how do you know you’ve got six feet between posts?”

“Simple my boy, just senior NCO knowledge and experience.”

Rich Kline hollered, “Don’t let him snow ya’, Alcocke. Cant you see his size twelve boondockers? With feet like that you can measure anything.”

Patton chuckled. “Hey, don’t be giving away all my NCO type secrets. Alcocke, how come you ain’t pounding stakes?”

“Got a question, Sarge. We gonna dig holes at all six spots to plant two by fours  in them to support the rest of the target?”

“That’s right. They’ll anchor the rest of the construction.”

Mitch Kline groaned. “Man, that’s gonna be a killer job with shovels.”

Alcocke put in again. “If I understood the drawing, the three sides of the pyramid will have to abut to be effective.”

Patton looked at him. “Yeah, that’s the idea.”

“Instead of digging six holes, why not just dig three? You could have two anchors in each hole. Besides, isn’t it possible to have a support be common to two sides?”

Kline said, “Good thinking, Alcocke. You might be saving our lives.”

“Hold on you guys, Don’t get your feathers in a bunch yet. These plans were drawn up by engineers. You think you know more’n them, Alcocke?”

“No, but sure looks like there’s an easier way to do it.”

The other airman laughed. Priebe said, “Hey, Alcocke, “don’t you know there’s a right way, a wrong  way, and the Air Force way?”

“You guys won’t be laughing so hard when we start digging.” Patton had Kline and Alcott break up the surface dirt around the first two stakes. When he was satisfied they had it as loose as they could, he assigned Jewel and Priebe to start digging. Rotating shovel work among the six airmen, the holes became wider than deep. Drinking water in the shade of the truck, Alcocke watched  two of his buddies digging. He shook his head. “Sergeant Patton, how deep do those holes have to be?”

“To support the upper structure I reckon at least four feet.”

“They’ll be four feet wide before they ever get four deep. This is ridiculous.”

Patton didn’t answer. He walked over to the pits from which Priebe and Hooper shoveled dirt in piles. He knelt down and studied the airmen. They were worn out. Hooper could hardly hold a shovel. Patton stood up. “Troops, this isn’t working. Climb out of there. Without cement and post holes diggers we’re wasting our time. Unload the wood and aluminum from the truck. Pile it all over there, and we’ll call it a day.”

The airmen were as jubilant as their sore muscles allowed them to be. Alcocke was smart enough not to say, I told you so. Kline tapped him on the shoulder and whispered “Good thinking buddy.”

Clint saw the Jeep first. “Up ahead…on the right…something sticking out of the bushes.”

When Radecker stopped his truck, Clint could see the front end of the Jeep was mired in mud at the bottom of the ditch.  He walked around to the diver’s side and jumped back. “Hey Sheriff, there’s a body in here.”

Radecker pushed him aside. “Don’t touch nothing.” He walked around to the other side to look at the head of the body sprawled over the seats. “Well, I’ll be damned! A God-damn negra.” He reached in and felt the body’s throat. He stepped back tsking to himself. “A dead negra.  Dead all right…wahl, lets see what did it.” Placing a foot in the Jeep he lifted the man back into the driver’s seat, revealing a large hole in his chest. “Man, must have hit that steering wheel something awful.”

On the other side, Clint said, “Check his back, Sheriff.”

Radecker let the body slump. “Now ain’t that something…looks like he’s been shot…in the back.”

“Know who he is?”

“Never saw him before. No negras livin’ around here.”  Radecker jostled the body until he could pull a billfold out of a back pocket. He thumbed over some small scribbled notes and found an ID card but no money. “Greybull, ain’t you seen him before? He’s one of yours.”

From the body’s short hair cut, Clint could have guessed he was a service man. “No, he’s a stranger to me. Could be Army.”

“Naw.  Private Jamie Donkin, USAF.”

“Holy Cow.” He took the card from the Sheriff. “See if he’s got any orders on him.”

“No, nothing else in his pockets. Damned if I don’t have to call in the state police. This is higher’n a town or county sheriff’s business.”

“How about the FBI while you’re at it?”

Radecker scowled at him. “Naw, too soon for that. Let’s keep it local, if we can.”

“Local? With a stolen Jeep and a dead airman?”

“That’s the way we’ll handle it for now. Don’t be thinking’ of going around me.”

“Not me, Sheriff. I don’t want anything to do with dead bodies.”

“Well you’ve got something to do with this one. I’m deputizing you to guard this corpse while I go call the state cops.”

Clint shrugged and said, “Okay. Don’t be long.”

Without another word, Radecker drove off in the direction of Glasgow.

Clint thought,
now where the hell did Donkin come from?

Earlier, “I’ll be God damned…if that ain’t a negra! Where the hell did he come from?” Basil ducked back into the camper on Clint’s  truck. With it parked at the back of Gilman’s lot, out of the way, Basil  had no trouble sneaking into it. He took his hat off to peer cautiously around the door. He watched the Black man look around as though he didn’t know what to do, or where to go. Abruptly the man threw a bag into the Air Force Jeep, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove out the back way past the Boar Pen.

“That nervy cocksucker! He’s stole Greybull’s Jeep!” Keeping Clint’s rifle along his leg, hopefully out of sight, Basil slipped back to his own truck parked on the street in front of the Boar Pen. He had no trouble following the Jeep on the county road toward Glasgow. When he saw the Jeep slow down on the rough surface,  Basil sped up close.

When he couldn’t see anyone else around, in front or back of him, he pulled beside the Jeep and hollered “Hey, negra. Pull over. I want to talk to you.” Erring on the side of caution in a strange place, the Black driver started to pull over. As he exposed his back, Basil shot him from the window of his truck. The driver threw his hands in the air, exhaled a final groan, and slumped over on the seats. With the dead man’s foot off of the brake, the Jeep lurched forward, the right front wheel slid off the road and the Jeep plunged into a ditch off to the side.

Still not seeing anyone else around, Basil got out and looked over the Jeep and dead driver. “That’ll learn ya not to come around these parts, negra.” Basil picked up the man’s bag and threw it into his truck. Later he disposed of it in a garbage container in Glasgow.

Clint didn’t get back to Gilman’s until well after dark. The restaurant was closed. Clint rang the bell on the hotel desk until Lorena showed up from the dining room. “My goodness, you’re late Sergeant Greybull. A lot of your men have been looking for you.”

“There’s one less looking for me now, and I didn’t even know I had him.”

Lorena fixed a puzzled look on him. “What do you mean?”

“We found him dead…a negro, in my stolen Jeep…out towards Glasgow. The state police will want to know if anyone around here saw him…meantime, think I could get a sandwich from the kitchen?”

“Oh sure, but I gotta tell Mom first.”

Dorris appeared  from the hotel and said, “Clint, what on earth is going on around here?”

“My Jeep disappeared from behind the hotel. This afternoon we found it, and a dead Negro airman in it. Looks like he was shot.”

“Oh, no! Anyone you knew ?”

“A stranger. Had an ID card, but no orders. There’s gonna be a lot of questions asked, but I’m not talking anymore until I skarff that sandwich Lorena is fixing for me. He sat down in the café and Lorena also brought him a glass of milk. “I’ve been out there a long time. Finally got a ride back from Tommy. Sheriff’s still there. Any of my troops here in the hotel?” Lorena said, “Haven’t seen any since they ate supper.” “Well, I’ll have to go round them up. Don’t want to tell this story any more than I have too.  Meantime, maybe you two shouldn’t say anything about it to anyone else.”

“If he stole the Jeep from here, I’m sure we didn’t see him,” Dorris said. Lorena shook her head in agreement.

The other three NCOs had settled in at Chet’s. “Hey, Clint, where the hell ya been?” Patton asked.

“I got a lot to tell you, but I want to tell it all at once. Where’s the troops?”

“Wandering around town. Lookin’ for something to do.” Lance said.

“Round ‘em up, guys. Send them all back here.”

“Okay,” Lance said. “I’ll tell ‘em you’re buying. That ought to move them.”

“Hey, thanks for putting words in my mouth, but go ahead, I don’t want to wait all night.”

When all of his troops were assembled, Clint stood up and looked around. “Any of you know anything about a Private Jamie Donkin, a Black airman?”

Puzzled looks and shrugs. No one did. Clint then told them and Chet what he knew. “The state police and maybe the FBI will be around asking a lot of questions. Just tell them what you know, but in my case, that isn’t much.”

Chet said, “That’s odd ain’t it? Black, stole a Jeep and shot in the back. Your Jeep, Clint. You got it against negras? You might be a suspect.”

“I’m not a bigot. Not likely they suspect me, otherwise I’d be in the clink, or worse. Cops would never have let me leave the scene.”

He turned back to the troops. “Anyway, guys. There’s other  things going on around here. We can expect another deuce and a half, more troops, and maybe even a tractor with blade.”

Alcocke asked, “How about post hole diggers for the peons, Sarge”

Chuckling, “You already wore out the shovels?”

It was Patton’s turn. “It’s no joke, Clint. We didn’t have to dig very far to know shovels wouldn’t cut the mustard. I held up the job until we can get the right tools.”

Clint looked skeptical. Alcocke said, “Digging small round hole with a shovel soon gets you a big wide hole. That doesn’t work for poles. Be different if we had cement to set them in.”

“That’s exactly what happened,” Patton said. “We did a lot of work for nothing.”

“
We
…did?”  Kline grinned. The other airman smiled and smothered chuckles.

Clint looked at Werner and Elsas. “So what’s going on at Fort Peck?”

Elsas spoke. “The parts I needed for the truck and Jeep engine came in late. I should be able to get them running soon…maybe tomorrow.”

Lance said, “And that little fire truck came into the salvage yard. Geez, it looked like it was new.”

“Well, if it was used at all, you know those firemen would have it lookin’ like a new penny.” Patton said.