Large, fat flakes were drifting down, and if that had been the extent of it, Clayton would not have been worried. But in between the downy flakes were smaller bits of snow, coming down a little faster and twisting in the air sideways. Those were the signs of more snow to come.
It was going to get cold, and then it was going to get colder, and not all roads in this part of the country were gritted or plowed. They stayed layered with snow, and while trucks and farm equipment could roll over or through, Clayton had a car meant for the highway and for city streets.
"I'll be okay," said Clayton. He'd driven through worse, though that had been in an eighteen-wheeled rig.
He tucked up the collar of his thin down coat and got into the car, buckled up, turned on the heat with the warm air aimed at the windshield, and drove south on Highway 79. Winter-brown grasses and low shrubs spun past either window and ahead of him, the dotted white line droned on into a mesmerizing smear as it started to snow.
At first, the snow snaked across the blacktop in that twisty, ribbon-like way that it had when the road was warm and thestorm hadn't started in earnest. The flakes of snow, which luckily were coming sideways from the west instead of straight at the windshield, grew more urgent, as if they had a mission to cover the landscape with the appropriate Christmassy feel. Already the dead weeds by the roadside were coated with a sharp-edged white rime, stiff in the oncoming wind, measuring the depth of snowfall by their thin, reedy stalks.
In the first hour out of Reva, Clayton received four calls about the reward, one after the other. Each voice sounded metallic as it came through the speakers of his car, as he had one of those swanky cellphones that could bluetooth a call and leave his hands free to drive.
Each voice also sounded a little too concerned with the reward money, or had, again, no idea what an Indian beaded knife sheath actually was. Moreover, they each seemed to think that he was going to drive for hours in bad weather to meet them without actually proving to Clayton that they actually had the knife and sheath.
The fourth call came from a woman who talked too fast and demanded a thousand dollars for the items' safe return. She gave Clayton her cell phone number and wanted him to call her with a transfer confirmation number so she could collect the reward money at her own bank, rather than waiting for a check in the mail. She sounded like she wanted to make Clayton feel bad for making her wait for the reward money, when she hadn't even returned the item yet.
Clayton hung up on her with a click of his thumb on the steering wheel, and frowned at the flakes coming at the passenger door window as the blacktop in front of him began disappearing at the edges, and the clouds drew low on the horizon in front of him, grey and dark and boiling.
An hour later, as he turned to take the road past Castle Rock, he realized that maybe he should have taken the main highway, as at least that'd be plowed, or cleared by passing traffic fromother folks heading to their Christmas destinations. If he got stuck out here, out in the middle of nowhere, rescue would be hours away, and he'd be late, so very late, getting to Parker.
But even as he drove through the low, sloping grasslands towards the Black Hills and the cutoff to Interstate 90, the storm seemed to ease. It was as if, as the road curved around to the west; he was in a little pocket of pine trees and stone, where the winter storm was not so bad. The snow was still coming down, of course, but the wind had eased, and he thought he could even see sunlight trying to shine through the thick grey clouds.
That was when another phone call came. Clayton thought about ignoring it and cursed that he'd not simply turned off his phone to save on the battery. Had he left his charger behind at the motel? But the number that flashed was area code 303, which was Colorado, so Clayton pressed the button on his steering wheel to answer it.
"Hello," he said, without any warmth in his voice, for the person at the other end of the line was sure to be another shyster with a story to tell that would try to be convincing but which would fall utterly flat.
"Hello?" asked a male voice. "Is this Mr. Nash?"
"This is he," said Clayton. "What do you want?"
"This is Kyle, Kyle Tobin. I'm calling about the stolen Bowie knife, and the Indian beaded sheath."
"And the reward money," said Clayton. His mouth felt stiff, and he rolled his eyes. He wanted to keep the call short so he could concentrate on the road. It was mid-afternoon, and it was going to turn dark soon.
"No, no, actually," said the voice of Kyle. He gave a little laugh, which made Clayton want to hate him, but then Kyle cleared his throat. "I feel bad about this. I've got an item that I realize was stolen."
"What?" asked Clayton, his voice rising into sharpness so fast it cracked.
"I was at the Mountain Man Arts and Crafts Festival in Ft. Collins, do you know it?"
"No, I don'tknowit," said Clayton, sharply.
"Well, it's a thing," said Kyle. "You know, in the summer they put on mountain men camps. These are reenactment guys and gals, right? Well, in the winter, it's too cold to camp in a canvas tent for most, so they put on a little indoor festival at the fairgrounds, and they do demos and sell old west and mountain man stuff."
"Uh-huh," said Clayton.
The road turned directly west at Spearfish, and he knew he needed to stop before he took the long stretch of road to Lusk, Wyoming. That was where the snow would get very bad, down south, where the wind came shooting across the plains with nothing in its way. Maybe the gas station would have a cheap phone charger he could buy, so he could charge up his phone.
"Well, I'm a software engineer," said Kyle, telling his story that Clayton simply did not want to hear. "I work from home, but I really like this stuff, you know? I wish I could have been a mountain man, or at the very least a cowboy."
"Why are you telling me this?" asked Clayton as he pulled into the next gas station on I-90 on the west side of Spearfish. "I don't care. Just tell me you have it, I'll come get it from you, and I'll pay you the reward."
"Well, you could do that," said Kyle slowly. "I could give you my address, but I want to tell you what happened so you know why I don't want the reward."
"You don't want the reward? Hang on," said Clayton as he pulled to a stop next to a snow-flecked gas pump. "Call me back in five minutes, if you mean business. I'm on the road and need to gas up."
He clicked the hang-up button with his thumb and turned off the engine.
Snow spatted on the windshield, swooping up beneath the metal canopy with the grace of a skilled gymnast. He felt the cold coming up his pant legs and zipped his down jacket all the way up to his neck. He had no scarf, no gloves, and no hat, and though it had been sunny and fair-skied when he'd set out to Dickinson, he should have known better. December was no time to fool around with the weather, especially when you were headed to the middle of nowhere.
