Page 50 of Battle Mountain

Part Four

“The bird out of place is always the first to die.”

—J. A. Baker,ThePeregrine

Chapter Twelve

“Thisis TieSiding?” Geronimo said with amazement at the two rambling structures on the west side of US 287 south of Laramie. The buildings were boarded up and appeared abandoned.

“Affirmative,” Nate said from the passenger seat.

“It’s not even a town.”

“Think of it as a location.”

One of the buildings was a large A-frame with the wordsFlea Marketpainted on the side shingles, and the other, according to a hand-lettered sign in front, was a former post office and general store. Several junked cars and pickups sat on flattened tires between the structures.

“Who could live here?” Geronimo said as he slowed and took the exit.

The wind had picked up and the buffeting waves of it shook the Suburban on its springs.

“You’d be surprised,” Nate said, gesturing toward tree-covered mountains looming on the western horizon.

They passed through an open ranch gate, under power lines, and over railroad tracks. In front of them was a long gravel straightaway bordered by yellowed grass and gray sagebrush that stretched as far as they could see through the windshield. The sky was huge and broken up by long parallel strands of cirrus clouds that looked scratched into the blue by cougar claws.

“We should have gotten something to eat in Laramie,” Geronimo said. “There’s no place to get food around here and I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Nate said.

—

Russ and JoleneAnthony lived on a loop of road cleared in the trees on the top of a wooded mountain. There were a dozen other high-end homes within the enclave, all with views of the plains on the valley floor that stretched for thirty miles to the east. The homes were too far from the highway to be seen from below. It was a horsey mountain getaway location that had been carved out of a vast ranch holding, and it had obviously been designed for people who didn’t want to be stumbled upon. Geronimo pulled into the circular driveway of 103 Cherokee Creek Trail and shut off the engine.

A towering flagpole boasted three flags snapping furiously in the wind: the U.S. flag on top, the State of Wyoming’s in the middle, and a red U.S. Marine Corps flag on the bottom.

An attractive, outdoorsy woman in her fifties was watching for them, and she greeted them at her front door.

“You must be Jolene,” Geronimo said.

“You must be Geronimo and Nate,” she said with a nervoussmile. “We don’t get a lot of visitors by design. Our attorney in Cheyenne let us know you were coming.”

Jolene stepped aside and let them in. Nate acknowledged her as he went by.

“I have coffee, tea, and water,” she said. “Russ no longer drinks alcohol, so we don’t have any in the house.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Nate said. He knew that Geronimo was probably hoping she’d offer them some food. To Geronimo’s credit, he didn’t make a fuss when she didn’t.

The home was spectacular, with a massive elk-antler chandelier in the great room and furniture crafted from more antlers and steer hides. It was built so solidly that the sound of the howling wind outside was squelched into silence the second she closed the heavy door.

“Russ is in the study,” she said. “We thought that would be the best place to talk.” Then: “I hope you can help us rescue Allison.”

As they followed her across the great room into a book-lined office with leather-covered padded chairs surrounding a desk, Nate and Geronimo shared a glance.

“Rescue Allison?” Geronimo mouthed. “What?”

Nate had no response.

—

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