Indians thrashing both of them until they pleaded with him to stop.
He climbed up the steps of Crawford's porch and made his way into the cabin.
"Are you Daniel Bradford?" Ashby asked.
"Yeah."
Ashby extended his hand and introduced himself.
Bradford moved to the range and poured himself a cup of coffee, then walked around the room like an animal in search of a resting place. He perched on the edge of Crawford's camp bed.
"There's some chili beans, Dan, if you're hungry," Crawford said.
"I've eaten."
"Well, I'll leave you two and make my rounds."
Bradford was tall and muscular, and his face was a mahogany hue from the years of sun. His blue eyes were washed out, and they had a certain evasiveness that Ashby had encountered in fugitive drifters. He had a broad nose, and his skin was drawn tight as a drum. He wore his dark brown hair shoulder length, and it was highlighted by blond sunstreaks. He looked like a half-breed.
He stared at Ashby, unnerving him.
"What are you, a narc?"
"No, a newspaper editor. I've had a hell of a time finding you."
"Maybe you shouldn't have bothered. If you want to know what happened to those two FBI men, you could've saved yourself a trip. I've got nothing to say. In any case, you guys never write the truth."
Ashby smiled; he had Bradford at a disadvantage. He settled down at the table and poured himself a drink.
"I don't give a damn about the FBI," Ashby informed him.
Bradford seemed skeptical. "Really?"
"That's right. I don't know what the circumstances were that caused your trouble, but I wouldn't believe either side. If you killed them, that's your business."
Ashby detected surprise behind Bradford's stolid expression. He always studied a man's eyes, never his face.
"Fair enough," Bradford replied.
"The fact is, the two people I've spoken to about you warned me I was going to meet some kind of psychopath."
"Well, Crawford's a pisspot of booze. He's scared shitless of his own shadow, and he'll say anything."
Ashby drank slowly, letting Bradford wait. It was good to be away from Sierra as a working reporter using his wits to squeeze a story out of a man.
"George Ravel was sober when I spoke to him."
He dropped the name casually, but he was fully aware of the impact it would make. The key to Bradford was to keep him off balance. Bradford came toward him, lifted him off the chair, and shoved him against the wall.
"I'm not here to fight you," Ashby said.
"Then what the hell do you want?"
"I want to use you," he admitted.
Bradford let go of him and circled the room. Ashby observed the mood swing. Bradford now appeared subdued and confused.
"Ravel?" He shook his head uncomprehendingly. "Why? I hope you're not trying to dig up bodies from the past."
"Andrew said to send his regards. He still believes in you."
"Mr. Ashby," Bradford said in a low, quivering voice, "don't look to cut my belly open."
"I've got a problem—"
"Don't we all."
"You're the only living expert—"
"I've been through this before," Bradlord protested.
"Look, let's work together. We both need each other," Ashby began. "I haven't taken the trouble to locate you just to rake up a ten-year-old story. I've brought some photographs I want you to look at . . . but first I'd like to know one thing. Would it be possible for the Snowman to have left the Himalayas?"
Bradford stared vacantly through him.
" Sogpa . . . Sogpa . . . Sogpa. "
"What are you saying?"
"The lamas called him Satan."
"Mr. Bradford, a girl was killed in Sierra. She was on a ski lift. When we discovered her remains, no one knew what to make of them. The coroner took the safe way out and ruled the death misadventure. Frankly, I wasn't satisfied. So I went through my files. I'd run an old story on you from the wire service in which you described the Snowman. Well, the similarities between your account and what I saw on the mountain were so close that I had to track you down."
He handed Bradford the photos of Janice's head with the
He climbed up the steps of Crawford's porch and made his way into the cabin.
"Are you Daniel Bradford?" Ashby asked.
"Yeah."
Ashby extended his hand and introduced himself.
Bradford moved to the range and poured himself a cup of coffee, then walked around the room like an animal in search of a resting place. He perched on the edge of Crawford's camp bed.
"There's some chili beans, Dan, if you're hungry," Crawford said.
"I've eaten."
"Well, I'll leave you two and make my rounds."
Bradford was tall and muscular, and his face was a mahogany hue from the years of sun. His blue eyes were washed out, and they had a certain evasiveness that Ashby had encountered in fugitive drifters. He had a broad nose, and his skin was drawn tight as a drum. He wore his dark brown hair shoulder length, and it was highlighted by blond sunstreaks. He looked like a half-breed.
He stared at Ashby, unnerving him.
"What are you, a narc?"
"No, a newspaper editor. I've had a hell of a time finding you."
"Maybe you shouldn't have bothered. If you want to know what happened to those two FBI men, you could've saved yourself a trip. I've got nothing to say. In any case, you guys never write the truth."
Ashby smiled; he had Bradford at a disadvantage. He settled down at the table and poured himself a drink.
"I don't give a damn about the FBI," Ashby informed him.
Bradford seemed skeptical. "Really?"
"That's right. I don't know what the circumstances were that caused your trouble, but I wouldn't believe either side. If you killed them, that's your business."
Ashby detected surprise behind Bradford's stolid expression. He always studied a man's eyes, never his face.
"Fair enough," Bradford replied.
"The fact is, the two people I've spoken to about you warned me I was going to meet some kind of psychopath."
"Well, Crawford's a pisspot of booze. He's scared shitless of his own shadow, and he'll say anything."
Ashby drank slowly, letting Bradford wait. It was good to be away from Sierra as a working reporter using his wits to squeeze a story out of a man.
"George Ravel was sober when I spoke to him."
He dropped the name casually, but he was fully aware of the impact it would make. The key to Bradford was to keep him off balance. Bradford came toward him, lifted him off the chair, and shoved him against the wall.
"I'm not here to fight you," Ashby said.
"Then what the hell do you want?"
"I want to use you," he admitted.
Bradford let go of him and circled the room. Ashby observed the mood swing. Bradford now appeared subdued and confused.
"Ravel?" He shook his head uncomprehendingly. "Why? I hope you're not trying to dig up bodies from the past."
"Andrew said to send his regards. He still believes in you."
"Mr. Ashby," Bradford said in a low, quivering voice, "don't look to cut my belly open."
"I've got a problem—"
"Don't we all."
"You're the only living expert—"
"I've been through this before," Bradlord protested.
"Look, let's work together. We both need each other," Ashby began. "I haven't taken the trouble to locate you just to rake up a ten-year-old story. I've brought some photographs I want you to look at . . . but first I'd like to know one thing. Would it be possible for the Snowman to have left the Himalayas?"
Bradford stared vacantly through him.
" Sogpa . . . Sogpa . . . Sogpa. "
"What are you saying?"
"The lamas called him Satan."
"Mr. Bradford, a girl was killed in Sierra. She was on a ski lift. When we discovered her remains, no one knew what to make of them. The coroner took the safe way out and ruled the death misadventure. Frankly, I wasn't satisfied. So I went through my files. I'd run an old story on you from the wire service in which you described the Snowman. Well, the similarities between your account and what I saw on the mountain were so close that I had to track you down."
He handed Bradford the photos of Janice's head with the
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