managed to squeeze a few more drops out of the old sponge before it went dry. The gatekeeper hinted at the occasional presence of Very Important Visitors. They came to the BoxCar from everywhere. Denver. Dallas. San Francisco. New York City. Washington D.C. “Even from some o’ them foreign countries.” The old cowboy lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, as if someone might eavesdrop on this conversation in the middle of an empty prairie. “Some real big shots drops in at the BoxCar.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You’d be surprised who takes over my job sometimes.”
The tribal investigator pretended ignorance. “Well, I guess if the governor was to come to visit Senator Davidson, the state police would—”
“I’m not talkin’ about none a your common John Laws, young man. Besides, here at the BoxCar, guv’ners and such is common as red dirt.” Ned Rogers leaned backward so he could look down his nose at the Ute. “Sometimes that little log shack is chock full of them people from the Secret Service.” He pointed the carbine at a flattened spot on the sparse grass. “Right over there is where they land them big whirly-birds.”
Moon assumed a doubtful look. “You’re not telling me that the president of the United States visits—”
The gatekeeper raised a shushing finger to his lips. “I never told you nothin’ about no president . You didn’t hear that from me. No, sir.”
Moon observed that it must be interesting work, watching all those important folks come through this very gate.
“Oh, very few comes through here.” Ned Rogers squinted at the sky. “Most of ’em flies in.” He explained that there was an asphalt runway north of the ranch headquarters, more than long enough for the senator’s jet airplane. The aged cowboy informed the visitor that the BoxCar was mostly a gathering place for big shots and no-goods. Not that there was necessarily “a helluva lot of difference.”
The gatekeeper’s telephone buzzed on his belt. It was Miss James. She was concerned that Mr. Moon had not shown up. Might he possibly have had car trouble along the ranch road? The old cowboy assured her that he had not. Mr. Moon would be there d’rectly. Adopting a cool, professional demeanor, he waved the guest on with the carbine.
Moon eased the truck away. In the rearview mirror, he watched Ned Rogers enter the log shelter, saw the massive steel gate swing shut behind him. Heard it close with a heavy thunk. It was an unpleasant sound that spoke of finality. Of fateful decisions made that could not hereafter be revoked. The Ute had a bad feeling in his gut. Coming here was a mistake .
Chapter Thirteen
THE BOXCAR
CHARLIE MOON ’ S PICKUP SLIPPED ALONG THE UNDULATING EBB AND flow of the earth’s rippling crust. Underneath the F-150 tires, the road ribboned over a high, shortgrass prairie that soaked up ten inches of rain in a good year. For as far as the eye could see, the arid land was dominated by native buffalo grass, with only occasional growths of western wheatgrass and side-oats grama. To the east, fingerlike ridges reached out to pull at the skirts of the blue mountains. The Misery Range stood protectively between the senator’s remote estate and the Columbine, a broad-shouldered picket line separating the rich man’s limbo from the Ute’s paradise. This was the way Moon saw it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a roaring sound. He had just noticed a puff of dust in the rearview mirror when a cherry-red motorcycle roared by the F-150, the right handlebar almost nicking the pickup fender. “Damn!” The former SUPD officer barely had time to notice that the rider with the straw-colored hair was not wearing a helmet.
A light breeze wafted the dust away; it was as if the motorcyclist had never been.
As the road dipped through a shallow valley, Moon saw a rambling log house in a cluster of cottonwoods. There were tire tracks in the driveway, but no vehicle. He pulled to a stop, checked
The tribal investigator pretended ignorance. “Well, I guess if the governor was to come to visit Senator Davidson, the state police would—”
“I’m not talkin’ about none a your common John Laws, young man. Besides, here at the BoxCar, guv’ners and such is common as red dirt.” Ned Rogers leaned backward so he could look down his nose at the Ute. “Sometimes that little log shack is chock full of them people from the Secret Service.” He pointed the carbine at a flattened spot on the sparse grass. “Right over there is where they land them big whirly-birds.”
Moon assumed a doubtful look. “You’re not telling me that the president of the United States visits—”
The gatekeeper raised a shushing finger to his lips. “I never told you nothin’ about no president . You didn’t hear that from me. No, sir.”
Moon observed that it must be interesting work, watching all those important folks come through this very gate.
“Oh, very few comes through here.” Ned Rogers squinted at the sky. “Most of ’em flies in.” He explained that there was an asphalt runway north of the ranch headquarters, more than long enough for the senator’s jet airplane. The aged cowboy informed the visitor that the BoxCar was mostly a gathering place for big shots and no-goods. Not that there was necessarily “a helluva lot of difference.”
The gatekeeper’s telephone buzzed on his belt. It was Miss James. She was concerned that Mr. Moon had not shown up. Might he possibly have had car trouble along the ranch road? The old cowboy assured her that he had not. Mr. Moon would be there d’rectly. Adopting a cool, professional demeanor, he waved the guest on with the carbine.
Moon eased the truck away. In the rearview mirror, he watched Ned Rogers enter the log shelter, saw the massive steel gate swing shut behind him. Heard it close with a heavy thunk. It was an unpleasant sound that spoke of finality. Of fateful decisions made that could not hereafter be revoked. The Ute had a bad feeling in his gut. Coming here was a mistake .
Chapter Thirteen
THE BOXCAR
CHARLIE MOON ’ S PICKUP SLIPPED ALONG THE UNDULATING EBB AND flow of the earth’s rippling crust. Underneath the F-150 tires, the road ribboned over a high, shortgrass prairie that soaked up ten inches of rain in a good year. For as far as the eye could see, the arid land was dominated by native buffalo grass, with only occasional growths of western wheatgrass and side-oats grama. To the east, fingerlike ridges reached out to pull at the skirts of the blue mountains. The Misery Range stood protectively between the senator’s remote estate and the Columbine, a broad-shouldered picket line separating the rich man’s limbo from the Ute’s paradise. This was the way Moon saw it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a roaring sound. He had just noticed a puff of dust in the rearview mirror when a cherry-red motorcycle roared by the F-150, the right handlebar almost nicking the pickup fender. “Damn!” The former SUPD officer barely had time to notice that the rider with the straw-colored hair was not wearing a helmet.
A light breeze wafted the dust away; it was as if the motorcyclist had never been.
As the road dipped through a shallow valley, Moon saw a rambling log house in a cluster of cottonwoods. There were tire tracks in the driveway, but no vehicle. He pulled to a stop, checked
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