Way Down on the High Lonely by Don Winslow
“I’m going to start the countdown!” Steve yelled.
They all groaned again.
Ed had to rest but knew he couldn’t. Graham was unconscious, maybe in shock. Any delay might kill him. But where the hell were they? Had they passed by the house and not known it? Were they headed in the wrong direction? Walking in circles?
His legs felt like concrete pillars and his arms felt like wood, if wood could ache the way his arms did. His feet were freezing and he was starting to worry about frostbite now.
Where in hell were they?
Lost. Lost in the middle of the middle of nowhere.
Neal reined Midnight to a stop at the western crest of the ridge. The valley below looked like a bowl of steam, all white and swirling and indistinct. He couldn’t figure out where he was and the gang was gaining on him. He could pick out the sound of individual horses now and voices and he had to make the plunge down into the valley. But where? It wouldn’t do a hell of a lot of good to go galloping back to the Hansen ranch.
The Mills place should be northeast somewhere, but something that small wouldn’t be easy to find on the vast sagebrush plain below, at night, in the snow.
He couldn’t wait any longer, he had to go. They were right behind him now. A couple more seconds to let Midnight get his breath …
“Five, four, three, two, one,” Steve counted and threw the electric switch.
Karen Hawley looked up and saw the most amazing damn thing …
… A Star of David shining through the snow! Neal blinked in disbelief. Way out there, way down on The High Lonely, a Star of David pierced through the night sky like a beacon. A six-pointed star made up of dozens of lights, a star as big as a house … the Mills house.
Neal jigged the reins and Midnight dove over the crest.
Hansen about fell off his horse when he saw it. It had come out of nowhere. Just all of a sudden a Jewish star appeared in the sky and hung there like one of them UFOs. The three other riders clumped behind him, all of them looking at the damn thing.
Then it hit Hansen. “It’s Mills’ place. He strung them lights on his roof!
“That Jew bastard,” Bill McCurdy spat.
“Carey’s headed there!” Hansen yelled. “Let’s go!”
They pointed their horses at the star and crashed down the slope.
To Ed Levine it was like Hanukkah, New Year’s Eve on Times Square, Mardi Gras, and—what the hell—Christmas all at once. It was a goddamn miracle, that’s what it was, a sign sent from God. And the best thing about it was that it couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards away.
He lifted Graham a little higher and broke into a trot.
“You like it?” Steve asked proudly.
“It’s … big,” Peggy answered.
“I love it, Dad.”
Peggy said, “I’m surprised it didn’t blow every light in the house.”
“I rigged it to the generator.”
Karen put her arm around Steve and said, “I notice you pointed it right at Hansen’s place.”
Steve nodded happily. “That oughta fry his cajones, I’d expect.”
“You’re asking for trouble,” Karen added.
Steve grinned. “Mmm.”
Bob Hansen watched the star as he rode, Jory’s body bouncing behind him with the rocking of the horse.
It was that goddamn Jew Mills, contaminating the whole valley.
Mills was laughing at him, laughing at his defeat, laughing at the destruction of his dream, lording it over him. Mills had been behind it all. Mills knew about the sabotage … Mills knew that Carey was a ZOG agent … Mills knew the robbery was a fake, the arms shipment a setup. It was Mills’ daughter who filled Jory’s head with lies, Mills who sent Neal Carey, Mills who caused the death of his son.
My dreams are over, he thought. But I won’t stop until Mills is dead.
Back up on the mountain slope Cal Strekker licked his wounds and watched the kike star pollute the sky. He cut a sleeve off his shirt, cut that into strips, and wrapped it tightly around his ankle. He didn’t think it was busted, just sprained, but it hurt like all get out. It hurt worse when he pulled his boot back on, but the tight leather helped to keep the ankle from folding.
The side of his neck bore a deep purple splotch where Carey had tried to decapitate him with that sneaky gook shit, and the shoulder he had landed on was bruised up pretty good.
And now that friggin’ star was blinking on and off like some kind of all-night kosher diner for Jewboys.
Well, Steve Mills might just as well wave a red flag in Hansen’s nose, he thought. There’s going to be one hell of a fight over by that star.
He grabbed a cedar limb, lifted himself up, and started working his way down the mountain.
For Neal it had all come down to a horse race.
It was flat out across the sagebrush, his black horse galloping, kicking plumes of snow behind him, cutting through the crisp air like a sleek, sharp ebony knife.
Neal bent low over his neck like he’d seen the jockeys do to cut down on the resistance, his knees high behind the horse’s shoulders, his calves gripping Midnight’s flanks.
It was desperate, terrifying, and lovely. The sounds of the hooves crashing on the snow, and the horse snorting, and his own heart pounding, all in rhythm, all in sync. And the musty horse smell in his nostrils, and the sweet sagebrush, and the snow. And the heat of the horse against the chill air, and his own sweaty skin beneath his clothes, and the damp warmth of the little body clinging to his back, and goddamn, he was alive!
He risked a glance over his shoulder and could see them coming. Bill McCurdy ahead of the rest. The best rider, the most reckless on the fastest horse, and Neal knew, just knew, that Bill was smiling. Then the three others clumped behind. Hansen on that big bay, coming fast but not too fast, steady so his horse would not get blown. And John’s little gelding chopping away with its clipped gait on its short legs, but still coming, coming. And then Craig on that tall roan that cut the cows so well and never let one get around the corner. And they were all coming on, coming on, flying. Wild men on wild horses.
Neal kicked Midnight and leaned farther over his neck. He felt the horse surge a little more, and he would need that little more, because McCurdy was gaining. Heedless of the gopher holes that could snap a horse’s foreleg in an agonizing instant, heedless of the sudden gullies that could pitch him over the horse’s head and break his own neck, heedless of the patches of icy grass that could send the horse rolling over him, crushing his legs and rib cage and bursting his lungs, the cowboy was racing up, just winging on the tops of the rabbit brush, and he was only six, now five, now four horse lengths behind.
And Neal was just trying to hold on, just trying to stay in the saddle on the plunging, surging horse, and he knew that McCurdy was cowboy enough to ride beside him, reach out one arm, and take him off the saddle as if he were a rodeo rider and the buzzer had sounded. And that’s all it would take, because the other three would be on them and Vetter’s strong arms would take Cody from him and that would be the end.
He dug his feet into the stirrups and gripped the reins and kicked again, asking for a little more, please horse, just a little more. I know you don’t have it, but find it. Please, you have to beat this other horse, because it’s all come down to a horse race now and you’re my horse. And Midnight found it somewhere and reached a little farther and pushed a little more, and Neal heard him grunt with pain as flecks of foam flew back from his mouth and Neal felt Midnight’s heart pound at a literally heartbreaking pace.
I know I’m killing you, horse. I know I’m killing you and I’m sorry, but we have this child with us, you see, and you and I don’t matter, and he felt Midnight surge again. Unbelievably to him, the horse took it up another notch, stretched it out, and they were flying. Flying like wild, sweating, heaving, gasping, living angels through the night sky.
Then Neal could see the lights in front of them, the silver lights of a star. He’d nev
Neal kicked Midnight to see if there was anything left, but the horse was smarter. The horse simply shifted to the right and got in front of his pursuer. Billy was a hell of a horseman. Without breaking stride he leaned left and took his pony with him and then started to pull even again. Midnight pulled left on his next stride and blocked that lane too, but this game couldn’t go on forever, because the other horse was younger and faster and had by far the better rider. So when Billy jerked his horse out to the right again he came up so fast that suddenly they were riding side by side, saddle to saddle, boots almost touching, horses in stride.
Neal felt Billy’s hand grab at his sleeve and he flipped the right rein over and tried to pull his horse away, but Midnight leaned in, laying his bulk against the other horse’s shoulder and pushing him away and damn near bouncing Billy off his saddle.
It damn near lost Neal, too, but he managed to hold on with his left hand and keep riding. Then Billy was back again, right at Neal’s side, his right foot out of the stirrup and poised on the saddle. Neal saw he was getting ready to jump, for God’s sake. Jump and pull Neal and the boy off the galloping horse, and the Mills place was so close … so close … he could see the house now, and the wire fence. Then Billy swung his left foot out of the stirrup, staying on his horse just by the reins, that crazy cowboy look in his eye and his muscles coiled to spring and—
Midnight jumped to clear the fence and Billy slid off his rump and landed hard on the barbed wire. He ripped himself out, though, when the bullets started kicking the ground up around him.
Midnight seemed to sense he had done his job and slowed to a canter as he came into the yard, where Steve Mills stood with his rifle. The horse took two more strides, then his heart finally gave out. Neal swung off the saddle a second before Midnight dropped and rolled onto his side. Neal got down on his knees and cradled the horse’s head. Midnight’s eyes rolled back, his mouth heaved streams of foam, his legs jerked.
For the first time in the whole damn ordeal, Neal started to cry. He felt Steve standing over his shoulder.
“Steve, I—”
“Your friends told me all about it. I’ll take care of your horse. You better get that boy inside.”
Neal staggered through the door into the kitchen. Karen took the pack from his shoulders and cradled Cody in her arms. The last thing Neal heard before he collapsed was a single shot from Steve’s rifle.
13
The boy’s a survivor, that’s the understatement of the year,” Karen Hawley said. “He needs hospitalization, a ton of vitamins, long-term psychiatric care, and his mother. 1 intend to start with the hospital. Right away.”
“What do you mean?” Neal asked. They were standing in Shelly’s bedroom, where Karen had Cody wrapped up in blankets on the floor.
“I mean I’m taking him to Austin right now and calling a helicopter to take him to the hospital in Fallon.”
“You can’t do that,” Neal answered.
Karen got her back up and stared at Neal. “You’re forgetting that I’m the child abuse officer for South Lander County, and this child has most certainly been abused. I’m taking him into my custody. Do I need to arrest you? Fine. Neal Carey, or whatever your name is, you’re under arrest.”
“I mean you can’t do that because the house is surrounded by armed men.”
It had taken three hours of intermittent sniping and return fire to get a rough idea of how many men and where they were. Four, at least, in the big hay barn, two more around the road, probably three scattered in the sagebrush around the house.
And they have all night, Neal thought. All night and a good part of the morning before we have a chance of getting any help.
“I’m not afraid of those dickheads,” Karen said.
“You should be,” Neal answered. Right now they’re trying to work out a way to rush this place. They know they have us outnumbered and outgunned. If Strekker were out there he’d have already put it in motion. Coordinate fire on all sides at the same time to keep us pinned down, then rush a few men with Molotov cocktails and set the house on fire. Hell, they’re sitting right next to a tractor barn filled with gas tanks and plenty of empty bottles. Hansen’s taking a little longer to work it out, but he will. Then it will be all over.
We have to make a deal.
“You can go in a couple of hours,” Neal said, “when it’s light.”
“Do you think they’ll let us through?” Karen asked.
“Yeah, I do.”
If they’re all lying dead on the ground.
Just then he heard a crash of glass downstairs and then the terrifying crackle of flame. He ran down to see Steve stamping the flame out in the kitchen while Ed fired a shotgun out into the night.
I guess Hansen figured it out, Neal thought.
They all dropped to the floor when bullets whined through the window.
“You want to burn, Jew?” Neal heard Hansen yell. “We got lots of gas here! Enough for our own little crematorium!”
Neal heard men laughing in the barn.
“Come out, Jew! Unless you want to burn! I want you, Jew! Stop hiding behind women and children and come out here!”
Steve said, “I’m going.”
He started to get up. Neal grabbed him and pulled him back down. “The hell you are.”
Ed crawled back to the window and fired a couple of rounds in the general direction of Hansen’s voice.
“Out, Jew! Out, Jew!” came more shouting.
Then some comedian in the barn yelled, “Juden raus, Juden raus!” and the rest of the gang picked up the chant.
“Juden raus! Juden raus! Juden raus!”
Neal heard three shots crack through an upstairs window. Steve dashed up the stairs to find Peggy clutching Shelly on the floor behind the bed.
“Oh, God,” he moaned. “Are you all right?”
“We’re fine,” Peggy answered. Shelly nodded. She had tears in her eyes but she made a point of smiling at her father.
“Get in the bathroom,” Steve said.
“Let me have a gun,” said Peggy.
Steve shouted out the window, “There are women and children in here!”
The answer came back, “Juden raus! Juden raus! Juden raus!”
Peggy saw the look in her husband’s eyes and stated, “You are not going out there.”
“Yeah, I am, Peg.”
“Don’t you give me any of that a-man’s-gotta-do-what-a-man’s-gotta-do bullshit, Steve.”
Steve crouched beside his wife and stroked her hair. “But sometimes it’s true. Sometimes a man does have to do what a man has to do.”
“Daddy, they’ll kill you!” Shelly cried.
Steve put his arms around them both and hugged them hard, then he got up and started down the stairs.
Neal grabbed him by the front of the shirt.
“Get out of my way, Neal,” Steve said.
“I’m going out with you.”
“This isn’t your fight.”
“I started it.”
Steve shook his head. “They started it. Now, Neal, don’t make me kick your ass before I go out and kick theirs. I might get worn out.”
The chant got louder and wilder. “Juden raus! Juden raus! Juden raus!” The men outside were working themselves into a frenzy of hatred.
“Get out of my way, Neal,” Steve repeated. His voice had the same edge it had had just before he slung that punch at Cal Strekker that night that now seemed years ago. He grabbed Neal’s shoulders and started to push.
Neal tightened his grip on Steve’s shirt. “I’m going with you,” Neal whispered, “but let’s make sure that we get done what we want to get done. You want to trade yourself for Peggy and Shelly. I want Karen, the boy, and my friends. There’s no point in going out there
Neal watched the man think about it for a few seconds.
“All right,” Steve said. “See what you can do.”
They went back downstairs. Neal sidled along the wall to the kitchen window and shouted, “Mr. Hansen! Tell your baboons to shut up for a few seconds! I want to talk!”
There was a pause and the chanting died down.
“What are you doing, Neal?” Ed asked.
“Shut up and reload the guns,” Neal answered.
“What do you want, Carey?” Hansen yelled.
“I want to know what you want!”
A few seconds of silence went by before Hansen answered, “I want that Jew!”
“Which Jew, Hansen? There are three of us in here!”
Ed looked at Neal and raised his eyebrows.
Neal whispered back, “Well, I could be, couldn’t I?”
It took Hansen a minute or so to digest the information, then he shouted, “Which three?”
Neal yelled, “Hansen, I’m not playing these games with you! Here’s the deal: you give the women and the child safe passage out of here! And we have a wounded man—he goes too! When we see them safely gone, we come out!”
“Your wounded! Is he that one-armed man?”
“He is!”
“Is he a Jew too?”
“He’s as Irish as a hangover!”
“Let me think on it a minute!”
“Don’t take too long! It’s my last offer!”
Neal waited and enjoyed the sweet silence. When you’re trying to bargain your life away, he thought, the small pleasures are enough.
Then he heard Hansen yell, “Why do you want the boy?”
“I’m sending him back to his mother!”
“Why is that so damn important?”
“It’s what I came here to do!”
There was a long silence and Neal felt the deal slipping away.
“Hey, Hansen!” Neal yelled. “It’s what Jory wanted! It’s why he took me to the cave!”
One long moment.
“All right!” Hansen yelled. “You have a deal! But know I mean to kill you!”