An American Outlaw (8 page)

Whicher rubs a big hand across his jaw. Still thinking on a pistol from a suicide.

From the back of the dirt lot, doors are opening on the black pick-up truck—the Brewster County sheriff getting out. 

The sheriff's a bull-necked guy, late fifties. 

“Good God Almighty,” he calls out, “look at what the first bank robbery in fifteen years done for the county. I ain't never seen so many cops.”

ATF agent Cornell snaps off a call on his cell phone.

The sheriff's accompanied by a younger deputy. Around thirty. Pitted skin. He walks with a map held in front of him, at arm’s length. 

“Mind if we use that big ol' Chevy hood of yourn?” the sheriff says. “Make us a fine campaign table, Marshal.”

“Y'all go right ahead.” 

Whicher checks the older man's badge on his shirt front. Sheriff Emory.

The deputy lays out the map.

“Gentlemen,” says the sheriff. “Somewhere in this damn thing is where they're at. We know for sure one man escaped the robbery. Likely injured. Do we have a second guy?”

Cornell looks at the sheriff. “You think there's two men out there?”

“We don't know. But let me run a couple of numbers past y'all.”

Cornell leans in over the map. Edges of his mouth down-turned. The Wayfarers slip a notch down the bridge of his nose.

“For them as ain't familiar,” Sheriff Emory glances at Cornell, then at Whicher, in turn. “Marshal, I know some of this you know...”

“Let's hear it, anyhow.”

“Alright.” The sheriff pumps his bull-neck. Stabs a thick finger at the map on the hood. “I give y'all west Texas. The far west, at that.” He looks from Cornell to Whicher. “The Trans-Pecos area. Thirty thousand square miles of desert and mountain and honest-to-God wilderness.”

“Holy crap,” says Cornell.

“My county, Brewster County, covers an area over six thousand square miles. That's just
my
watch.”

“Mite large,” says Whicher.

“Bigger than the state of Connecticut.” The sheriff folds his arms across his shirt front. “Anyhow. I ain't looking for braggin' rights. Big as it is, it all don't mean shit; except for one thing—I don't have the manpower of a state.”

“I heard that,” says the marshal.

“All in,” the sheriff says, “it's one hell of a place for a man to go missing.”

Cornell looks at him. “What are we doing about it?”

“Let's get to that.” The sheriff circles an area on the map. “This section is our part. The southern Trans-Pecos. Any further south, y'all are in Mexico. But we figure they're in here somewhere. Y'all look at the road network, they ain't much of it. There's four main strategic points, four towns, each one a crossroad.” The sheriff moves his hand from west to east along the map. “Marfa,” he points, “twenty five miles west. Then Fort Davis—us here at Alpine—and Marathon to the east. ”

Whicher studies the map. The scant roads in and out. “What's happening with them other towns?”

“I been on the radio. The sheriffs of Jeff Davis and Presidio have 'em locked down between 'em. Plus Border Patrol has a station up at Marfa, that don't hurt...”

Cornell pushes the Wayfarers back up. “You figure that's it? That's how you're going to find him? Or them. Whichever it is.”

“They ain't walking out of here,” says the sheriff, “that's for damn sure.”

Whicher nods. “Has to be in a vehicle.”

“So, we stop everything that comes in off the road.”

Agent Cornell touches a finger to the side of his temple. “Just supposing they were to get out? Where would they go next?”

“The whole damn idea's to keep 'em in here.”

Whicher glances at Cornell from under the shade of his hat brim. “Something on your mind?”

“Nathaniel Childress,” says Cornell.

The sheriff looks at him. “Who in hell's that?”

“Brother of Steven Childress—the shooter at the bank. Older brother. Recent suicide.” Cornell takes off his sunglasses. “You're going to like this marshal.”

“Why's that?”

“He was US Marine Corps. Alongside Gilman James. Invalided out...”

Whicher picks the Ruger revolver off the Chevy roof. He slips it back in the shoulder holster, closes the thumb-break and pulls the Glock off the roof—gunbelt uncoiling, like a snake. 

He straps it around the waist of his gray suit pants. “You want to know what gives me the shits...” 

He starts walking fast, boots clipping across the highway—Sheriff Emory and Agent Cornell pulled along in his wake. 

“If these guys come in out of the hills—they can do some serious damage. I got me a feeling—and it ain't a good one.”

The two men follow Whicher across the highway. Down the southern approach, towards a white Border Patrol SUV—angled across the road.

“Officer,” says the marshal.

The uniformed man turns his head, rifle still resting on the roof.

“I take a look down that scope?”

“Yes, sir. Not a problem.” He holds out the M4 Carbine.

Whicher looks into the telescopic sight, down the flat highway. Waves of heat shimmer in the magnified lens. On an empty, dust-blown road. With a ridge of mountain framing the horizon. He lines the reticle on a withered fence post. “What's the range on this?”

“Lethal range is five hundred meters. Wing 'em at six.”

“Good. Alright. How many vehicles y'all stopped so far today?”

“Hundred plus.”

“That's it?”

“That's a bunch, for here, Marshal.”

“Y'all keep a damn good watch on 'em coming. Be ready to open fire. You hear me?”

“I'll be ready, sir.”

Highway 118, outside of Alpine.

I stood on the road. Tennille held the shotgun at me, through the open door.

She hadn't fired. Not yet.

I stepped away from the truck a pace. Heart racing.

She kept the shotgun on me. She climbed out from the back seat. Stood by her truck. 

I backed away, slow. I wasn't running.

She raised the shotgun up to her shoulder. Locked eyes on mine.

There was just the sound of the engine, idling.

Tennille staring down the sights.

Put it all on her.

“I'm walking. You can shoot me right here. Or you can meet me in Alpine.”

The black muzzle never wavered.

I thought of my life. Ending. On that road. In the desert, in the blinding sun. Lives I'd seen end that way. Strange sense. At the death.

She glared at me. The stock of the gun tight in at her shoulder.

“Before you reach town. Half a mile from here. There's a dirt track.” 

She took a step sideways—towards the open driver's door. 

“It's off the highway. You'll see it coming in at the left.” She dropped the shotgun to her waist. “Find the track. Head up it. Then make a right.”

I looked at her. 

“Cross the rail tracks. Get on Main. Holland Avenue, it's called.” 

She bent into the driver's seat; shotgun still pointing at me. 

“There's a grocery store. 11
^th
and Holland. You've got fifteen minutes.”

I watched, as she sat half in the truck. One foot still on the road.

“You got an alibi.”

“I'm not planning needing one.” She grabbed the door. Slammed it. And hit the gas.

I stood where I was, my breath coming shallow. 

She disappeared from sight, down the road.

I walked fast. My gut twisting. 
Were we really doing this?

I made myself walk, not run. 

Yard after yard along the highway. 

Praying no car would come. The middle of nowhere—a lone man don't look right. If I had to run, I'd run. But not yet.

I could see the road widen out up ahead. A line that could be an overgrown track coming in from the left. 

If it was the track, it looked dis-used. Blocked from the highway by a bank of earth. 

What were the odds seeing her again? Or finding a bunch of cops waiting on me. 

I checked both ways on the highway. Nothing coming. I kept on, the wind picking up, clumps of bunchgrass flicking around the edge of my vision.

I reached the edge of the track. Started down it. Past a couple of empty-looking barns, rusted fencing, the ground hard, bleached by sun. Anybody saw me; a stranger, I'd stand out, the same as any place.

I thought of Jesse. Jesse must've known a hundred places like it.

If any cop was stationed to cut off the track, it was going to be tight. We weren't going to be doing any talking. 

I could see the rooftops of buildings in the distance, now. If I only had a gun. 

Jesse's day, they carried as many as they could—Navy Colts, the most part; they took time to load. You carried a bunch, shot 'em all, got the hell out. They say he had his first job loading pistols, age of sixteen, in the war. Blew the top of his finger clean off. But he never went unarmed—that time to the end of his life.

There were more buildings, now. The track giving way to regular road. Couple of one-story houses. An old garage. A hoist. Bunch of scrap iron rotting out front. 

Ahead, there was another road leading off right. To the edge of town.

6
^th
 Street
, the panel read. It lead north, towards the buildings. Up there was going to be Main.

I walked fast. Parallel with the highway. The wind lifting dust up in the air. 

Everything was deserted. The only sound, a loose gate, banging and blowin'. I forced myself not to run down the empty lane. Reached eleventh street.

11
^th
& Holland. A grocery store.
That was what she'd said. 

I could still run. 

But not yet.

I started to walk towards a yellow panel marked with a black cross—a rail road line. She'd said to cross it. 

I could see cars moving, up on the highway. All the buildings to the north side. Nothing this side, just a slat-board barn, no doors, gaping black.

It was open ground—but I had to go across. 

I stepped out, where the rail line ran to the distance. Heat radiating off the steel tracks. Smell of hot tar and oil.

Past the tracks, I came closer to a sidewalk. It was running the length of the main drag, the roadway part hid behind a strip of trees. Thin cypress. A narrow screen. I kept myself well behind it.

A girl like her—what could make her so desperate? 

Fifty thousand dollars. 

I'd give her the money, no lie.

I reached a gap in the screen of cypress trees. Drew breath. Gave it a second. Stepped out.

Above the sidewalk, a sign read;
Holland Avenue.
 

Holland and 11
^th
.

Fifteen minutes. All I had to do was find a grocery store.

Find her. Inside the time.

Approaching from the south, a dusty truck starts to slow. Red and black Ford F350.

Whicher sees it as it rolls in.

A state trooper stands in the center of the highway—in front of his vehicle. He holds out his hand; the signal to stop.

Something about the truck makes Whicher start to walk forward towards it. 

He strides down the baking highway. Draws level with the Border Patrol officers still staring down the scopes of their carbines.

“It's a woman, Marshal,” the left-hand shooter says.

“That so?”

“Real pretty-looking girl. I've got her right in my cross-hairs.”

Whicher carries on walking. 

The truck pulls up. It stops, beside the trooper. 

The girl inside rolls the window. 

She pushes a strand of long dark hair behind her ear. She's in her mid-twenties. Hispanic. Attractive. 

She's smiling at the trooper. Expecting a reaction.

Whicher tips his hat forward, against the glare of sun. 

“Y'all don't mind officer,” he says, “I'd like to speak to the driver.”

The trooper turns, checks. Steps aside.

“Ma'am, if y'all wouldn't mind switching off the engine a moment?”

She looks out at him. A slight frown on her brow.

“My name's Whicher. John Whicher.” 

She reaches to the keys in the ignition. 

He flashes his badge. “I'm a US Deputy Marshal. Like to ask you a couple of questions.”

She turns off the engine. “Marshal?”

He notices the perspiration on her forehead. Tension in her eyebrows. 

“Whereabouts you headed?”

“Into Alpine.”

“Y'all come far?”

“Fifty miles or so,” she says.

“From the south?”

She nods.

“Y'all see many vehicles out there?” Whicher looks at her.

“Vehicles?”

“We're looking for a red truck. Ford F150. Louisiana plate.”

“I don't think so,” she said. “I don't remember one.”

There's something about her. Beyond the disconcerting good-looks. Something; self-possessed. 

Whicher reaches in his pocket. Pulls out a printed picture and description of Gilman James. 

“Have you seen anybody that looked like this?” 

He watches her study it. A little blank.

“No. I don't think so.”

“You don't think?”

“Well, I'd remember.”

“Ya'll came up from the south, you say?”

She hesitates. “Uh-huh,” she nods.

Why'd she hesitate?

“You didn't see anything unusual? Anything different? Out of the ordinary.”

“No.” She looks at him. Eyes a fraction wider. “That's a lot of cops,” she says. She points a finger from the steering wheel.

“Right. We're after taking this guy in.”

Her gaze shifts from one vehicle to the next. State trooper cruisers. Border Patrol SUVs. “Is he some kind of head-case?”

“How's that?”

“This man that you're looking for?”

Whicher looks in at her, sitting up straight behind the wheel. “Why's that, Miss?”

She touches the silver bracelets at her wrist. “I don't know.”

“It's in connection with a robbery at the bank. Here in Alpine.”

“I live alone,” she says, “in the hills. You know?”

“Ma'am?”

“It's not some nut, then?”