Mountain Rampage by Scott Graham Page A

summer.”
    â€œIt’s been a month and a half.”
    â€œI don’t put notches in my belt.”
    â€œ How many? ”
    Clarence addressed the line of peaks marching away into the distance. “Three or four. Five, maybe.”
    Chuck shook his head. “Unbelievable. And how many guys over in Falcon House do you suppose you’ve managed to piss off in the process?”
    Clarence twisted to face Chuck. “All the guys living in Falcon House are a bunch of campesinos from México —cooks, janitors, dishwashers—sending their money home and counting the days till they can get back to their families.”
    â€œAnd the young women?”
    â€œThey’re on their big summer adventure from Romania, Bulgaria, places like that. Ready to par- tay . They’re way out of those Méxicanos’ league.”
    â€œBut not yours.”
    â€œNobody’s out of my league.”
    â€œI bet you made one of the Mexicans jealous.”
    â€œSo he did what, took my knife and stabbed somebody with it? What sense would there be in that?”
    â€œI’m still thinking it through,” Chuck admitted.
    â€œWhile you’re doing your thinking, let me tell you what I already know. Nobody’s going to come forward and tell the cops, ‘Hey, guess what. I stole Clarence’s knife and slashed somebody with it and they stood there and bled for a while and then they ran off into the woods and now they’re gone.’ Which means the focus is going to stay right on me .”
    â€œAll the more reason to get a lawyer.”
    â€œWrong. The cop said they’re going to call me in for more questioning, right? Later today, probably, or maybe tomorrow. When they do, I want them to see I got nothin’ to hide. If I come in all lawyered up, they’ll figure it’s me for sure. They’ll focus everything they’ve got on nailing me to the wall.” Clarence took a deep breath. “I have to show them I’m a victim of circumstance, that whatever crime was committed— if a crime was committed—was somebody else’s doing.”
    â€œWho do you suppose did get their hands on your knife?”
    â€œCould’ve been anybody. It’s not like I was hiding it.”
    â€œSomebody must’ve grabbed it to do some whittling, like you,” Chuck reasoned. “They cut themselves by accident. Theycan’t bring themselves to say anything. Not yet, anyway.”
    â€œYou saw how much blood there was. They’d’ve had to cut themselves pretty deep.”
    â€œMaybe they were drunk.”
    Clarence rolled his eyes.
    â€œReally drunk,” Chuck insisted.
    Clarence grunted. “Wasted,” he said flatly.
    â€œBlotto,” Chuck offered.
    Clarence’s mouth lifted in the start of a smile. “Blasted.”
    Chuck nodded. “Blitzed.”
    Clarence grinned. “Pulverized, dude. Totally, absolutely obliterated.”
    Chuck chuckled and bent over his pack, digging out his lunch. The faint rattle of tumbling rocks reached him from where Mount Landen’s rugged northwest ridge etched the skyline half a mile away.
    He looked up in time to see a Rocky Mountain sheep clamber into sight over the top the ridge. The sheep, a ewe, was followed by another ewe, then another. Gradually, three dozen more sheep ambled over the ridge, their hooves sending small stones clattering into a steep couloir below them. The animals fanned out, nipping at the dry, brown bunch grass on the slope as they made their way across the north side of the mountain toward Chuck and Clarence.
    Chuck scanned the grazing sheep, looking for trophy rams. His eyes fell on animal after animal. Each was a ewe, a first-year lamb, or a juvenile male with nascent, half-curl horns—yet a herd this big should not be without two or more adult rams with broad chests and fully curled horns.
    Chuck slid his sandwich from its baggie and bit into it,