Circles in the Sand (30 page)

Lying down under the trees, unconcerned about traveling now, his memories of killing three people made him throw up the jerky he ate. “Damn! Damn! Damn! I really must be crazy!” he shouted to the sky. “But what else could I do?” he muttered to himself.
“Herman ruined by Basil. Dumb stupid drunkin’ Ma…not looking after Herman. God, I hope Basil suffered. Wish I could have seen his face when he came to, and saw his balls in the dirt. Well, what I did can only mean my life is over. I want to take that sonovabitch Greybull with me on the way. That smart-alec bastard. What business did he have screwing up things around here for us? I’ll get ‘em, I’ll get ‘em.”

With first light, Fritz set off again. He continued to follow the creek east. The waterway became a small stream in a deeper valley. Midmorning he heard an airplane. He halted. Turning slowly, he saw a small private plane way to the west of him, headed north. He moved into a willow thicket along the bank, and remained there until he saw the plane return, closer now, but headed south. He urged his horse into a faster pace.
Not familiar with this stream, but it must run into the Possum.
  During the afternoon he heard an airplane again, but too far away to see.
Don’t believe they’re on my trail yet.

Fritz spent Sunday night in another waterside copse. When he started out in the morning he was sure the valley sides were high enough to conceal him from anyone on ground level. Two hours later  he saw a small boat beached on the far shore. Up till now he had only a hazy idea of where he was going, except to escape…and attack Sergeant Greybull. Hmmm.
What about this?
He rode through the stream to have a closer look at the boat.
Huh? I believe that’s some kind of dugout canoe. Around here?

Fritz dismounted and turned the craft over to take another look. Underneath lay a paddle and a pole. He stood up when he heard a voice say, “Hey, what you want with my canoe?” Efrain Trovato scowled at him over the barrel of his shotgun.

“Hey, Efrain, good morning to you too. I was just studying your canoe. Never saw one like that before.”

“Yah, is good little boat. Snags in water not break it.”

“Must have it all over a canoe in that respect. What you use it for?”

“Sometimes fish. Sometimes cross Possum. Trade with Indians.”

“Say, have those Air Force people given you a hard time about bombing this place?”

“Yah. I run them off twice.”

“Causing me problems too.
Bet he’d like this horse and gear better than that boat.
“They want my cattle grazing land too. I’ve been out here scouting around the area that they think they can take. Didn’t know I’d run into you so soon.”

“Yah, I’m not moving. They can bomb somewhere else.” 

“I’m heading down their way… to talk some sense into the top dog. Didn’t realize how far north I was. Now I’m in a hurry. Maybe we can work a deal. I could get down to West Layover a lot quicker on the Possum River…than on this horse. How about loaning me your canoe? I’ll leave my horse and gear with you. That way, if I don’t bring your canoe back, you can keep my stuff.”

Fritz thought he could see gray cells churning through Efrain’s eyes. “Ha. That very nice horse, I think. Not much use to me. Can not get new canoe. Not like that around here.”

“That is a strange one. Where did you get it?”

“Long time ago. I find in sand. Work on it. Make it good.”

“Well, I’ll take good care of it. I’ll probably hire someone to ride it back up river. Meantime, you got my best horse. Do you think I want to lose it?”

Efrain shrugged. “No more than I want to lose canoe. Maybe you just ride horse south. Trade not good to me.”

What’s one more when I’ve already killed my family?
Efrain still carried his shotgun in the crook of his arm, pointed at the ground. Fritz jerked out his revolver. “Drop that shotgun, Efrain! You don’t know what a hurry I’m in.”

Efrain took his time about setting the gun on the sand. When he stood up, he said, “I think you gone crazy. I think you gone…He whistled.”

The Corsican’s dog shot from the brush. It leaped for Fritz’s throat. Not quick enough to shoot it, Fritz managed to slam the dog away with his gun hand. He aimed at the dog before it could leap again. “Don’t shoot my dog!” Efrain screamed. For emphasis his shotgun covered Fritz again.

“Call him off then!”

Efrain whistled. The dog couched, ready to spring again. The two men studied each other. “Look,  Efrain. We’re on the same side against the Air Force. We shouldn’t be fighting each other.”

“You say that after you pull a gun on me?”

“Yeah. That was pretty stupid of me. But I’ve just got to get down to West Layover…before the big cheese from the Air Force leaves. He’s the only one can stop this bomb site. I didn’t realize how long it would take me to scout the entire bomb range. It’s best for both of us… if I can get him on our side.”

“I don’t know. Can I trust you? I don’t know.”

“What’s to trust. Come with me. That canoe will carry the two of us.”

Efrain thought for a while. “I can not go. No one else to herd sheep and goats. I think you take canoe. Go ahead…for both of us.”

“Now you’re talking Efrain. I won’t let you down.”

Fritz soon realized controlling the dugout was more difficult than paddling a canoe. When he reached the Possum, he let the current do most of the work. He steered as best he could.
Next…How do I take care of Greybull when I get there? I’ll find a way. I’ll make that sonovabitch sorry he ever heard the words… bomb scoring site!

When Dorris returned from church, the cook had a message for her: Clint and Patton took some sandwiches, and planned to fish in the Missouri River…said they’d be back for supper.

As soon as Clint walked into the restaurant looking for Dorris, he continued into the hotel. “Guess what I’ve got for you,” he said when he saw her.

“A mess of cat fish?”

“No…Something better, something to do.”

Dorris looked expectant. “Me to do, you to do, or us to do?”

“Us to do. A guy we ran into fishing said there’s a drive-in theater up at Glasgow. What say we take in a movie tonight?”

“Sure, Clint. Sounds like fun. Did he know for sure it was open on Sunday?”

“That’s what I thought he meant. Even if it’s not we can find something else to do up there.”

The drive-in showed a B Western movie starring Randolph Scott. Clint and Dorris missed a lot of it from necking and petting. Both got pretty steamed up, and Clint thought they’d make it in the camper. “Look, Honey, It’s awfully crowded in the truck. What say we get into the camper…where we’d have more room?”

Dorris laughed, “More room to see the movie?”

“No. More room…for me to take advantage of you.”

“Oh gosh. Do you have evil designs on my virtue?” Dorris made no effort to move.

Why is she stalling?

“Yes I do. Designed to delight you.”

“Oh Clint. I’d love for you to delight me with your evil designs…but it’s the wrong time of the month. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

Golly. I’d better not let him go back to Lilith’s still feeling horny
. Dorris stroked her hand over Clint’s crotch. She opened his belt and zipper. His erection popped out into her hand. Afterwards, his ardor cooled, they saw the rest of the western. 

After an uneven Sunday for the airmen, Monday was just another day of work. They had a lot to do. At Q-1 Sergeant Patton assigned the most urgent task, constructing towers for target two, in charge of S/Sgt Elsas. Lance having located the position of the two side towers, he and Patton  took Lt. Byers out there to show him where to dig holes for the supporting poles.

Clint studied his maps and diagrams for the bomb site, and decided he needed to determine which area target and towers to start on next. 
Let’s see. Might as well do the easiest ones first. We won’t run into any more trouble from irate rancher and cowhand  at area four, but it’s the furthest away. That sheep herder at area three could be a problem. Leave him till last. That leaves area one and a spooky Indian. Maybe I ought to see if our stake is still in the ground
  Clint took the Jeep and headed north along the track they’d used before. He found the stake was missing.
Impaled in the corpse staked out here?
The immediate surroundings were still partially covered by some of the white washed spilled from their earlier effort. Wind and sand had either removed or covered up much of it.
Guess that idea wasn’t too practical
.

Clint walked around the site looking for any signs of the spooky Indian. Standing there, thumbs hooked in his belt he studied the ground which had held the stake and the nude body. A musty, sweaty odor alerted him.

“Looking for me, Waischu? You won’t see me unless I want you to.”

Turning, Clint saw the Indian standing on the other side of the Jeep…tomahawk in his left hand…staring from a coyote cap/mask. “Yeah, just what the hell is your game anyway? You murder that airman?”

“No game, Waischu Grey Bull. He was dead when I found him.”

“Feeding him to the buzzards your idea of a joke?”

“No joke. Was that worse than the catfish disposing of him? He would never have turned up from the river. A warning. I told you before. Leave this place be. You would dishonor your own great-great-grandfather,
Grey Bull?
”

“Huh? What you talking about?”

“Are you so dense,
Grey Bull?
”

Clint, small side steps, eased himself around to the back of the Jeep. “You saying I have an Indian ancestor?”

“Does your name not tell you,
Grey Bull?
”

Seeing that the Indian also sidled, keeping the Jeep between them, Clint said, “Even if that is true. How do you know an ancestor of mine is buried in this featureless place?”

“I am Two Feathers, the Shaman of the Coyote.” He placed his right hand over his heart. This sacred tomahawk source of my power. I am all knowing about my people.”

“You’re fulla shit, Two Feathers. You’re nuttier than a bag of peanuts. That won’t keep you out of jail for desecrating a body.”

“Your waischu laws mean nothing to me. You have had the last warning. Abandon this place or die!”

“You can’t stop the Air Force from building a bomb site here.”

“Hah. When I leave your body on  a stake, and your scalp on my lodge pole, they will think again.” So saying, Two Feathers leapt on the Jeep hood, tomahawk in right hand. He jumped over the Jeep at Clint. Clint ready, body blocked, spilled Two Feather’s feet out from under him. “Uhff…The wind knocked out of the Shaman. Both men were on the ground. Both sprang up. Two Feathers raised his tomahawk. Instantly, Clint jumped up, blocked the blow. Clint jammed his fingers into Two feather’s gut. The Indian doubled up. With his knee, Clint smashed the Shaman’s  nose. Then he grabbed the tomahawk hand, twisted the weapon free. He slammed the flat side of the tomahawk against Two Feathers head. The Shaman went down and out. Dust in his lungs, Clint had a hard time catching his breath.  He opened Two Feather’s eyes. They looked askew.
He may have a skull fracture
.

Throwing the tomahawk under the seat, Clint loaded the Indian in the back of the Jeep and set out for west Layover. On the way he glanced back. Two Feathers was gone! Clint hit the brakes. Two Feathers nowhere in sight.
“That damn crafty sonovabitch, well wherever he got to, I hope he’s got a splitting headache.”
Clint felt under the seat.
Damn it! That sly son of a coyote
got his tomahawk back too. We’ll damn  sure  have to be  wary of his turning up again!

Puzzled, Clint drove the short distance back to target one spot. Confused,  he decided to drive due east to see how close the target was to the Possum River. Parked on the bank, he studied the river and surrounding countryside. Curious about the Indian reservation on the far side, he was sorry hadn’t brought along field glasses. All he  could see there were trees along the far bank. What he couldn’t see, farther north, near the shore in the shade of the overhanging trees, a man in a pirogue who observed him. 

Fortunately for Fritz, he spotted Clint on the bank when the latter got out of the Jeep and walked down to the water’s edge. Fritz immediately pushed his craft hard into the shore. To keep the current from carrying the boat away, he chanced tilting it when he lifted a leg over the side, and jammed his heel into the mud. Water spilled into his boot. “
Damn!”
  Still floating. He clutched at some exposed roots to keep from moving.

Fritz almost lost the pirogue before Clint drove away. Back in control of it, he worked his way across the river to the place where Clint had stood.
Damn. Couldn’t get a shot off in this wobbly excuse for a canoe.
He beached his craft, and bending low, walked up the bank to see where Clint had gone. He could see a cloud of dust running to the south. Too far away.  He returned to the pirogue and pushed off downstream.

In mid-afternoon, Fritz spotted the dock behind the Boar Pen ahead of him. He put into shore again to sit and think about his further moves.
I must be opposite the town here. Don’t want anyone to be seeing me yet.
His thoughts muddled for a couple of minutes before he focused on the Boar Pen again.
Damn. I haven’t been thinking about Marie-Elena cheating on me, I owe her something too. The whoring bitch! She made a sucker out of me. Yeah, and so did Olivia. Paid three  thousand dollars for a virgin who wasn’t. How’d they do that?

Lying back in the pirogue to keep low, he let the current carry him down to the Boar Pen dock. No one was in sight. He threw his gear on the planking. He pulled himself on the dock, and let the pirogue float away. Staying prone on the dock, he studied the layout of this side of the property. Wearing his gun belt, and taking only his revolver, he ran up to the back of the garage. Since he couldn’t hear anyone in the garage, or outside, he made a dash for the back door of the house.

He eased the door open and slid inside. He stopped and listened some more; let his eyes adjust to the darker corridor. Up ahead he could hear feminine voices coming from the lobby. Though the dangling bead doorway, he could see El Gordo sitting there looking away from Fritz.
Wonder if that Mex is armed?
Tiptoeing as best he could in his wet boot, Fritz started for the Mexican. The sloshing boot gave him away.