10 – Raton Pass

 

 

"How did they get there ahead of us?" Dan asked, gaze flickering up into the mirror. But the road stayed quiet. A distant set of headlights but not gaining. A tourist, probably.

 "I don't know," Lance said.

 Mike shook his head. "They might have been cops."

 "They knew my name," Dan barked. "That was no accident."

 "Then it was the queerest bit of bullshit I've ever encountered," Mike mumbled, Marie asleep on his shoulder. "Why say anything? They could have shot you coming around and been done with it."

 "Look, I don't have an more answers than you do," Dan said, coughing. "But they did shoot."

 "And missed. Deliberately by the looks of it."

 "Which means what?"

 "They weren't trying to kill you as much as scare you."

 "Why?"

 Mike shrugged. "Too keep you scared and running-- and maybe you'll lead them somewhere. I suspect they want their money or dope before they do you in."

 Dan looked over, something easing on his face. "But I don't have the dope or the money."

 "Which is why they haven't killed you yet," Mike said. "And why they're hanging back, waiting and watching. They probably followed you all the way from Denver without your knowing it."

 "And'll follow us all the way to Albuquerque, too," Dan moaned.

 "Maybe," Mike said, squinting back at the distant headlights. "But you didn't have me with you before."

Dan nodded and drove. Hours passed. The others had crawled into the bed in back to sleep, leaving only Dan and Mike still awake.

"So, what happened, Mike?" Dan asked.

The old days filtered through Dan's head, recalling hopes and dreams that had long vanished in both of them. "How come the cops got onto you? I thought your farm was safe?"

 Mike stirred out of deep thought. Raton Pass glowed on either side of them, red clay and sharp sand stone shifting with the moving headlights, creating a dance of shadows.

 "Safe?" Mike mumbled. "I guess it was. But my partner got greedy. Took the harvest in a month early. I got back, he was gone with most of the dope."

 "Sounds familiar," Dan said with a snort and a cough, going through Lance's Marlboro's one after the other.

 "Except my friend didn't get far. He got caught by some nosy deputy sheriff in Cheyenne, who took a peek under the tarp of his flatbed. I guess he figured to deal his way out by giving them me. Marie and I'd just got back from Chicago when the cops showed up. We snuck out the far end and hitched a ride with some tourists to where you found us."

 "Any plans?"

 "One, but it's vague. Ever hear of a character named Buckingham?"

 "Not that I can recall. Who is he?"

 "A rumor or legend. Depending who's doing the telling. His name's been floating around the circuit for years. One of those half-myths which comes up from time to time. Lately, he's supposedly been active again. Maybe I can hook up with his crowd, get some bucks

together, bury myself somewhere-- like out of the country."

 Mike's face glowed in the green light of the dashboard. He looked older, sadder, and infinitely weary-- the deep kind of weariness that needed years to cure.

 "You figure on picking up a clue down at the house?"

 "It crossed my mind."

 "You know who's there?"

 "I know."

 "You think she's forgiven you yet?"

 "Two years is a long time. But I suppose we'll see when we get there."

 Dan nodded, lit another cigarette from the ruins of the last, and glanced up into the rear-view mirror. The distant headlights remained, floating up the pass like a ghost.

 

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