AMBUSH: NOT FORGOTTEN NOT FORGIVEN

By Robert J Rosenbaum

Automatic rifle fire quashed the holiday mood at the Hazel Lake Estates Volunteer Fire Department's Annual picnic and fund raiser, leaving three dead and numerous wounded - including the community's developer.

C.W. Blankenship of the Colorado Bureau of I

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Jun 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9781684867646

Robert J Rosenbaum

Bob Rosenbaum lives in Colorado's Uncompahgre Valley where he divided his time between writing novels set in a fictionalized version of the Western Slope, hiking, camping, and splitting firewood.

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Ambush

Copyright © 2024 by Robert J. Rosenbaum. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024908685

ISBN 978-1-68486-762-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68486-764-6 (Digital)

19.04.24

For

Sophie and Leo, Laura Louise and Joe

and

In Memory of

Jim

Credits Cover: Dino Farnese, www.dinofarnese.com

Author’s Photo: Laura Louise Kelley

Author’s website: robertjrosenbaum.com

Contents

Ch. 1

Ch. 2

Ch. 3

Ch. 4

Ch. 5

Ch. 6

Ch. 7

Ch. 8

Ch. 9

Ch. 10

Ch. 11

Ch. 12

Ch. 13

Ch. 14

Ch. 15

Ch. 16

Ch. 17

Ch. 18

Ch. 19

Ch. 20

Ch. 21

Ch. 22

Ch. 23

Ch. 24

Ch. 25

Ch. 26

Ch. 27

Ch. 28

Ch. 29

Ch. 30

Ch. 31

Ch. 32

Ch. 33

Ch. 34

Ch. 35

Ch. 36

Ch. 37

Ch. 38

Ch. 39

Ch. 40

Ch. 41

Ch. 42

Ch. 43

Ch. 44

Ch. 45

Ch. 46

Ch. 47

Ch. 48

Ch. 49

Ch. 50

Ch. 51

Ch. 52

Ch. 53

Ch. 54

Ch. 1

The rising sun cleared the ridge and hit C. W. Blakenship, consultant to the Colorado Bureau of Investigation and former Sheriff of Sapinero County, full in his right eye. He blinked and brought the wall with its two offending windows into focus. Not his bedroom wall. Rolling to his back and reaching absently with his right hand he felt the comforting mound of sheet and blanket over Jessie’s rear end.

Now he remembered. They were in a room at the Hazel Lake Inn, brought there at the invitation of the Hazel Lake Estates’ security patrol to enjoy a few days in the high country without a crime to solve – and without snow to slog through. The occasion was the volunteer fire department’s biggest fund raiser of the year – a mid-summer picnic and raffle held annually on the Saturday closest to the Fourth of July. The Home Owner’s Association was paying for the room and had asked in return that he serve as MC of the raffle drawing.

He’d agreed almost immediately. The temperature in the valley had been consistently in the nineties and Jessie was even more eager for a break than he was. A significant chunk of the previous winter had been spent coordinating the sheriff’s departments of three counties --plus state police and federal agents – hunting a gang of arms dealers who’d chosen to stash their contraband in the San Juan Mountains. Though ultimately successful, the operation had been a cold and bloody exercise.

A couple of cool, sunny summer days in the high country would be a welcome change. Maybe tomorrow they could go by the site of his father’s now defunct sawmill where he’d spent the better part of his youth trying to keep sawdust out of his eyes, ears and nose – at least that’s what he remembered from the august pinnacle of his fifty years on the planet.

You just going to lie there or do you have something else in mind?

Unbidden, his hand moved from Jessie’s firm bottom up her back in a sensuous curve from her back toward the nipple of her left breast. She rolled to meet him.

Post-coital languor followed by separate showers kept them from the Inn’s dining room until almost nine. Jonas Jones and Ben Albright, the co-directors of the community’s security patrol, beckoned from a corner booth set for six. Blakenship assumed the two women between them were their wives.

Morning Jessie. You too C.W. You remember everybody from the winter, right, Jones indicating the others with a sweep of his arm? We’ve ordered because Doris and Ann have to get over to the picnic grounds for various reasons I’m not smart enough to understand. No hurry for you though. Raffle drawing doesn’t start until one-thirty or two. Of course, they will start serving BBQ at 11:30 or so.

Good, said Jessie. We don’t feel like hurrying for anything. I’ll take the booth, you take the chair, she instructed Blakenship, and slid in next to Albright.

Blakenship had barely negotiated his not insubstantial posterior past the wooden arms of his chair when George Benson, the Inn’s proprietor appeared at his shoulder with a pot of coffee in one hand and two mugs in the other. Happy Fourth of July, you two.

It’s the second, Jessie corrected.

Close enough for Hazel Lake. Cream and sugar are on the table and here’s Jordan with your menus. He turned to greet two parties of probable picnic goers coming through the door as Jordan, a pretty girl who looked like a television casting director’s idea of a college cheerleader, handed menus to the new arrivals. I’ll be back.

Don’t suppose they have cinnamon rolls, Blakenship mock complained as he scanned the breakfast possibilities.

Damn, C.W. You’re on vacation. Try something different. Besides, I don’t fix you cinnamon rolls.

Blakenship smiled at his wife, although what the smile meant only they could say. You’re right. I’ll have the biscuits and coal miner gravy.

Sure that’ll hold you until 11:30?

Jordan arrived bearing a tray with breakfast for the others before he could answer. Jessie patted his arm in what might have been an apology before turning to the others. How many people you figure will be at the picnic?

Hard to say, Albright answered. Most of the residents for sure, which will put it well over 200. How many from off the mountain is anybody’s guess.

This a busy day for security?

Of course. But it’s busy for the fire department, too. And for the auxiliary folks, he added with a nod to his wife. The patrol deals with parking mainly. Along with our usual rounds. He speared a link sausage, bit off half leaving the remainder impaled at the ready on the fork and chewed. Worth it, though. Fire equipment is expensive.

Thought that was you, Mr. Blakenship. The woman’s voice was accompanied by a gentle pat on his shoulder. He turned to see a smiling face framed by blondish hair.

Crystal. He rose to give her a hug. I didn’t realize your hair was blonde, what with the snowmobile helmet and all. Not to mention bandages.

Dirty blonde, she corrected. And it’s pretty much grown back.

The past winter Crystal, a member of the security patrol, had been clobbered by a man robbing a cabin whose owners were away for a week. The man had used a substantial piece of Douglas fir, cut and split to stove length, resulting in a hairline fracture. Blakenship had always assumed the would-be robber was part of the gang they were after. If so, he was most likely dead.

You look fine. I trust you’re keeping these two in line.

I try. It’s not easy, but I try. She offered her hand to Jessie. It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Blakenship. I never got the chance when you were here hunting the bad guys.

Call me Jessie. Please. Yes. We had our hands full. C.W.’s were a lot fuller than mine.

This trip business or pleasure?

Pleasure. Although C.W.’s going to MC the raffle drawing.

Not picking the winners, are you, Christy asked Blakenship? I could sure use a new chain saw.

Chain saw?

That’s the grand prize.

Jordan delivered a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage to Jessie then slid one of biscuits and gravy in front Blakenship before he could answer.

Just a thought. See you at the picnic.

Chain saw, Blakenship asked the others?

Fire department canvases businesses in Mountain View and Elwood for donations. One of the hardware stores usually comes up with a saw. Most of the year rounders burn a lot of firewood, Jones explained. He glanced at his watch. Don’t mean to hurry you but…

Why’s that old car there? Jessie pointed to the remains of nineteen twenties or early thirties black sedan on the far side of a big Douglas fir. Grass reached to the running boards and it had braved years of weather until tires, doors, hood and most window glass had succumbed.

They were in front of the Inn, about to follow Jones and Allbright to the picnic site.

It’s always been there. Since before WWII, I mean. Jones shrugged. I’ve been told it belonged to one of the homesteaders Jim Stewart’s father bought out to put the ranch together. Jim carved some 3000 acres out for the development. Still owns the cabin lots he hasn’t sold. Hell, he owns the Inn, too. Leases it to George.

There’s 3000 acres of lots?

No. About 500 or so. All one acre circles. The rest is common land. Although he’s still got some land besides the unsold lots and the Inn. Upcountry, he added as if that explained everything.

How big was the ranch?

Shit, I don’t know. Seven, eight thousand acres. Maybe more.

Must have bought out a lot of homesteaders.

At first sight the picnic area was an open field next to the firehouse. It was dotted with tables offering wares ranging from fire department T-shirts to handcrafted jewelry. A closer looked revealed a number of heavy picnic tables spread out under the adjacent stand of spruce mixed with aspen.

At the far side of the vendors and a bit closer to the fire house stood a couple of tents without walls. I guess you’d call them pavilions, Blakenship thought. The wives of the security directors, Doris and Ann, sat at a long table taking money and handing back tickets to a growing line of customers. For the meal, he guessed. And, remembering his afternoon duty, the drawing. Or was that drawings…

Can I borrow C.J. for a minute, Jones asked Jessie? Need to get him squared away on the raffle. Won’t take long.

Can’t I tag along?

Sure. But I thought you’d rather look at the vases and jewelry.

Because I’m a woman? Her smile softened the sting. As a mater of fact, you’re right. This time.

Jonas brought Blakenship back after twenty minutes and found Jessie at a table of pottery deep in discussion with the potter.

Back already? Honey, have you ever met George Begay? He’s the Navajo cowboy who rides with Bailey most summers. This is his wife.

I thought the Utes and Navahos were bitter enemies.

Don’t believe everything you read in the white man’s history books. Besides, that was then and this is now.

They chatted for a while until a potential customer interrupted to ask the price of a figurine.

To answer your question, yes. I have met George. Speaking of cowboying, I assume Bailey’s at the Ute ranch.

Far as I know. Jessie held a vase up to the light and examined it from all angles. Why? You figure he needs a break from cows?

Or repairing fence. No. Just curious is all.

Good. This is supposed to be time off. She put down the vase and reached for her purse. That meat smells good. Six or seven grills were lined up along the firehouse wall, each manned by at least one cook – firefighters, presumably. As the aroma intensified, the line for tickets grew longer. If you’ve got nothing better to do why don’t you get in line for tickets. She glanced over her shoulder. It’s not getting any shorter.

Don’t have to. Compliments of the HOA. We don’t even have to go through the firehouse to get food. Meet me at the table with the reserved sign when you’ve spent all your money.

Blakenship proceeded to follow his own directions and made his way toward the table, eyes alert for anyone he knew who might have a beer to spare. His vigilance was rewarded when he spotted Jonas at the appointed table with a cooler on the table in front of him.

Come on out of the sun, C.W. Could I interest you in a beer?

Yes to shade and hell yes to the beer.

Jonas pulled a wet Budweiser can from the cooler, wiped it off on his shirt front and handed it over. Figure you can pop the top yourself.

I can. He did so and took a long swallow. Looks like they’ve started serving. He gestured toward the growing line that snaked around the building’s corner. He couldn’t see where it went but assumed it led through the truck bay door to what he guessed were tables amply stocked with BBQ hot off the grill and an array of sides. Not to mention desserts. He knew there’d be plenty of room since both fire trucks were parked outside. What’s Christal doing? He pointed to the open area just past the tree line.

Getting ready for the children’s games. Burlap bags are for the three-legged races and the like. She did it last year and the auxiliary wouldn’t let her quit.

Handy gal to have around.

Figured that out already, did you?

Wasn’t hard. Blakenship drained his beer and, spotting a trash can, rose to deposit it appropriately.

Mine, too. If you don’t mind. Jonas handed over his empty and had a fresh one waiting for him when he got back. Huh. It must be later than I thought. He gestured at a couple of guys, each bearing full plates, crossing Christal’s starting line and coming their way.

Blakenship checked his watch. Pushing 12:30. Wonder where Jessie is? He stared over at the vendors tables. There she is. Looks like she is spending all her money.

The plates arrived. "We’ll be back with more.

And maybe some extra napkins, Jonas prompted. Protect the food from the flies ‘til the others get here.

Blakenship sawed at a slice of brisket with a the plastic knife that came in the utensil packet, gave up and unsheathed his Leatherman. Maybe I should just make a sandwich.

What I’m doing. Jonas chewed a more than modest mouthful and pointed with his free hand. Here comes Jessie. Hope my wife gets relieved before her beans get cold.

Since this is a fundraiser, she and Ben’s missus are doing the most important work.

What I think. But don’t tell anybody else. There’s a lot of folks who’ve put in a lot of hours to make this happen.

Allbright arrived right after Jessie, followed by a couple Blakenship hadn’t met. They proved to be the president of the HOA, Rick Devers and his wife Deborah. With the table getting crowded Jessie set her bag of recent purchases on the ground between her feet, but couldn’t resist pulling one item out and showing it off.

Look. She held up a bolo tie with a silver and turquoise medallion. C.W.’s Christmas present.

Won’t be a surprise now, will it, Deborah observed.

Way his mind works he won’t remember by December.

Food for the others appeared and the residents chatted about community doings while Blakenship and Jessie tried to look interested. Then Allbright checked his watch. What say we do a sound check, C.W. Need to make sure everyone can hear you when you announce the winning number for the Stihl. He nodded at the chainsaw holding pride of place on the table displaying all the raffle prizes. We used to save the biggest item until last, but whatever state bureaucracy oversees these things said it had to go first. Said that everyone who bought a ticket had to have an equal chance to win the grand prize.

He’d just tapped the microphone when a burst of gunfire drowned out the mic’s electronic pops.

Ch. 2

I thought… Blakenship was about to say he thought fireworks were banned in the development when another burst produced screams from what sounded like every throat in the community and maybe the rest of western Colorado. Almost at the same time people started running – not in one direction but to almost all points of the compass.

Blakenship spun toward the table he’d just left and was relieved to see that Jessie – and the others – had hit the dirt. He followed suit, checked to se that Allbright was OK, then low-crawled to the table.

We’re fine, Jonas and Jessie said virtually in unison. Anybody hurt, Jonas added?

Don’t know. I’ll check when I can.

Where’s the shooter?

Looks like there’s three. Maybe more. From different positions. I’ll snake around the perimeter. See what I can see. All I’ve got is my .357. Any of your people armed?

Not that I know of. A few folks may have rifles or shotguns in their trucks – out of habit. We do have bears year round. And the occasional mountain lion.

What do you want us to do, C.W. Jessie asked? It took him a couple of moments to locate her. There. Under the picnic table on the far side of the legs. Looked like the other wives were safe as well since the table top consisted of six 2 by 6 planks with what looked like 2 by 8s in an X-pattern at each end for the legs. Safe. Maybe.

Stay where you are until you get an all clear. You have your cell? Another five or six shot burst drowned out her answer. Say that again.

Got one bar.Do you have Mikeska’s number?Yes.See if you can reach him. We need the calvary.O.K. You be careful.

Blakenship crawled twenty feet or so to the shelter of a substantial aspen trunk and scanned as much of the area as he could. Bodies lay scattered in no particular order as though a petulant child had knocked the pieces from all the chess boards at a tournament. Most stirred as he watched, some just raising heads while others made to stand or started to crawl toward the trees. Two near the open truck bay door of the firehouse remained motionless. A slow scan of the whole area showed at least three others seriously hurt.

Judging by the sound of the shots and the positions of the prone picnic-goers – he didn’t want to call them bodies – the attackers were generally to the west. A thick stand of conifers with a thicker growth of underbrush provided deep cover, although a cabin’s driveway formed one clear gap.

Recalling the area’s geography learned during the past winter, he judged they were close to the edge of the steep slope down to the stream called the Big Blue. Had the attackers come up that way, he wondered? And more to the point, was that their intended escape route?

Another volley interrupted his analysis, this time aimed at three men crawling toward two of the downed figures near the truck bay.

Goddammit. The bastards are shooting at the medical first responders, Jones howled.

A lone shot followed the yell. To Blakenship’s ear it sounded as though it came from the opposite direction. From the firehouse, maybe?

He crawled to a tree further to his right that offered a clear view of the firehouse’s west side. Meanwhile, more bursts echoed across the meadow. Aimed at what? The people now oriented enough to try to escape to the north and east? To the vehicles parked along both sides of the roads?

Out of the corner of an eye he caught what could be a rifle barrel poking out of the truck bay door. Low as it was, the shooter must be prone. The first report caused a ripple of the bushes on one side of the driveway. The second did the same on the other side.

Must be a shotgun.

All was quiet for a moment, save for the sound of a car starting. Then firing from the west began again – first, from a spot not far from where a shotgun blast had torn at the bushes, then from two other places on the south side of the driveway.

They hadn’t moved very much. And the shooter on the north was within some seventy feet of Blakenship. Should he pop a cap that way?

Do that and the risk of drawing fire at Jessie and the others under the table would be too great. Better move your own self.

He crawled backwards and deeper into the trees then some fifty feet to the west until he found good cover with a clear sight line to where the gunman had settled – when he’d last located him anyway. Craning his neck as far as he dared around the tree trunk – this one a spruce he automatically registered – he could see the full sweep of the tree and underbrush cover and the far side of the driveway until the road disappeared around a bend.

Farther than he could be accurate with a pistol. Wish to hell he had a rifle. And more bullets.

A series of rifle shots from the attackers prompted him to pull his head back to the comparative safety of the spruce trunk. They seemed to be aiming at the firehouse. And they seemed to be in a coordinated south to north sequence. Probably meant they had walkie-talkies or radios. It could also mean they were using regular rifles, not assault weapons. Thank the Lord for small mercies.

A three shot burst from the north-most position did away with that small comfort.

It took him a moment to unholster the .357 then he sighted into the brush, aiming a little over a foot above ground level since he guessed the shooter would be prone, and pulled the trigger.

No reaction.

He shot again, this time about two feet to the left.

The response, in the form of a three shot burst, drove him further behind the tree.

He cursed his apparent miss. Three rounds left since he carried the revolver with the hammer on an empty cylinder. A search of his pockets revealed five spares. He hadn’t planned on a firefight today.

Two almost simultaneous reports from what sounded like the firehouse brought return fire from all three attackers.

At least one more good guy had a firearm. Then a red tanker with a water canon fixed to the front bumper pulled around the building’s near side and a powerful stream of water marched toward the brush. It fell short at first but a figure began to adjust the arc until it reached the tree and brush line.

Still using the thick trunk as protection, Blakenship got to his feet and focused on the water stream. When it reached the tree line it was still strong enough to bend the pushes back or to the side. He though he saw someone crawling away and fired a round – to no apparent effect. Then he heard sirens. Turning to the east he could see the lights of at least four Otero County Sheriff’s Department vehicles – two SUVs and two pickups – turning onto the development’s road. Their progress was slowed by the cars of departing picnic goers and, given the growing foot and motorized traffic as the ranks of those escaping swelled, they were going to be at a standstill shortly.

Still, judging by the absence of gunshots, the combination of water and sirens was having a positive impact.

The relative silence encouraged more and more people to emerge from their positions of partial safety with Jessie and the others under the picnic table first among them.

You figure they’re gone, C.W.? Allbright was brushing weed-eater-mown grass from his shirt as he looked anxiously at the firehouse and the ground in between. There were too many bodies to take in at a glance, but as they watched a number sat up and a handful rose to their feet.

Most likely. Was going to tell everyone to stay put ‘til Rudy’s people got here but it’s to late.

Just as well. Need to check on the wounded. He took a step. And the dead, he added as he followed Jones.

The first body count after the relative calm created by the combination of water and sirens revealed three dead and more than thirty injured. Jim Stewart, the community’s developer and heir of the man who had put the ranch together, had taken two shots – one in the leg, probably shattering his left femur and the second through his right lung. The balance of the injuries ranged from relatively minor to near fatal. Two of the dead had been identified as guests of one of the resident families. The other was the secretary of the HOA board.

A somewhat well-coordinated team of Elwood EMTs and Hazel Lake first responders were tending to the wounded. Rudy Mikeska, Otero County Sheriff, had sent his deputies to the west to search for signs of the attackers escape route – and for the attackers if they were lucky. Allbright and Jones were canvasing the area for more injured.

Finally got through to the coroner, Mikeska told Blakenship. Goddammit. How’d they know about the picnic? And what the fuck were they trying to accomplish? It ain’t like there’s a lot of folks in the state who even know this place exists.

How’s no big mystery if they’re from the Western Slope, Blakenship answered. Picnic’s been advertised for a week. At least. Especially the raffle. He paused to light the Rum Crook he’d intended to enjoy after eating. Was that just an hour ago? The why is anybody’s guess – until we find the sonsabitches.

Better hope law enforcement finds them first. Folks on the mountain are mad as hell. Any of them get to the bastards they’ll string ‘em up by the balls. Or shoot them on the spot and claim self defense.

Not necessarily a bad idea.

No. It ain’t. Mikeska exhaled a blue stream of smoke from the unfiltered Pall Mall in his left hand. Been sheriff for better than twenty-five years and I’d like to retire without a bad mark on my record. He looked across the ravaged picnic grounds. Still…

Hey, C.W. Sheriff. Allbright walked to them, his steps as plodding as though he was at the end of a marathon. Got a little bit of good news. No children hurt.

That’s a mercy, said Mikeska.

You finished counting yet, Blakenship asked?

Not yet.

Hope that holds.

You think they were just aiming at the adults?

Humane murderers you mean? Possible. But adults are bigger targets. And they were shooting assault weapons. Or rifles modified with bump stocks.

Boils down to who they are and what they wanted.

Yeah. After we find them and take at least one alive.

Blakenship scanned the grounds looking for Jessie and found her bending over a body with a small first aid kit by her side. Was that the one from his truck? If so, can’t think of a better use for it.

How many ambulances you bring, Rudy?

Two. Leaves one for the rest of the county. Called Mountain View and Tin Cup for more. He cupped his ear at the distant sound of a siren. Should be them now. One of ‘em anyway.

Minutes later two Cristobal County Sheriffs Broncos led an ambulance through the departing vehicles to the firehouse. No sooner had they pulled to a stop then another siren’s wail announced the Sapinero contingent. Blakenship and Mikeska walked to greet them. The EMTs immediately began conferring with the leader of their Otero County counterparts while the others, who proved to be Cristobal County Sheriff Jeremy Root and four deputies, moved en masse to meet the lawmen.

Got here as fast as we could, Root said. Looks like the shootings over.

For now. Rudy’s folks are off that way, Blakenship pointed to the west, hunting sign. Maybe they’ve hightailed. Maybe not. Before you guys head out we need to work up a plan of attack.

And wait for Mountain View – who should be here momentarily, Rudy amended. There they are now, he said, pointing to a club cab pickup and an ambulance parking next to the Cristobal vehicles.

Let’s stake out a picnic table and figure shit out.

Ch. 3

Sapinero County Sheriff Woodrow Bass and three of his deputies – Duane included, Blakenship was glad to see – joined them at the table. By the time they’d sorted themselves out, Rudy’s men came out of the woods and, prompted by Rudy’s yell and waving arms, made their way to the group.

Find anything, Rudy asked without preamble?

Justin, the most experienced, answered. Found a bunch of brass and one cigarette butt still burning. Main thing is they seem to have ATVs. And they took off to the south.

Not down to the Big Blue, Blakenship asked?

Not from there. Doesn’t mean they didn’t go that way further up. Since a lot of the residents here have ATVs the only way we’ll be able to track them is if they did go down.

Or if somebody saw them heading out at a high rate of speed, Mikeska added.

Don’t forget the long guns, Blakenship pointed out. They’re kinda of hard to hide. By the way, what caliber? The brass, I mean.

Ones I saw were .223s. Don’t know if they all were.

Sounds like there was at least one M16 in play.

I just got here, Duane broke in, but you don’t know they’re on ATVs. If they parked a truck or something out of sight they could’ve joined the crowd. He gestured toward the solid line of vehicles inching along the development roads and the faster line going down the mountain toward the Mountain View—Elwood highway. It ain’t like anybody’s checking IDs.

And, Rudy said around the cigarette between his lips, if they’re on foot they could’ve gone toward the Big Blue without leaving sign easy to spot.

What you all are saying is we got a problem. Bass looked from face to face. Guess I didn’t need to say that.

Need or not Woody, you’re right. Blakenship rose from the table to stretch his back. Question now is what’re going to do? Besides taking care of the casualties.

Mikeska shook out another Pall Mall but spoke before he lit it. Have to interview everyone who was here. As many as we can find. See if anybody saw anything that would help identify the bastards. My people can help, but we need locals.

I’ll get the security patrol started on that. Blakenship stared out at the roads around the firehouse. Although it looks like they’ve got their hands full at the moment.

Ought to begin by interviewing the patrol anyway.

Another thing, Bass offered, is we should station some men here through the weekend in case they try again. And we need to keep looking. He waved a deer fly away from his nose. I can shake a couple of deputies loose. How about you guys, he asked Root and Mikeska? They said they’d try.

I’ll put in a call into the state. Blakenship started to strip the wrapper from a Rum Crook. And since this qualifies as a mass shooting, we can ask the feds. He reached for his cell phone. Let’s get to it. And meet at the Inn this evening.

If they’re open. Blakenship didn’t hear who said it.

Jessie, who’d been waiting on the group’s periphery, approached Blakenship from behind and grabbed his elbow. Startled, he turned. Don’t do that. I’m wound tight.

Sorry. Are we spending the night or should I get our things out of the room?

I’m staying. You can do what you think best.

If you’re staying so am I.

The Inn’s dining room was busier than Blakenship – or anyone else – had expected. Most of the tables and booths were full and a number of people moved from group to sitting group. A constant buzz of voices made individual conversation difficult which was countered by raised voices. Two bartenders attended to the steady demand for alcoholic comfort and food was being delivered to a couple of tables, although it didn’t look like the kitchen was being overworked.

Jessie and Blakenship sat at the same booth they’d occupied at breakfast, sharing it with the same people. George Benson, the owner or lessee, Blakenship wasn’t a hundred per cent sure which was correct, came over.

You’ve got more customers than I thought you’d have, Blakenship commented.

I think folks want the reassurance of thick walls and the comfort of their neighbors.

And the two uniformed deputies carrying long guns doesn’t hurt, Doris Allbright added. Any word on how Jim is doing? She meant Stewart, the developer and owner of the Inn.

He’s hurt bad. Real bad. But they think he’s going to pull through. Take him a while to get back on his feisty feet though.

When he’s able to talk, Jones chimed in, you need to interview him, C. W. He’s been up here since he was a kid. May have some ideas.

Can’t pick his brain for a bit. He’ll be in ICU and on a respirator for a while. For quite a while. One bullet hit his right lung. Other one hit him in the leg.

Lung’s the big one, Allbright pointed out. Leg’s a long way from his tongue.

The group broke up shortly after Allbright’s bit of anatomical wisdom. Blakenship got a pad of note paper from Benson and repaired upstairs to his room where he could think. Jessie was in the bathroom when he got there, door open and brushing her hair.

That better be you, she warned when she heard the door open.

It’s me. You can put your gun down.

What’re you going to do, she asked as she exchanged her Beretta for the hairbrush.

First, call Denver. Maybe the state troopers out of Union. Then think.

Thought you were going to call earlier. And what about supper?

Got sidetracked. Let’s wait a bit for supper. It’s pretty crowded down there.

Think it’ll thin out? She smiled as Blakenship shrugged. You guys figure out a plan?

To some extent. Ben and Jonas are organizing a canvas of all the residents – after they talk more formally with their patrol folks. Bass, Mikeska and Root are organizing a search for signs. Where they came, where they went. Like that.

It’s a mystery to me what they thought they’d accomplish.

Me, too. Mystery, that is. Maybe when we figure out who they are we’ll learn the why of it. Blakenship tried to use the room phone but long distance calls were blocked. I’ll go outside and see if I’ve got service. Be ready to eat when I get back.

Don’t fall in the hot tub. The Inn’s jacuzzi was outside on the upper porch.

Thanks for reminding me. He made his way to the door at the hallway’s south end to the porch that was really the landing for a set of wooden stairs. The hot tub was at the back under the eaves and he propped his rear against the side.

Two bars – enough to reach CBI headquarters in Denver. He sketched out the situation to the unhappy person who’d drawn the short straw of work on a holiday weekend and suggested, reluctantly, that the FBI be notified.

Since even I knew it, I bet they know, too. But I’ll call. And I’ll call the Department of Public Safety. You’ll be at the Hazel Lake Inn?

For the evening. Here’s my cell number. It works up here. Most of the time. Oh, I’ve got Daryl Janes’s personal cell number. Going to give him a ring.

Janes?

He’s a state cop with the Union office. At least he was last winter when we were chasing those gun runners. We worked pretty well together, considering.

He’ll be happy to hear from you, I’m sure. It being a holiday weekend and all.

He’s a cop. He should be used to it.

Janes may or may not have been used to it, but his initial reaction upon recognizing Blakenship’s voice was to complain about being interrupted with steaks on the grill.

Can’t you walk and chew gum? You hear about the shootings, Blakenship asked without waiting? At the Hazel Lake Fourth of July picnic?

Keep talking.