Free Snowman by Norman Bogner Page A

." he began, then trailed off. The phone rang, and Ashby signaled Bradford not to pick it up for a few moments. On the fifth ring, Bradford picked up the receiver.
    "Yes, this is Daniel Bradford. Who's this? Okay, Mr. Wright. I'll meet them at Eagle Mountain. It's about five hours from Los Angeles. No, he won't make any calls tonight."
    Ashby's laughter was roisterous and infectious.
    "Scared him shitless," he said. "I should've asked for half a million."

Chapter Eight
    Cathy and Monte took turns driving on the miserable trip through the California desert. They always kept sight of the armored Wells Fargo truck accompanying them. Guards had come to the GND office that morning, and Wright had handed over the money without a word. While the guards waited outside, checking their route, Wright had cautioned them both.
    "This money doesn't exist, is that clear?" They nodded. "It's bad enough Ashby's got us on the run. But if he finds out about our emergency fund, we'll have more trouble than Lockheed ever had. I don't know if this is some kind of elaborate scam and if Bradford's his partner or if they're seriously considering going up the mountain. I hope for Ashby's sake he's not taking us for a ride, Monte. And I want you to make it very clear to him that if he's playing games, we'll get our money back."
    It was early afternoon when the dusty, mud-spattered Seville and the Fargo truck pulled into the ghostlike main street. Eagle Mountain was a little rathole lodged in the middle of the desert. Although the town was on the Colorado River, it was nothing more than a mud bed.
    They passed a clapboard general store with a wooden porch on which food lay exposed on metal trays. Squadrons of large desert horseflies flew sorties over the food, but the Mexican tending the scales and the Indian women on line stoically ignored the sunbaked brownish beef spoiling before their eyes. A bit farther along, at a two-pump gas station, a grease-stained Indian mechanic sweated over a primitive rusted pickup engine. Beside the station was a hardware store with a battered sign advertising Remington guns.
    The truck slowed down and one of the guards peeked out of a slit at an adobe building with a grimy storefront window on which a shaky signprinter had scrawled "RESERVATION BANK." In front of the bank, Bradford stood waiting. A guitar case was at his feet.
    "What the hell are they going to do with a quarter of a million in this garbage dump?" one of the guards asked.
    "Maybe the Indians struck oil," the driver replied, parking in front of the bank.
    The rear doors were opened and the guards with their M-15's resting in the crooks of their arms waited for the driver to bring out the steel cashbox. He walked between the guards toward the bank.
    Bradford watched them and smiled slyly, disconcerting the guards.
    "You got nothing better to do, mister?" he was asked.
    "I'm just waiting around to make sure the count's right," he said.
    Ashby stood by the bank door, gullies of sweat pouring from his cheeks and gathering on the limp collar of his shirt. "Where'd you go, by way of Mexico?" he growled at the Fargo guards.
    "We ran out of freeway fifty miles back," the driver replied sourly.
    The heat was oppressive and burned Cathy's nostrils when she stepped out of the air-conditioned car. The glare hurt her eyes, and she put on her sunglasses. Ashby gave her a friendly wave.
    "Jim," she said angrily, "I never expected you to pull this kind of stunt. Why didn't you tell me what you were going to do?"
    "Cathy, you're bright and pretty, but you're an employee. You didn't have the authority to come up with the money."
    "Are you serious about going up the mountain?" Monte asked him.
    "Not me. But Mr. Bradford and a team he'll recruit are going to find out how Janice was killed."
    Cathy looked at Bradford. He had a serenity about him that was unnerving and, she thought, somewhat patronizing. He was nothing more than an itinerant cowboy, one of those white Indians