Chief and Moss picked up the truck in the back lot and drove, using alleyways, to park just out of view of the trading post. There they waited. Twenty minutes later Bennet emerged with a sack tucked under each arm. He paused just outside the post while the proprietor spoke, gesturing with his hands. Chief and Moss ducked simultaneously as the proprietor’s eyes swept the street while Bennet merely nodded and bent down to tie his sacks together. He slung them over his shoulder and regarded Wolf blankly as Mr. Wolf threw up his arms and fired off additional conversation. Chief and Moss had since sat back up and were actively watching as Bennet shook his head, then turned and started shuffling down the street, heading north, out of town.

Chief put the car in gear and pulled away slowly. Moss ducked low as they passed the trading post and Wolf, who stood outside. They followed Bennet, staying about thirty yards back until he ducked into the woods at the side of the road. Chief waited a few minutes longer before pulling the truck up and parking beyond the first layer of brush.

Moss and Chief continued to pursue on foot. Their progress was slow as they followed down embankments and through mud-strewn paths. Soft soil was sought after for each consecutive step. It was more important to be quiet than remain out of sight.

The forest was fragrant with the trees’ new budding leaves and the green vegetation on the forest floor. Wild flowers, as well, put in their first appearance of the year. Specks of yellow, purple, and white stippled the ground before them like confetti on parade grounds.

Bennet’s trail was easy to follow. He made no attempts to hide his tracks, and his failure to do so allowed the men following to hold back even farther, barely keeping him in sight. The path he chose wound ever deeper into the forest of the Berritts and the Grange, past the Berritts Hills depot, farther and farther north, skirting the narrow but tall Kunness mountain range to the west. Eventually the path led to a small brook where Bennet stopped abruptly. Chief and Moss pulled back and waited, keeping their eyes open for any sign of Blackney, while they watched the curious old trapper.

Bennet knelt down to the brook and proceeded to wet a red paisley handkerchief. Once saturated, he put it to his forehead and cooled his brow, then tightly rolled it and tied it around his neck. Then he stood, grabbed his bundles, slung them over his shoulder and resumed his journey.

The trek into the woods lasted over two hours. The going was rough due to the season and all the new vegetation that had not yet learned its place, growing carelessly across the paths and blocking many passageways through the trees. Chief noticed the going was difficult even for Bennet, who was used to this trail.

Eventually it gave way to a small valley. A log cabin, partly obscured from view by several tall oaks, was positioned at its center in the middle of a large grassy field. Protected from the weather by the surrounding mountains, the wildflowers exploded throughout the field in a brilliant array of hues: flaming orange, pale lavender, crimson, butterscotch, bright yellow and soothing rose to name but a few. Fragrant enough to announce the arrival home to a blind man.

Chief and Mort held back, examining the area for any signs of Blackney or the boy. They parked themselves under a clump of bushes and waited as Bennet made his way down the path that brought him to his front door. He knocked the mud off his boots with his walking stick, then leaned the stick up against the outside wall next to several similar sticks and a 30.06 Winchester rifle, before disappearing inside.

The cabin was no more than 600 feet square. On the southern side was a fireplace built of stone. Two windows and a door peeked out under the porch roof. Bennet had flower boxes built under the windows and planted in them were the same types of wildflowers that grew in abundance in his field. Several fowl hung from the porch rafters, in an effort to tame their meat, along with kerosene lanterns. To the right of the cabin was a four-foot by eight-foot stack of chopped firewood; several furs laid out for tanning were stretched beside it. At the back corner of the yard was a small fenced in vegetable garden and a separate fenced in chicken coop. A small smokehouse was built next to the coop from the same river rocks used in the fireplace, where Bennet presumably smoked the meat from his traps to preserve it.

“What do you think?” Moss whispered as they watched the cabin. Smoke began to billow out of the fireplace, as well as a metal pipe on the opposite side of the cabin, probably from a wood-burning stove. 

“Let’s go down and question the man. He may know Fred’s whereabouts. I’d hate to be sitting here waiting for Fred to show, while he’s back stalking after my daughter.”

“That’s your worse nightmare, isn’t it?”

Chief turned to him. “What?”

“Not being there, personally, when it goes down.”

Chief raised an eyebrow and glared at Mort, his upper lip tight. “No. My worst nightmare is that he succeeds. My worst nightmare is the sacrifice of my daughter. I do want to nail him, Mort, personally. But if someone else beats me to it… so be it. I’ll be damn happy about it.”

Moss grinned, then nodded. “Let’s check it out for a rear exit.”

Chief agreed and they started down the embankment, staying low among the brush on an imaginary perimeter encircling the cabin. There was still no sign of Blackney or his boy. The cabin had only one door, but additional windows along the back wall were large enough to afford a man passage.

“I’ll wait there.” Moss indicated the back windows. “You go around to the front. We’ll be able to cover each other.”

“Agreed,” said Chief. “Wait for an answer first, I’d rather be invited inside.”

“Agreed.” Moss made his way to the window as Chief, once again, circled around to the front.

Chief silently climbed the steps to the porch and strode to the front door and knocked, closed-fisted, upon the heavy oak. 

“Who’s there?” asked the shaky voice of an old man unaccustomed to talk.

Chief stayed to the left side of the door. “Police, Mr. Bennet. Open up.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I just want to ask you a few questions.”

There was a shuffling behind the door before it opened.

Smiley Bennet was a touch over five-feet-eight inches tall. His white hair was thinning at the temples and brushed back away from his lined face. He wore his beard and a mustache long, both mostly white with the exception of a few dark hairs that grew heavier above his upper lip. His eyes were so pale a blue it was easy to confuse them with having no color at all. Above them, his very bushy eyebrows matched the mustache exactly. His face was a network of shallow wrinkles that deepened around his eyes.

“You have the wrong man. I have no family in Tucson,” he said congenially. “I am not related to anyone named Samuel B. Bennet.”

Chief frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not the one that was looking for me at Wolf’s?”

“Oh, that. I’m afraid that was a rouse, Mr. Bennet. To smoke you out.”

Mr. Bennet smiled benignly. “Smoke me out?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”

“What about your friend at the back window?”

This time it was Chief who grinned. “You knew about him?”

“I heard you circling. My ears are very good. I also heard two men following me.”

“Your ears must be very good, Mr. Bennet,” Chief mused.

“I also might add, Chief Broden, that you might want to oil the door hinge of your vehicle.”

Chief ducked inside the cabin after the blind man and made his way over to the back window. After pushing the window open he told Moss to come back around.

“I think I’ll stay out here and watch the cabin from the trees, Bob. Just in case Blackney shows up. You can fill me in later.”

“Good idea.”

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