Page 11 of Battle Mountain

Nate was reminded once again that the natural advantage of the outlaw caves within the canyon was their location in relation to the footpath on the opposite wall. The caves afforded a clear view of the length of the trail, but from the trail itself, the limestoneformations were shrouded with brush that concealed their mouths. Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid, and the rest of the Wild Bunch had chosen well. A few of the best-hidden caves still had hitching posts for horses and Nate had found an ancient cast-iron frying pan in the back of his that he’d cleaned up for his own use. In fact, he’d used the pan to fry up six medium-sized brook trout that he kept warm by placing the skillet next to the hot rocks of the firepit.

Earlier, Nate had watched as a single form moved down the trail as the sun set. The man was too far away to see clearly, but he was large and moved with a graceful stealth. Nate assumed more men would follow, but they didn’t. He’d lost sight of the intruder when full darkness enveloped the canyon, but he could occasionally hear the click of rock on rock after the man forded the stream on the canyon floor and started his climb to Nate’s cave.

As the fire crackled and smoked and the skin of the chukars turned golden-brown, Nate slipped out of the cave and shinnied along a path to his left until he was behind a boulder that gave him a clear view of the opening. He held his revolver loose and at his right side, ready to raise it up and fire at any second.

“Nate? Did I find you?”

The voice was low, rumbling, and familiar.

“Nate? I saw the fire and came to the light. Is that you, buddy?”

Nate’s shoulders relaxed as he slipped his gun into its holster and he stepped out from behind the boulder.

“It’s Geronimo, man.”

And it was.

“Are you hungry?” Nate asked. His own voice sounded weak and unfamiliar to him, the result of not using it regularly.

Geronimo said, “You know me. OfcourseI’m hungry. And whatever you’re cooking smells damned good.”

—

Geronimo Jones squattednext to Nate in front of the fire and watched the skin blacken and crack on the outside of both chukars. They’d just completed a greeting where Nate had extended his hand and Geronimo had swept it aside so he could embrace Nate in a bear hug. Geronimo was six feet tall and 240 pounds, with ebony skin and heavy ropes of dreadlocks that extended to his shoulders. His hug was ferocious. Nate had winced. He wasn’t a hugger.

“What’s that? Chicken?” Geronimo asked.

“Chukar,” Nate said. “Fried trout on the side.”

“Sounds damned good. Looks damned good.”

“How did you find me?” Nate asked.

“A little bird told me.”

“Was this little bird named Joe Pickett?” Nate asked.

Geronimo smiled. “Nope.”

“Sheridan, then?”

Sheridan Pickett was Joe and Marybeth Pickett’s oldest daughter of three. She’d been Nate’s apprentice in falconry and had grown so skilled and mature that he’d left his falconry company to her to manage on her own. Not that she’d had any say in it.

“Sheridan said you used to hang out here before you went straight,” Geronimo said. “Back in the day.”

Nate smiled. Sheridan was smart.

“She said to tell you Kestrel is doing well,” Geronimo said.Kestrel was Nate’s three-year-old daughter. He’d left her with Marybeth because he knew she’d be safe and well taken care of.

“That’s good to hear.”

“I’ve been looking for you for a while,” Geronimo said. “You’re a hard man to find when you don’t want to be found.”

“That was the idea,” Nate said. “That’s why I shot my cell phone in the heart. But now you’ve screwed it all up.”

—

They sat backafter they’d devoured the chukars and trout in silence and burned the bones in the fire. The temperature outside had dropped significantly and the stars had come out hard. The moon had not yet appeared in the opening between the walls of the canyon.

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