BoxCar don’t have any cattle.”
The chairman nodded thoughtfully. “Them damn rustlers must’ve got away with all of ’em. No wonder the senator is so upset.”
MINUTES AFTER the tribal chairman had departed, Pete Bushman showed up at the front door. The Columbine foreman was shaking his head, growling.
Moon invited his employee into the parlor. “What’s on your mind, Pete?”
“It’s that damn cougar.” Bushman shook his shaggy head. “This mornin’, he made a run at Alf Marquez.”
The Ute felt a sour coldness in the pit of his stomach. “Is Alf hurt?”
“Not this time. But that big scat spooked the Mexican’s mount, and Alf got throwed.” Pete pulled at his beard. “Two of the men was with him, one took a shot at the cat an’ scared it off. If he’d been workin’ by hisself, Alf’d a been cat food for sure.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Right where you’d expect it—over at the foot of the Notch.”
Moon went to a window, looked westward toward the half-mile-wide, saddle-shaped crevasse in the Miserys. Dead Mule Notch was the big cat’s range. If he wasn’t able to bring down the occasional whitetail, Two-Toes must be getting slow. That could make him a potential man-killer. “Pete, maybe we should pull all of our cattle over to the lowlands—out of that cougar’s range.”
The foreman glared at the boss. “Well if you ask me, and even if you won’t, I don’t think we oughta let this overgrown house cat run us offa two prime sections of the Columbine grazing. I say we get us some trained dogs that can track the sneaky rascal down. We get him treed, we shoot ’im, we skin ’im. Nail his sorry hide to the barn wall.”
Moon shook his head. “Forget the dogs.”
“What do you want to do then?”
“I’ll think on it.”
Sure. And while you’re thinkin’ on it, we’ll lose half the herd. Bushman stomped away.
Chapter Eight
Terminal Building
CHARLIE MOON NOTED THE SIGN ERECTED BY A GRAND JUNCTION construction company, nosed the F-150 onto the lane linking the main highway with the site of the yet-unfinished Patch Davidson Airport. A crisply uniformed employee of a private security firm waved him down, stared through reflecting sunglasses at the tribal investigator’s ID. After a comically ludicrous attempt to intimidate the Ute, the officious Robocop waved him on without a word.
The old county airport, six miles to the north, had a runway intended primarily for private pilots who buckled small, single-engine propeller aircraft to their butts. The new facility, named after Granite Creek’s favorite U.S. senator, boasted runways that would accommodate a Boeing 737 with five hundred yards to spare. He crossed the freshly blacktopped parking lot, slowed to a stop between a county fire truck and a matched pair of black and white GCPD squad cars. The red and blue lights were not flashing, presumably because there was no problem with traffic or gawking onlookers.
Moon got out of his pickup, stared at what was left of the new terminal building.
Inside a rectangle of yellow tape were two acres of blackened ruins. It was apparent that there had been a terrific explosion and a scorching fire. But not in that order. Aside from four walls of reinforced cinder block, little remained of the structure. Sections of Propanel roofing were strewn well past the taped border and into the edge of a forest of pines and cedars. A long row of seven-foot-square plate glass panes had been reduced to crystalline shards that were scattered over the parking lot. Where the glazing had been mounted, metal frames bulged outward from the force of the blast. Jagged remnants of the glass around the rim of the frames gave the eerie appearance of shark teeth lining enormous, open jaws. The inside of the terminal building shell was crusted with black soot. Metal-frame furniture and wooden partitions had been reduced to twisted skeletons and heaps of gray ash. A dozen helmeted firemen were picking
The chairman nodded thoughtfully. “Them damn rustlers must’ve got away with all of ’em. No wonder the senator is so upset.”
MINUTES AFTER the tribal chairman had departed, Pete Bushman showed up at the front door. The Columbine foreman was shaking his head, growling.
Moon invited his employee into the parlor. “What’s on your mind, Pete?”
“It’s that damn cougar.” Bushman shook his shaggy head. “This mornin’, he made a run at Alf Marquez.”
The Ute felt a sour coldness in the pit of his stomach. “Is Alf hurt?”
“Not this time. But that big scat spooked the Mexican’s mount, and Alf got throwed.” Pete pulled at his beard. “Two of the men was with him, one took a shot at the cat an’ scared it off. If he’d been workin’ by hisself, Alf’d a been cat food for sure.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Right where you’d expect it—over at the foot of the Notch.”
Moon went to a window, looked westward toward the half-mile-wide, saddle-shaped crevasse in the Miserys. Dead Mule Notch was the big cat’s range. If he wasn’t able to bring down the occasional whitetail, Two-Toes must be getting slow. That could make him a potential man-killer. “Pete, maybe we should pull all of our cattle over to the lowlands—out of that cougar’s range.”
The foreman glared at the boss. “Well if you ask me, and even if you won’t, I don’t think we oughta let this overgrown house cat run us offa two prime sections of the Columbine grazing. I say we get us some trained dogs that can track the sneaky rascal down. We get him treed, we shoot ’im, we skin ’im. Nail his sorry hide to the barn wall.”
Moon shook his head. “Forget the dogs.”
“What do you want to do then?”
“I’ll think on it.”
Sure. And while you’re thinkin’ on it, we’ll lose half the herd. Bushman stomped away.
Chapter Eight
Terminal Building
CHARLIE MOON NOTED THE SIGN ERECTED BY A GRAND JUNCTION construction company, nosed the F-150 onto the lane linking the main highway with the site of the yet-unfinished Patch Davidson Airport. A crisply uniformed employee of a private security firm waved him down, stared through reflecting sunglasses at the tribal investigator’s ID. After a comically ludicrous attempt to intimidate the Ute, the officious Robocop waved him on without a word.
The old county airport, six miles to the north, had a runway intended primarily for private pilots who buckled small, single-engine propeller aircraft to their butts. The new facility, named after Granite Creek’s favorite U.S. senator, boasted runways that would accommodate a Boeing 737 with five hundred yards to spare. He crossed the freshly blacktopped parking lot, slowed to a stop between a county fire truck and a matched pair of black and white GCPD squad cars. The red and blue lights were not flashing, presumably because there was no problem with traffic or gawking onlookers.
Moon got out of his pickup, stared at what was left of the new terminal building.
Inside a rectangle of yellow tape were two acres of blackened ruins. It was apparent that there had been a terrific explosion and a scorching fire. But not in that order. Aside from four walls of reinforced cinder block, little remained of the structure. Sections of Propanel roofing were strewn well past the taped border and into the edge of a forest of pines and cedars. A long row of seven-foot-square plate glass panes had been reduced to crystalline shards that were scattered over the parking lot. Where the glazing had been mounted, metal frames bulged outward from the force of the blast. Jagged remnants of the glass around the rim of the frames gave the eerie appearance of shark teeth lining enormous, open jaws. The inside of the terminal building shell was crusted with black soot. Metal-frame furniture and wooden partitions had been reduced to twisted skeletons and heaps of gray ash. A dozen helmeted firemen were picking
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