Chuck ejected the spent cartridge and kicked it viciously in a spinning arc. He was beginning to suspect that he and his brother-in-law had chosen just about the worst part of Nevada for their hunting trip. Too damn dry and bleak. That pathetic damp patch that was the so-called White River wouldn't bring the game down from the hills. They should have tried farther north, up near Sacramento Pass, near the old copper mines. That entire area, he recalled, was riddled with old shafts and worn-out workings. In fact Cooper Pit was supposed to be one of the deepest glory holes in the country, though it hadn't been worked these past twenty-five years.
"That's the first buck we've seen all day," Chuck complained. He tightened his jaw, arched slightly, and forced a dry fart. He slid the large-bore hunting rifle into its sheath, dropped into the passenger seat, and reached behind into the insulated box and pulled out a can of Schlitz. "Want one?" He tossed the can to Steve and got another for himself.
Steve Fazioli tipped his head back and let the cold amber liquid gurgle into his mouth. Drops sparkled on his black moustache. "What else can you expect? People from two hundred miles away, even from Utah, are scouring the area for fresh meat. In a coupla years there won't be a fucking gopher left, never mind anything big enough to shoot at."
Chuck wedged the can of beer between his knees and wiped the dust from his visor with his neckerchief. "Let's get rolling, for Christ's sake!"
Three miles on they came to another trail, wider than the one they were on and well-used by the look of it, leading steeply up to the right in the general direction of Mount Grafton, whose highest point was about seven miles away.
Chuck studied the deep rutted tracks in the compacted soil and frowned at Steve. "We're not on military property, are we?" he asked, scratching a damp armpit.
Steve shrugged. "I didn't see nothing posted. No fences or nothing. The Nellis Air Force Missile Range is a good thirty miles from here and that's the only government property I know of in this part of the state."
"Well, something sure as hell's been here, and something big. Trucks, maybe, judging by those tracks."
"Which way?"
Chuck jerked his thumb toward the mountain and Steve rammed into first gear. The ride was rough, the trail considerably steeper than they had expected, winding upward in a series of perilous S bends. They passed overgrown trails disappearing into shadowy gullies, with indications here and there that they led to disused mine workings. Broken pieces of bleached timber were scattered about and spoked iron wheels embedded in the ocher soil. There were fragments of pickaxes and shovels, their metal parts crumbling to rust.
After twenty minutes of hard climbing the jeep rounded a bend between two massive shoulders of rock. Chuck cursed. The trail leveled out onto a small enclosed plateau of baked red earth. It led nowhere. Dead end.
Steve swung the jeep around to face the way they had come and switched off the engine. The two men looked about them at the jumble of boulders and near-vertical walls hemming them in. Some of the boulders had dark scorch marks on them, and--even more perplexing --there were piles of smaller rocks and gray shale that had the appearance of being recently excavated. Yet there was no entrance to a mine that they could see: The trail up the mountain ended nowhere.
"This is screwy," Steve said, shaking his head as he gazed around. "There ain't even a hiking trail leading out of here."
"Hey, wait a minute now." Chuck's forehead was creased in concentration. "Yeah, that's it. It's a dump--right? They use this place to dump rocks and stuff."
"Oh, sure," Steve said caustically. He didn't regard his wife's brother as the greatest intellect since Einstein. "They move tons of rock up the mountain. They dig it out down
"So you tell me what the fuck does," Chuck said, flushing.
"How the hell do I know?"
"You think you're pretty smart, but that's it--you
"Do you?"
"Least I came up with an idea."
"A pretty dumb one--" Steve replied and was about to say more when he decided against it. The hunting trip hadn't been all that terrific and he didn't want to wreck it completely by getting personal.
Chuck screwed around in his seat and got himself another can of beer; he didn't offer to get Steve one. His face had gone sullen. Steve was staring at the ground, trying to figure out where the tracks went to. Funny thing was, they didn't go anywhere--just disappeared. He mulled this over for several moments and then cocked his head. "Listen to that wind."
"What?" Chuck said, wiping his mouth.
"The wind. Can't you hear it?"
