White Peak

White Peak

  By Darrel Bird

  Copy©right 2015 by Darrel Bird

  Gordon Masterson stared though the windshield at the road ahead wishing he had gotten a motel at the last town, as the towns were getting fewer and far between on the great plains of America. Actually there were as many mountains as plains in Wyoming. There was snow on the skirts of the mountains that resembled a woman wearing a white dress with a black bottom.

  “Quit slobbering out the window Satch, its blowing back in the car.”

  Satch was his eighty five pound yellow lab with an extra long set of ears. When he heard his name he pulled his head back inside the car with a skein of slobber that trailed back along his ear and his neck.

  “Do you know you have a big problem?”

  The dog looked askance at him, maybe thinking it was getting along past dinner. It had been a long trip from Chicago and they still had many miles to go. Gordon drove thinking about why and where he was going. He had been with the Chicago division of the FBI for the last twenty years. The ‘company’ had called him in off a kidnapping case, and announced he was being sent to White Peak Montana.

  His boss, and head of the Chicago division, was a block headed looking fellow that would make a mother cry the day he was born. He wore small round glasses that made it look like someone had sling shotted a couple glass eyes at him.

  “Masterson, the Washington division has been sifting through personal files looking for someone just like you, and they found you, you are American Indian ain’t you? You changed your name before you went to work for us didn’t you? Well good then, you are being sent to Montana.”

  “How did they know I changed my name?”

  “Masterson, or Longtree, or whatever the hell your name is…don’t you know by now the FBI knows every damn thing there is to know about you?”

  “I changed it before I left the Res, that’s a sovereign nation.”

  “Don’t give me that bat shit Masterson, that’s the United States, hell we even own Canada, even if the Canooks don’t know it.”

  “Why do they want me to go out there? I haven’t been back in twenty years, I wouldn’t know the difference between and Indian and an Afghani.”

  “Theres some crap being stirred up between the Indians, and the whites over some Casino land, even been a couple murders. They want you to go out there and straighten this crap out, now go before I change my mind, and send you to Pokehole Alaska!”

  “There isn’t any PokeHole Alaska.”

  “Exactly, don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out Longpine.”

  Gordon left quickly, mainly because he couldn’t abide men like Rupert who didn’t know what polite language was, and used his fowl mouth to try and intimidate his employees. He resented being sent to some backwoods assignment most of all, but he had to admit it wasn’t Ruperts fault, in fact it wasn’t the computer analysts fault either. It was just the luck of the draw on some computer back in D.C. or maybe it was fate. When he left the poverty of the reservation twenty five years ago, he swore to the stars in heaven he would never go back.

  He saw a sign ahead that announced, ‘Wind River-Two Miles’ and sighed a breathe of relief, and the possibility he wouldn’t wrap the car around a telephone pole, at least tonight.

  He stopped at the very first motel he could find, and got a room. He threw his suitcase on the short bed, and realized he might not have a king sized bed to sleep in for many months to come. He was an inch shy of six feet, and his feet hung over the end of any bed that was under king sized.

  After he showered he spread the reams of paper work the office had given him. Satch had already claimed a pillow on the bed, “Get down off here Satch!”

  The dog looked at him, and went back to sleep. He spread the papers and photos around the dog. He stared at the photos of two people, two men. Each of their throats had been slashed, and their white faces stared up from the paper, their eyes staring off into eternity. He wondered what they saw after the thin line was cut between this life, and the next. Why do I always wonder that when there is no way of knowing?

  The next day the roads began to rise into the mountains like the back of a pissed off cat, and Gordon stopped on the long grade into White Peak just to enjoy the view as Satch peed on a wheel of the car. It was a breathtaking view of a small town set against a backdrop of rugged mountains, and plains country. The sun was just setting; throwing golden shafts of light which made the buildings seem to glow from that distance. His mind automatically formed a map of the town, and the country immediately surrounding it.

  As he drove into the town, he noted what was probably the only local watering hole, a bar with a sign that read, ‘White Peak Bar and Grill’. He stopped in front of the court house that also housed the sheriffs’ office.

  He opened the door of the car, “Wait here Satch.” Satch didn’t seem to care for being left in the car very much, and gave him a hurt look, but he didn’t want to piss off the local sheriff the first thing. He walked down the hall and opened the door of the sheriffs’ office. A deputy saw him, and came to the tall desk, “I’m Gordon Masterson, I believe the sheriff is expecting me?”

  “You can wait in his office Mr. Masterson; he just went across the street for a cup. Welcome to White Peak.”

  The deputy led the way back into the wood paneled rooms into a room that looked right out of a western movie. There were heads of mounted game hanging on the walls, and an old Winchester hung over the back of the large dark oak desk. He took one of the two oak chairs that sat in front of the desk, and sat down. Five minutes later the sheriff walked though the door with a paper cup in his hand.

  “No need to get up Mr. Masterson.” The sheriff walked over and stuck out his huge paw, “I’m Bob Slater, the FBI office said you would be here today.”

  “Yes, I e-mailed them this morning of my whereabouts.”

  “I half expected a guy in a black suit in sun glasses driving a black Escalade.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Well, the town doesn’t need any more excitement, is that your dog in the old Buick out there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you could have brought him in; we don’t mind dogs around here. There is a storage room that has a desk. I’ll have Alice store the old files somewhere else when she comes in tomorrow. Do you think you will be here long?”

  “I hope not, I would like to get back to Chicago.”

  “You’re Indian aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I left the Reservation about twenty five years ago. I went to school at Harvard before joining the FBI.”

  “Most Indians around here don’t make it off the Res.”

  “My Indian blood is why they sent me sheriff, now that you have the skinny on me, I would like to find a motel.”

  “It’s the ElkHorn motel just at the far end of town. It’s clean; I hope you enjoy your stay Mr. Masterson.” Slater lifted his massive frame off the chair, and reached across the desk to shake hands.

  “Call me Gordon. Do you think you can show me the murder scenes in the morning?”

  “Gordon it is then. We’ll ride out there first thing.”

  When Gordon exited the office the deputy was snoozing in a chair behind the tall front desk of the sheriffs’ office. Back at the car Satch greeted him with an overly amount of tail wagging, “Sorry partner, the sheriff said you could come in next time.”

  The dog was already staring out the windshield, the incident of his being left in the car forgotten, “That’s what I like about you Satch, you don’t hold a grudge.”

  The Elk Horn motel had ten rooms with only one car parked in front. The room was clean as the sheriff had told him. Satch jumped up on the bed as soon as he unlocked the door, “You know if I ever have a g
irlfriend that’s not going to work don’t you?”

  The dog looked at him and whined, waiting for him to put his briefcase on the bed to claim their territory. He opened the brief case and spread the papers, and photos out on the bed. The photos of the murdered people stared up at him with their tales of the cruelty of their fellow man. Many times, after he went to sleep, his unfettered mind gave him feedback on a case he was following, but this night he dreamed of plains Buffalos, camp fires, and Tee Pee’s. Horses of different colors galloped across the clouds with mounted warriors riding them. The strange dreams left him tired, and troubled the following morning.

  The little coffee shop was a pleasant surprise as it