The door to the owners’ cabin burst open and Katy, carrying a waterproof bag, leaped across the porch to dash through the drizzle. Ignoring the rain, she grinned widely. “You guys won’t believe what happened.”
“From the way you’re smiling, I’d say you found your money,” Virgil said.
“Nope.” She was shaking her head. “Phillip’s dad came down here.”
That didn’t sound like good news.
She went on, “He said Phillip called from the bus station and said he was going to Minneapolis and wasn’t coming back. He told his dad he’d taken the money for a bus ticket but felt bad about it. And then Bart Weeks told my dad he didn’t want any trouble, and he wanted to pay it back.” Her grin widened and she blinked against the rain, oblivious to the fact that she was getting wet. “So he did, every penny of it. In cash.”
Virgil said, “That’s a little hard to believe.”
Johnson spread his arms and said, “Hard to believe, but we’ll take it. We’re gold.”
Katy said, “Yes, we are. I want to thank you guys for what you did. Thank you so much.”
Then she looked directly at Johnson.
“I’m sorry I said you look like a crook.”
• • •
THE NEXT DAY WAS COOL, the sky still tinged with darkness, the remaining clouds occasionally spitting some drizzle, but they could see stars far to the west, the cloud cover breaking up as night surrendered to dawn. Virgil and Johnson got their gear together and pulled on rain jackets, then took the insulated bag from Ann Waller who had made sandwiches and filled a thermos with coffee for them.
“An extra thanks for helping with Katy,” she explained. “It’s a big deal to her. To us.”
They were on their way to the Escalade for the trip to the river when Dan Cain stepped out on the porch of his cabin with a cup of coffee in his hand and called after them, “Good luck. Leave a couple fish for us.”
Johnson stopped, turned, and asked, “You coming?”
Cain shook his head. “Not yet. That fuckin’ Lang had one too many last night. He’s just getting up now. We’ll be a half hour behind you.”
• • •
The river was shallow and quick, with occasional pools, and it was gorgeous, with the stone-cut bank on the far side looking like a piece of petrified wood rising a hundred feet above them, the dawn coming, sunlight glinting on water. As dawn gave way to daylight Virgil spent almost as much time looking at the landscape as he did fishing, and the fishing was decent. A little after eight o’clock they stopped to sit on a rock and eat the egg-salad sandwiches that Ann Waller had made them for breakfast, when they heard a pop from upstream.
The report of a rifle echoed over the water.
They both stared downriver and waited.
No second shot.
Nothing to disturb the silence but the lapping of the water and the cry of a blackbird, its red wing visible in the brush on the shore.
“That was a rifle, a center fire,” Johnson said with a frown. “What the hell was he shootin’ at?”
Virgil didn’t know, and he had no idea what was in season for a hunter here in Montana. “If that was target shooting, the shooter was easily satisfied.”
“I don’t like the idea of people shooting around in heavy brush when there are lots of folks out on the river, fishing,” Johnson said. “It gives me an itchy feeling between my shoulder blades. Like we oughta be wearing our blaze orange.”
They finished their sandwiches as the sun rose over the eastern horizon, then climbed back into the boat and went down the river. Fishing. Catching nothing for half an hour.
And then a man started screaming.
“Virgil Flowers. Where the hell are you?”
The voice sounded frantic, scared as hell.
They both looked back upstream, trying to pinpoint its location.