Page 74 of Battle Mountain

“Now these Colorado plates will annoy people again,” he said.

“Sometimes it’s hard to keep up with where your head is at,” Geronimo complained.

—

They pulled overon the Wyoming side of the border, where the highway crossed the North Platte River, which was a wide inky ribbon that rippled with reflected starlight.

Nate gestured to the east. “There’s no moon to see it, but over there is Battle Mountain.”

The mountain loomed, a black inverted U that stretched as far as they could see north and south. The only way to delineate the dark mountain from the sky was by the fine line on top that blocked out the wash of stars and a derby-shaped hat of snow that topped the summit.

“Do you know why it’s named Battle Mountain?” Geronimo asked.

“No. Do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I looked it up on my phone.”

“Okay, why?”

Geronimo said, “In 1841, a mountain-man dude named Jim Baker and another trapper were butchering a couple of buffalo cows they had shot, when hundreds of Cheyenne and Arapaho took exception and attacked them. The two of them ran like rabbitsto a little fort on the Little Snake River, where there were a dozen other trappers. But the Natives kept coming.

“Baker and the other dudes killed their horses and used them as breastworks when the Indians charged time and time again. It was like a mountain-man version of the Thermopylae–Three Hundred–type fight. The only way the mountain-man dudes survived was when they realized that the attackers would always stop to pick up their dead. So, the trappers picked their targets carefully and took them out one at a time. They had one-shot rifles back then, so the trappers made sure they always kept half of their weapons loaded and ready to go at any one time. Finally, the Indians just decided it wasn’t worth it and they went home. Jim Baker couldn’t believe they’d held them off. After that, the settlers to the area referred to that mountain as Battle.”

“That’s a good story, if it’s true,” Nate said. “What did you say the name of the ranch was where they do the Centurions thing?”

“I’m not sure. Lazy-something, I think.”

“Ah,” Nate said. “Now I remember. The B-Lazy-U. It’s been around for decades. It’s isolated, but from what I understand it’s a pretty cool place. Old-school.”

“That sounds about right,” Geronimo said. “So how do we get there?”

“The entrance is straight ahead on the right.”

Nate eased the Suburban into gear and drove north.

—

Eight miles later,Nate slowed on the shoulder of the highway and pulled over. The only light they could see in any direction was from a small building to their right a hundred yards from US 230.

Nate turned off the headlights and raised a pair of binoculars, leaning his elbows onto the steering wheel to steady his view.

“It’s a kind of guard shack under the archway that leads to the ranch,” he said. “I suppose they use it to check in guests. But now what I see are a couple of guys inside and an SUV parked next to it.”

“Security?” Geronimo asked.

“Probably.”

“Are we going to try to get through?”

“Affirmative.”

“What’s our story?”

Nate shrugged. “I’ll think of something. But in the meanwhile, I think we need to get all of our weapons out of view. We don’t want them to think we’re here to storm the place.”

They got out and opened the long, hidden compartment under the floorboard in the back seat and filled it with guns and boxes of ammunition.

“The gangsters I got this unit from thought of everything,” Geronimo said.

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