Durango (16 page)

Both the horse and the dog could find the high lake in total darkness. But this morning was bright and sunny, a beautiful early August day.

They made their way to the lake by early afternoon and Sheridan staked the horse out on a long rope in the middle of a lush stand of tall wild grass. He tossed the bedding and cooking gear near the rock-lined fire pit he had dug out years before. He noted with satisfaction that it had not been used since his last visit. To his knowledge, Caroline was the only other person in the world who knew about this hiding place. Sheridan had discovered it in his teens and in those days had fantasized about robbing a bank in Silverton and holing up there as posses searched high and low for him.

But his interest in bank robbery disappeared quickly enough, even as his dependence on the solitude of the place increased. When he took a small tent for shelter, he rarely needed it. The moon and stars would be crystal clear. When he left the tent at the ranch, more often than not it rained or snowed, regardless of the promises of the highly skilled weather forecasters. You could pretty much depend on it.

Regardless, against great odds he took his chances and had left the tent in the barn. He took Red's saddle off and put it near the fire pit and threw his poncho—his concession to the moody weather gods—over it. He completed the ritual of firewood collection and noted happily there was more than enough nearby for his two-night stay. The many cones falling from the pines would help get things going at dinnertime. As was his custom and practice, Toby followed a yard behind his right heel everywhere he went. Toby loved the place because, even at more than nine thousand feet, you never knew when a snowshoe rabbit might hop onto the scene.

Some time before, Sheridan had put a couple of short logs across two rock piles at the edge of the lake and, as before, he picked up the fly rod and shook out a dark fly for a bright day like this. Once he had the fly tied to the leader, he sat down on the makeshift log bench and began his leisurely cast. It delighted him to see the frisky young rainbow trout break the surface across the lake as insects of one kind or another, mayflies sometimes, came within their leaping distance above the water's surface.

He was in no hurry whatsoever, but within half an hour he had three rainbow trout with a string through their gills thrashing in the shallow water. Toby, he said, say thanks to God for our dinner.

After putting the fishing equipment back in its containers, he stretched his lanky frame, working out the kinks and cramps from hours in the saddle. With Toby in attendance, he carried out his surveillance of the edges of the five or so acres of meadow surrounding the lake. As usual, he studied the soft soil at the lakeside and the edges of the tree line for tracks of creatures. It was always nice to know your neighbors, his grandfather had told him as a kid.

On the far side of the lake he paused and knelt down. Though eroded by rains, there were two distinct paw prints at the water's edge. Toby sniffed where he was looking, but the weather had also rinsed off most scents. The paws were at least four and possibly closer to five inches across. It was a sizeable cat, surely a full-grown male, and it had been there since Sheridan's and Caroline's last visit.

Sheridan studied the area more thoroughly. He could find no more paw prints. But there was a small area where the meadow grass reached the tree line where the grass had been flattened, fairly recently, by a large creature using it for a bed. He watched the grass and tree limbs and noted them swaying in a northwesterly breeze. Neither horse nor dog picked up any scent from that direction.

Toby, stay close, he told the dog. He entered the tree line where a small deer trail started and wound its way into and around the nearby craggy outcroppings. He knew the trail well and had more than once followed it as far as he could go before confronting high, steep cliff faces. He studied the narrow trail as he went, moving slowly and as quietly as he could across a surface coated with dry pine needles and pine cones that crunched loudly if stepped on.

From his earliest days, Sheridan had learned from his father and grandfather the arts and crafts of the woods. He was a better-than-average tracker and he knew the habits of the wild creatures. He had learned great respect for them, especially the predators, and it had paid off more than once. But it also paid off in avoidance of the nuisances, the porcupines and skunks and such. And after too many misadventures as a pup, Toby had learned from bitter experience to stay well away from those two creatures particularly.

Sheridan heard a snuffle from Toby and looked down to see his hackles standing up. He peered ahead and saw something in the trail, twenty yards or so ahead. It appeared to be a leather jacket covering something misshapen. He held his hand down to steady and quiet the dog and moved forward as quietly as possible.

Within ten or twelve feet he could tell it was the carcass of a young deer, probably a yearling fawn or a doe, and it had provided more than one meal for someone, almost certainly a cougar. What remained was essentially the hide and scattered bones, the larger ones of which had been worked over with very sharp teeth. The kill was recent.

Sheridan put his hand down and silently waved Toby back. He began to step back slowly himself, keeping his eyes on the carcass, when he heard a rumble. It was a unique combination of growl and deep purr, and it was coming from above him, close by. Very slowly he raised his eyes and saw the cat on a strong tree limb only fifteen or twenty feet ahead and above. It was crouched.

His first thought was Toby, but within a second he knew the dog was smart enough to take care of himself. At the same instant he instinctively reached down for the knife on his ankle and then slowly raised his arms high above his head. The Winchester was back with Red, where it was not going to do him much good in a wrestling match with this lion.

He lowered his eyes to avoid direct eye contact with the powerful creature, there to protect its kill. Before doing so, however, he saw in those familiar wide yellow eyes the natural wisdom of the ages. Though he had encountered the magnificent creatures twice before, prowling around his cattle pens in the calving season, he was startled nonetheless by the clear, mesmerizing gaze of those eyes. They would surely hypnotize you if you let them, and they took a direct gaze from a human as a challenge.

Head lowered, with eyes glancing up through thick eyebrows, Sheridan continued his retreat a step at a time, arms still raised to exaggerate his size and presence, though with little trust in that trick's effectiveness. He was simply doing what he had been taught to do under these circumstances by his predecessors and his Ute friends. He trusted also in Toby's canny trail sense not to challenge the creature.

He stepped on a pine cone, which crunched like dry cereal under his boot. He had moved to the edge of the cat's thirty-foot jumping range, and he was calculating how he would sacrifice his left arm to the cat's viselike jaws in order to get the six-inch blade under a front leg and into the ribcage near its heart. Even if successful, he would have a long ride back to town with a mangled arm and deep claw marks on his upper body, some possibly opening veins or even an artery.

Glancing up again as he retreated, Sheridan saw the cat still in its crouch. What had taken less than thirty seconds to transpire had seemed like an hour or more. He took two more quiet steps back, then saw the cat turn its great tawny head away and spring effortlessly—almost soaring—in the direction away from him and up the trail. Sheridan lifted his head and lowered his arms. Perspiration, he now felt, had soaked his shirt.

He reached down and took Toby's collar. Though the dog was making no move to follow the cat, there was always the chance that instinct might take over. Sheridan waited a full minute, then turned, and he and Toby went back down the narrow trail to the campsite.

Sheridan went to the horse and removed the Winchester. Upwind of the cat, Red had not smelled it and was calm. Sheridan pulled up its tether stake and moved it closer to where he would start his evening fire. His knowledge of the cougar told him that it would continue on its way upward into the high mountains. It had cleaned the deer carcass and had little reason to hang around to further protect its kill. And it had a range upwards of eighty square miles that it had staked out against all competitors.

Sheridan returned to the lake edge and pulled the now-quiet trout from the water, cleaned and filleted them, and rolled them in a cornmeal, flour, and salt and pepper mixture. He started the fire and watched it as it caught, blazed up, and then reduced itself to a steady heat. As he waited for the fire to abate for cooking, he retrieved his canteen from Red's saddlebag and sat on his log bench by the lake. He tipped the canteen up and felt the icy heat of the whiskey sear his throat.

Why live where he lived and why retreat to this hidden wonder if you didn't want to share it with a cougar, one of nature's most magnificent creations, he thought.

After he shared the trout, covered with fried bacon and fried potatoes and onions, with Toby, he drank half the whiskey in the canteen, then covered up for the night with his saddle for a pillow, Toby lying close to him for their mutual warmth. He never ceased to wonder at the clarity of the heavens in this place. Just before sleep, he levered a round into the chamber of the Winchester and laid it close to his other side.

31.

Guess what, Pat, my intrepid reporter? The voice on the phone that had just awakened Patrick at two in the morning sounded bright and cheerful.

The young reporter struggled to wake up and make out who this was and why they were calling.

We found him. It was his college roommate, Mitch, with the investigative firm. And you're not going to believe where he is. It's eerie, man. But he's right here in Kansas City.

Patrick tried to make sense of this. You mean Chandler? he said.

Of course, dude, isn't that who we were looking for? He's right here under our nose.

What's he doing, Mitch? I mean, what's his business? Patrick managed.

His business is making money, Mitch said in a conspiratorial tone. What he's done all his life, apparently. He's vice president of a big investment bank and he has charge of the whole Midwest region. One of those guys who falls in a pile of poop and comes up roses. Though, apparently, his business buddies didn't ask many questions about his years down there in your place. What's it called? Durango, man, like a Western movie. Remember it well from my misspent college days.

Well, gosh, Mitch, that's great, Patrick said. You're the best.

What do we do now, buddy?

I gotta think about it, Patrick said. It's the middle of the night and it's a little hard to make a plan right now.

No rush, Patrick. This dude's not going anywhere soon. He's dug in here—chamber of commerce, charity balls, all that stuff. Big society wife too, by the way. Wasn't there something about another wife down there that I seem to remember from my little background search?

There was, Patrick said. Part of the mystery hereabouts. Let me do this, Mitch. Let's both get some sleep—this is too much like the old dorm days. Then I'll give you a call tomorrow when I've figured out the next step.

A few hours later, and after considerable caffeine, Patrick decided that he would go to Kansas City unannounced and simply walk in on Chandler. Despite the scenario Professor Smithson had projected, he felt confident he could bait the bear in his den.

A few days later, after arranging with Mitch to be sure that Russell Chandler was going to be in town, Patrick Carroll flew through Denver to Kansas City. Chandler's new wife was on the planning committee of a charity dinner the following evening, so his chances were good. Uncharacteristically, he wore his college blazer, slacks, and tie, though they did little to improve his rumpled appearance.

He found Chandler's firm on the top floors of an elegant building in the Plaza shopping center, slipped past the receptionist, and confronted Chandler's assistant. I'm Congressman Patrick Carroll's son, from Durango, Colorado, and my father was a very good friend of Mr. Chandler's, he explained. I'm sorry I didn't call ahead, but I was unexpectedly passing through town and wanted to pay my respects to my father's old friend.

The woman seemed perplexed but said, Just a minute, and disappeared. He could hear a discussion in the large corner office and presently Russell Chandler appeared. He wore a hesitant smile that failed to mask his perplexity. Mr. Carroll, is it? he asked as he extended his hand.

Patrick confirmed his identity and repeated his desire to meet a good friend of his late father.

I'm sorry, Mr. Carroll, Chandler said, but I hate to say that I didn't know your father—late father—all that well. When we…when I moved to Durango years ago, he was retiring from office and then soon passed away, I regret to say.

Well, he always spoke very highly of you, Mr. Chandler, Patrick said. He used to tell us that it was high-caliber newcomers like you and Mrs. Chandler that would make Durango a great city.

Chandler glanced back at his office and started to retreat. In any case, Patrick, he said, it was kind of you to drop by. I greatly appreciate it.

Mr. Chandler, would you mind if I just had a private word with you? Patrick quickly asked. I have a question about my father in those days that you might help me with.

Chandler reluctantly invited the young man to follow him into his office and Patrick closed the door behind him. Mr. Chandler, he said, the thing is that my father was one of the original supporters of the big water project there in our town, and when I was a young kid I know it got very heated, very controversial, and I couldn't quite get my dad to sort it out for me. And it's important because it seemed somehow to break his heart when things went bad. And I know you—and the previous Mrs. Chandler?—were there in those days and might just kind of help me understand what all happened back then.