stopped suddenly near the old river cottonwoods as if jerked on a leash. He stared at the tree trunks, then cautiously looked over his shoulder toward the SUVs and the assault team.
With a feeling like a slight electric shock through his bowels, Nate realized what Joe was looking at. He’d made
three
mistakes.
“Uh-oh,” Nate whispered. The arrow he’d been hit with was still embedded in the bark of the tree. An arrow likely covered with dried blood and his DNA. If the arrow was analyzed, the investigators would know that Nate had not only been there, but he’d been wounded. And so would The Five.
Nate said,
“What are you going to do, Joe?”
He felt for his friend. Joe was straight and upright and burdened with ethics, responsibility, and a sense of duty that had gotten him into trouble many times. It was something Nate admired about Joe, and a trait he’d shared many years before it had been destroyed.
He watched as Joe checked again to make sure no one was looking, then reached up quickly and wrenched the arrow from the tree. Then he ambled down to the river with the shaft hidden tight against the length of his leg and he flipped it into the fast current.
Nate closed his eyes for a moment and said, “Thank you.”
_______
LATER , after the assault team had finally left and the sun was slipping behind the western mountains, Nate freed the jesses and unhooded both birds. With his good right hand, he raised the prairie falcon and released him to the sky. He lifted the peregrine, and she cocked her head and stared at him with her black eyes.
“Go,” he said, prompting her by lifting her up and down. She gripped his hand, and her talons tightened painfully through the glove.
“Really,” he said.
“Go.”
Although she was likely hungry and there were ducks and geese cruising the river to find a place to settle for the night, she didn’t spread her wings.
“I
mean
it,” he said. “It’s been good. You were a great hunter, but we both need to be free right now. We’ll meet again in this world or the next. Now
go
.”
As he flung her into the air, his wounded shoulder bit him like a jackal and the pain nearly took him to his knees.
The peregrine shot out her wings and beat them until she grasped the air. He watched her climb, but she didn’t seem to be concentrating on the river, the ducks, or the geese. She rose almost reluctantly, he thought. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, he told himself. When a falconer and falcon parted, it was supposed to be the falcon’s idea.
But she was still up there, a dot against the evening clouds, when he hiked down the other side of the rise to where he’d hidden his Jeep in a tangle of junipers.
6
IT WAS UNNATURALLY dark on the wide, rutted roads of the Wind River Indian Reservation because, Nate guessed, someone had once again decided to drive around and shoot out all the overhead lights. He confirmed his suspicion when he heard the crunching of broken glass from the shattered bulbs beneath the tires of the Jeep as he slowly cruised down Norkok Street toward Fort Washakie. Despite the chill of the evening, he kept his windows down so all his senses could be engaged. Dried leaves rattled in the canopy of old trees and skittered across the road. The last sigh of the evening sun painted a bold red slash on the square top of Crowheart Butte in his rearview mirror.
In the 1860s, Chief Washakie of the Eastern Shoshone tribe ended a war with the encroaching Crow by fighting one-on-one with Chief Big Robber, the Crow leader. Washakie killed Big Robber and cut his heart out and stuck it on the end of his war lance in tribute to the fallen enemy. Hence the name of the butte. The reservation itself was huge, 2.2 million acres—the same size as Yellowstone Park. It was home to 2,500 Eastern Shoshone and 5,000 Northern Arapaho. In the old cemetery Nate drove past the last shard of sun glinting offrusted metal headboards and footboards that reached up out
With a feeling like a slight electric shock through his bowels, Nate realized what Joe was looking at. He’d made
three
mistakes.
“Uh-oh,” Nate whispered. The arrow he’d been hit with was still embedded in the bark of the tree. An arrow likely covered with dried blood and his DNA. If the arrow was analyzed, the investigators would know that Nate had not only been there, but he’d been wounded. And so would The Five.
Nate said,
“What are you going to do, Joe?”
He felt for his friend. Joe was straight and upright and burdened with ethics, responsibility, and a sense of duty that had gotten him into trouble many times. It was something Nate admired about Joe, and a trait he’d shared many years before it had been destroyed.
He watched as Joe checked again to make sure no one was looking, then reached up quickly and wrenched the arrow from the tree. Then he ambled down to the river with the shaft hidden tight against the length of his leg and he flipped it into the fast current.
Nate closed his eyes for a moment and said, “Thank you.”
_______
LATER , after the assault team had finally left and the sun was slipping behind the western mountains, Nate freed the jesses and unhooded both birds. With his good right hand, he raised the prairie falcon and released him to the sky. He lifted the peregrine, and she cocked her head and stared at him with her black eyes.
“Go,” he said, prompting her by lifting her up and down. She gripped his hand, and her talons tightened painfully through the glove.
“Really,” he said.
“Go.”
Although she was likely hungry and there were ducks and geese cruising the river to find a place to settle for the night, she didn’t spread her wings.
“I
mean
it,” he said. “It’s been good. You were a great hunter, but we both need to be free right now. We’ll meet again in this world or the next. Now
go
.”
As he flung her into the air, his wounded shoulder bit him like a jackal and the pain nearly took him to his knees.
The peregrine shot out her wings and beat them until she grasped the air. He watched her climb, but she didn’t seem to be concentrating on the river, the ducks, or the geese. She rose almost reluctantly, he thought. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, he told himself. When a falconer and falcon parted, it was supposed to be the falcon’s idea.
But she was still up there, a dot against the evening clouds, when he hiked down the other side of the rise to where he’d hidden his Jeep in a tangle of junipers.
6
IT WAS UNNATURALLY dark on the wide, rutted roads of the Wind River Indian Reservation because, Nate guessed, someone had once again decided to drive around and shoot out all the overhead lights. He confirmed his suspicion when he heard the crunching of broken glass from the shattered bulbs beneath the tires of the Jeep as he slowly cruised down Norkok Street toward Fort Washakie. Despite the chill of the evening, he kept his windows down so all his senses could be engaged. Dried leaves rattled in the canopy of old trees and skittered across the road. The last sigh of the evening sun painted a bold red slash on the square top of Crowheart Butte in his rearview mirror.
In the 1860s, Chief Washakie of the Eastern Shoshone tribe ended a war with the encroaching Crow by fighting one-on-one with Chief Big Robber, the Crow leader. Washakie killed Big Robber and cut his heart out and stuck it on the end of his war lance in tribute to the fallen enemy. Hence the name of the butte. The reservation itself was huge, 2.2 million acres—the same size as Yellowstone Park. It was home to 2,500 Eastern Shoshone and 5,000 Northern Arapaho. In the old cemetery Nate drove past the last shard of sun glinting offrusted metal headboards and footboards that reached up out
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