188 War Paint by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

IT TOOK MORE THAN twenty minutes to reach the burial site, and Bolan was conscious of the amount of time that had elapsed. Two Elks hadn't been able to pin down the precise time Detheridge's wrecking crew had taken off for the funeral, but the warrior was certain he'd been able to cut down some of the ten-minute lead. The Chevy handled extremely well even navigating the rough roads.

"You never did say how you happened to get an invite to the res," Two Elks commented.

"No." Bolan pulled hard on the wheel. The back end of the car slipped through a muddy turn. The rain continued to fall, and the skies remained dark.

"So, who?"

"For publication?"

Two Elks grinned. "Word's going to get out soon anyway."

"Not from me."

"No man is an island."

"Detheridge seems to think he is."

"Comes close."

Bolan tapped the brakes lightly as a doe leapt across the narrow road.

"I could point you in a lot of the right directions while you're here. Without me, you wouldn't know about this funeral."

"Without me you'd still be kicking the tires of that Falcon."

"True."

Following Two Elks's pointing finger, the warrior swerved and took a seldom-traveled road that was more path than thoroughfare. The SuperSport jerked and bounced but held true.

Two Elks pulled his seat belt tighter. "Okay. Nothing hits my paper about you."

"I'm here because Terrence Eagle Claw went to bat for me."

The reporter looked impressed. "Eagle Claw. Now there's a name that conjures a lot of power on the res. Maybe even as much as Virgil Detheridge. Why did Eagle Claw ask you here?"

Bolan glanced at Two Elks. "Because he thinks I write like Ernest Hemingway."

"Right." Two Elks pointed again. "Up there."

The trail twisted at the base of climbing mountains, then veered upward. Bolan geared down and began the ascent. The going was treacherous, and he thought for a time that he wasn't going to make it without four-wheel-drive.

Abruptly the crest of the mountain was within view, revealed in snatches as the wipers labored to sweep the heavy rain away. A handful of cars was parked at one end, while the funeral group was gathered at the other. Four men stood outside the Suburban parked only yards from the grave site.

"Those are Detheridge's men," Two Elks said as he focused his camera.

One of the men standing with the funeral attendees made a break and ran for the parked vehicles. Detheridge's men pulled out weapons. A gunshot slammed across the mountaintop, echoing in waves. The runner was slapped sideways as if a giant hand had hit him. A couple of the women in the group screamed, and the line of men surged forward. One of the men held the others back.

"That's Jesse Ironeyes," Two Elks said. "Red Wolf was his grandfather." He snapped off a couple frames with the camera. "Shit! They've seen us."

Already aware of the shift of interest, Bolan clutched, slapped the gearstick and punched the accelerator to the floorboard. The engine growled, and the wide tires dug into the loose mud. Cutting the

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