Uncertain Justice

A third clearing, on a low hill still further west contained four huge, though still air-transportable, fuel bladders; they'd been supplied by the Colorado National Guard. A pumping facility had been set up next to the fuel dump and a flexible pipe run to a station near the choppers. From there, smaller hoses were set up to carry aviation gas to the onboard fuel tanks of a helicopter on the hard stand.

Near where the fuel depot had been established was the battleground where People had fought and defeated the savages invading their land. Overgrown with heavy growths of trees and brush now, the sacred ground would have yielded quantities of strangely fluted arrowheads, spear points, and other debris of battle had the men and women in the encampment chanced to dig there, just a few inches into the rich soil.

Wolf and Bear Clan warriors watched with resurging anger as the new invaders began to spread across their ancient hunting grounds.

§

The camp personnel seemed to number about two hundred, perhaps a little more. That agreed with the figure Linda had gleaned from TV reports and relayed to Miles and Cal.

Heavily armed though they were, the crowd down there would never be confused with professional soldiers. For one thing, there seemed to be an abundant supply of Army style helmets--most of them painted a dull black--but few of the people down there bothered to wear them. Military personnel would have their heads covered when not in a tent.

Secondly, a speech by someone on the reviewing stand was attended by men and women crowding around in a loose herd instead of an organized pattern. The gaggle gained and lost participants on all sides.

That wouldn't have happened in any of the Armed Services Miles knew. Well ... maybe the Air Force, but he doubted even Air Force pukes would drop out of formation like that.

Miles wondered what the discussion was all about. Whatever it was, when it finished the whole group dispersed. Most of them drifted over to the chow hall while Miles thoughtfully made his way back to the top of the mesa and through thick undergrowth to his own campsite.

He still didn't know what he should do in the face of the massive buildup of cops. He could easily walk away in virtually any direction. Even now, there would be no problem avoiding the increasing numbers of searchers, but there were signs the activity was going to increase still more ... and soon.

The window of opportunity to escape without notice was closing fast. If he stayed, the window could slam shut.

Miles wasn't happy about the coming confrontation. He didn't want to run, but the potential for deadly violence was something he had to consider. But ... if he fled, would that solve the problem or just delay the inevitable?

The brothers in all the Clans agreed. An honorable man could do nothing less than fight the intruders. They reminded Miles of the tales he told in the Great Kiva of the warrior called Geronimo who fought until there was no fight left.

He lost eventually, they conceded, but those who defeated him carried the memory of his courage through many generations. There is great honor in resisting evil, counseled the Kachina dancers. They talked through the night, every Brother having his say.

Near dawn, all were in agreement. It would be war.

§

Careful to stay in deep shade so no one below would see sun flashes glancing off his binoculars, Miles watched for a few days more until he figured out the camp routine. Each morning, squads of law enforcement officers loaded into big helicopters that carried the patrols off on different bearings and, presumably, for varying distances.

One or two of the choppers stayed airborne, buzzing around the surrounding mountains in what he supposed were search grids but the rest of the helicopters returned, empty, to the hardstand from where they'd launched. They remained there until the ones in the air got low on fuel and then a couple more would start their engines and depart. The number of rotary winged aircraft varied from day to day but there were generally six of them in the area.

Supplies were brought in by big helicopters in huge pallets slung beneath them and dropped directly into the camp near the three or four tents that seemed to be set aside for the storage of bulk supplies. Through his field glasses, he could see crates of fresh fruit, MREs, and numerous pieces of equipment and gear.

In addition to the helicopter borne officers, groups of heavily armed personnel--three to ten in each--departed the camp each day after sunrise and walked into the forest to the south and east. Once in the woods, they marched through the nearby wilderness in an attempt to find him. Once or twice, a team went northeast and a few patrols pushed deep inside the valley of the People.

The teams on foot and those deployed by chopper were almost invariably home by the time the dinner was served though. No one, it seemed, cared for night operations in the high mountains.

On two occasions, the crews for helicopters left behind suddenly scrambled to ready the aircraft for departure while a response team of a dozen men or so piled in the cargo door. They flew off, wasting little time but much fuel. Miles wondered what they had found ... or thought they'd found.

§

On the fourth night, Miles stole down to the valley floor and slipped inside one of the big supply tents. Here he found everything from dry foods to ammunition. There were a half-dozen of the walkie-talkies he'd seen everyone carrying sitting on several recharging stands just inside the unguarded entrance.

He appropriated one of the fully-charged radios and then filled a pillowcase with fruit and a couple of MRE packets, topping off the collection with a loaf of fresh sliced bread. Soft white bread was one of the things he dearly missed living out here.

Walking out, he almost bumped into a sleepy wanderer making his way back to his tent from the temporary outhouses. They exchanged mumbled greetings and went on their way. In the deep shadows beside one of the Porta-Pottys, Miles turned and watched the other man until he was swallowed by the darkness. The man never looked back. So much for camp security. Miles shrugged and walked into the brush.

Avoiding the helicopter hard stand and the fuel depot, he walked south and then southwest. Near the base of the mesa, he found the trail he'd been looking for and stopped to wait for the moon to rise. The trail leading upward was far too dangerous to negotiate in the darkness but it would put him well west of the area where the searchers were concentrating their efforts. After a couple days rest, he'd circle back around to the north of the camp.

Meanwhile, he intended to enjoy a few slices from the loaf of bread with his smoked venison and maybe even a piece of fruit. The folks below had gone to a lot of trouble to bring all this into the wilderness and it would be insulting to let it go to waste. The bread and fruit tasted wonderful.

§

Any good war demands a proper declaration, so just before dawn two weeks to the day after he left Cal, Miles and a mixed war party of Bear and Wolf Clan brothers ghosted past the camp--from the north this time--and made their way into the woods to the south to cause some mischief.

Miles had decided on a low level incident to announce his presence. The two Wolf brothers trotting by Miles' side laughed silently in the night as they signed to him they should all enjoy a meal in the huge dining tent before they went on. Miles thought that might be pushing it a bit.

No guards challenged them as they passed the mess hall ... or a small tent where a trio of female workers, hired to work in the kitchen, plied a trade not included in the contract they signed.

The Wolf brothers suggested sampling their charms but Miles knew damn well that was over the top. He shushed them, the sound lost in the rising wind. He stepped up the pace.

§

A full mile south of the camp, Miles eased into a dense thicket and waited for full light. From Wolf Clan warriors scouting the woods south of the camp he knew a suitable group of officers was headed his way and would come by soon. He could hear them far away, their voices loud and walkie-talkies blaring.

It was near mid-morning, though, before they passed his hiding place, their equipment jangling as they marched. Miles watched from the deepest brush, but Zeb allowed as how they probably could have walked beside the searchers without being noticed; they paid so little attention to their surroundings. Miles shook his head.

Zeb recollected some early experiences, saying Blackfoot warriors would have had their scalps a long time ago if these tenderfeet had been around in the old days. He lifted his own topknot and pantomimed running his big knife along the circumference, grinning hugely all the while.

Miles nodded, agreeing with the old mountain man in principle, though he didn't care overly much for the vision of a gory scalp that came with the old one's words. Miles carefully moved a few branches aside and stepped onto the path. He trailed after the patrol, careful to walk slowly and not overtake them too soon.

Members of the law enforcement task force, officially or otherwise, had found a pool fed by a fast flowing spring in the first week of clearing land and it had been well patronized ever since. The overflow from the pool meandered eastward through the woods and eventually emptied into the larger stream that went past the camp.

Shortly after noon, Miles closed with the group he'd found. They'd stopped walking, partaken of a leisurely noontime meal, and decided to take a swim in the cool water before returning to camp. Miles kept to deep cover and paused often to listen for other groups that might chance by.

He circled around to approach the pool through thick undergrowth, treading cautiously to avoid twigs and loose leaves. The rustle of dry leaves as he shuffled through them or a branch cracking under his weight would send a clear warning of his presence.

In the small clearing beside the spring he found one man seated on a rock about the size and height of a sofa, his back to the forest, watching six others splashing around in the water. Miles slipped through a screen of young trees and brush to a position immediately behind the boulder.

"Hey, buddy ... move over and give me some room, would ya?" Miles asked the rock sitter conversationally. His soft request was pitched deliberately low--he couldn't have been heard a yard away. Certainly none of the men whooping and calling to each other in the pool heard him. The man sitting and watching his companions swim slid to his right. He stopped, freezing when he realized there shouldn't have been anyone else there to speak to him.

A guilty expression came over his face. One of the many supervisors in the camp had busted them, he thought. He wished the group in the pool wasn't still engrossed in such loud horseplay. When he turned, the guilty look quickly morphed into an expression of surprise and horror. The muzzle of an automatic rifle was aimed at a point directly between his eyes.

"Howdy." The greeting wasn't terribly threatening. Certainly Miles' tone was gentle enough.

Mild voice or not, the man's face turned pale and he stumbled to his feet. The old-style M-16 he'd been holding too loosely slipped away and fell, the barrel making a small splash as it fell into the water. His hands flew high above his head.

The woods were suddenly much quieter. Miles turned his body ninety degrees and stepped back to be able to watch the men in the pool and the lone guard simultaneously. He was in time to watch the last swimmer catch sight of him and wipe water out of his eyes.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Miles addressed the group, his voice deliberately casual. After a moment, it seemed clear there wouldn't be a response--casual or otherwise. They all eyed him intently, neck deep in the pool and treading water. Normally cold, even in the depths of summer, the water was suddenly frigid.

"So ... how's everyone doing today?" Miles asked politely. From his voice, one would have supposed he was seated in one of the trapped men's living room waiting for the dinner to which he'd been invited. There was no answer for a moment; then one of the men cleared his throat. Miles looked at him expectantly.

"You going to let us get out of the water?"

"Sure," Miles replied. "We don't want anyone drowning, now do we?" he asked. He motioned with the rifle to the opposite side of the pool.

"Y'all go on back over there for a little while, okay?" As a senior NCO in the Army, he'd learned the value of phrasing orders politely and he made the question sound like the most reasonable of favors. No one in the pool interpreted it as optional though. They'd been taking orders for as long as Miles had been giving them.

They promptly swam to the other end as best they could and grabbed on to rocks that ringed the pool for support. The most common swimming stroke was a near-frantic dog paddle. No one spoke as they pulled themselves out even though he hadn't cautioned them to keep quiet. They imposed that restriction on themselves. Another movement of the gun muzzle urged the one man who hadn't been in the water to move around the pool. That pale young man stopped a short distance from his fellow officers.

Miles busied himself with gathering all the rifles, pistols, and other gear and dumped them into a pile beside the boulder. He pulled the unlucky sentry's rifle from the pool and held the muzzle down to drain it.

"Okay, gents," he said, pausing to make sure he had everyone's attention. He did. "Everyone gather round your buddy," he ordered, motioning to the officer he'd first surprised.

They all moved toward the designated point beside the pool and shortly everyone was in a single shivering group, huddling as best they could without touching each other. One of the nude men ... slightly shorter and softer around the middle than the others made a small gesture to bring Miles' eyes to him.

"You mind if we get our clothes on?" he asked. "It's kinda chilly out here."

Inclined to let them get dressed, Miles paused to consider. He hadn't had time to check the stacks of boots and uniforms as he gathered up the obvious weapons. Suddenly, he didn't like the idea at all. Anyone who'd ever seen a 'cop show' on TV knew police officers routinely kept a backup weapon somewhere. The decision crystallized and he shook his head.

"Nah, you're alright for now," he said. "In fact, Slick," he said, moving his eyes to address the one man still dressed. "You've got an unfair advantage over the rest of the group, so go ahead, and get out of your uniform ... please."

The man's gray features--he still hadn't recovered from the shock of finding the fugitive sitting beside him--registered new dismay, but he didn't protest. Once he was as naked as the others, Miles had him toss his uniform and boots over to his side of the spring-fed pool. In fact, the man hadn't stashed a hideout weapon anywhere under his uniform but that didn't mean the others hadn't.

The portly peace officer cleared his throat again and Miles looked at him expectantly. He thought he knew what the man was going to say. He sat on the boulder where the squad's lookout had been before and braced himself, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"Listen," the officer--probably the most senior in the group, Miles thought--protested. "We need our clothes. We--look you can't ... " He cut off whatever he had in mind to say when Miles shifted his right forefinger from where it lay along the receiver and repositioned it to gently caress the trigger of the automatic rifle.

"Sure I can," Miles remarked softly. He didn't bother to threaten the group more directly. There was quiet, except for the sound of the forest's inhabitants going about their business, while Miles and his captives studied each other for a moment.

"So ... what are you guys doing here?" Miles asked. He looked expectantly at the men, waiting for an answer. No one spoke. Miles frowned and motioned with his hand, forgetting it held the rifle.

"Guys, let me explain how a conversation works. You see, first I say something ... then you say something. I'll say a few words, then you say some. Got it? It's really very easy." He looked at the group across the water and began again.

"So ... let's start over. Why are you guys up here in the mountains?" The men looked at each other. The one who'd spoken before licked his lips and tried again.

"You're Underwood?" he asked.

Miles nodded.

"We're looking for you," continued the speaker. The men stood still, hardly daring to breath. Miles arched his eyebrows in simulated surprise.

"Well by golly, you found me!" exclaimed Miles. A small smile made his lips twitch.

"So ... why were you looking for me?" he asked simply.

"Why?" The man was confused.

"Yeah, why are you looking for me? What'd I ever do to you?"

"You're wanted on a bunch of federal warrants." The apparent leader's voice was strained as he forced out his response. "Assault with a deadly weapon, armed robbery, kidnapping ... unlawful flight to avoid prosecution ... I don't remember all of them."

He was one of those who needed his hands to talk. When he finished ticking off each charge on his finger tips as he spoke, both hands darted back down to cover his genitals again.

"Uh huh ... how much of that is true?" Miles asked.

"What?" It seemed the officers were having serious problems following what Miles thought was a simple idea. He tried a different tact.

"How do you know any of those charges are true? You weren't around when any of that supposedly happened, were you?"

"Look, man...." replied the spokesman. He was a little exasperated with the turn the conversation had taken. "There are warrants out for your arrest. We're just following orders."

"Well, that certainly is reassuring," remarked Miles. He smiled grimly. "You know what? 'Following orders' is exactly what every one of Hitler's generals said they'd been doing when they were tried after the Second World War. Are you absolutely certain you want to hang your hat on just following orders?"

There was no answer. None of the federal cops appeared to have an opinion.

"Mister...." replied the supervisor finally, "we don't care what the charges are. It doesn't matter who initiated them, either. You've been accused of a whole bunch of things and we have to take you in. It's our jobs--nothing personal." That seemed to settle things in their minds.

"Oh ... you don't care, that's it huh?" All the captives tensed at the bleak expression spreading over Miles' face.

"I tell ya what ... gentlemen," he ground out. "You need to start caring right here and now," he continued. "I'm putting you and everyone else on notice ... I'm tired of running from something I didn't do and I'm tired of people messing with me, period." He glared impartially at each man in the small group.

Two were fascinated by the flashes of sunlight from a beautiful bluish-green stone strung around the fugitive's neck. The tips of two long fangs from some monstrous animal barely touched beneath the device.

Two hunters who took their vacations when big game seasons began wondered how Underwood had come by the claws. Animals big enough to grow such weapons were rare ... and they didn't give them up willingly. They looked at Miles thoughtfully.

"And you're wrong," Miles added. "This is damn personal to me. He got to his feet slowly. "Okay ... I'm gonna lay it on the line for ya. You folks let your boss and everyone else know." His voice was low and harsh. All of their eyes were riveted on his face.

"Leave. Get out of here. Get out of the mountains!" Miles said emphatically. "Get on your helicopters and fly away ... and don't come back. You do that and I won't bother you. If you don't, if you stay and try to push me, I ... will ... push ... back ... real hard. You hear me?" Miles glared at the group for another long moment. He shook his head.