"So why don't you want the reward?" asked Clayton as hetapped on the brakes to ease around the wide corner as I-90 curved south. The tires slipped a bit but then held, and Clayton took a slow breath.
"Because," said Kyle, sounding a little exasperated, as if he'd been trying to explain this to Clayton for hours. "I've got these two friends, Brent and Richard, who live in Chicago. They're a couple, you know. Well, they were going to come out for Christmas, but there's a storm back east and a storm here, and so they're not going to be able to make it. And I've bought all this food!"
"What does this have to do with—" started Clayton, exasperated all over again, but Kyle stopped him with a little high-pitched sound.
"I'm getting to that," said Kyle. "They were online trying to deal with their airline tickets, hoping to get through, and well, while they waited they went shopping, as you do."
"Asyoudo," said Clayton.
"They're well off, if you must know, and they shop a lot, and their apartment is always so nice. It overlooks Lake Michigan, you know."
Clayton did know, as there'd been a news article about the high prices for apartments overlooking the lake. Some folks didn't know better than to pay almost three thousand a month for something they didn't actually own. Kyle's admiration for those who did was not a good reflection of his character.
"So?" said Clayton.
"Brent and Richard were looking on Craigslist to buy me something related to mountain men, because they're nice like that. That's when they saw the notice about the stolen knife and beaded sheath. It was the exact one I'd just emailed them about, so they were quick to tell me it was stolen. I was already home by that time, and I tried calling the festival hall to talk to the vendor, but I couldn't get through. And then I realized that if he was selling stolen goods, I should report him to the festival, andthe police, and then I needed to answer the notice about giving the items back to their owner. Which is you."
"You did all that, just today," said Clayton.
"I went to the festival this morning, found out about everything else when I got home. I found the receipt, too, tucked inside. Then I reported it to the police, everything. Then I called you."
Clayton ran his tongue across the inside of his teeth, tasting the salt from the beef jerky and tried to think it all through. The theft had happened last night, and the thief must have driven out of town within minutes to hook up with a vendor in Ft. Collins in time for when the festival opened.
With contacts and connections like that, this wasn't the thief's first rodeo, and the Bowie knife and beaded sheath probably weren't the only stolen item to have been taken and delivered, so Clayton knew he shouldn't feel so bad. Only he did; his carelessness led to the knife being taken.
"Why don't you want a reward?" asked Clayton finally.
"Because it’s stolen property," said Kyle, his voice a little sad. "I should have known better because the vendor couldn't really explain where he'd gotten it and that should have been my first sign not to buy."
"Why is that?" asked Clayton, and while he told himself that he didn't want to know, he was starting to want to know.
"Items like this, high-ticket items, usually have a document that's called a provenance," said Kyle. "It gives the history of the item, all the hands it's passed through. It's used to authenticate paintings and art and antiques. It's supposed to keep you from buying a forgery."
"Or stolen goods," said Clayton.
"Right," said Kyle.
Clayton raised his eyebrows, though there was nobody to see. He was learning a lot about a world that was beyond his own, which was, of late, focused on eighteen-wheeled rigs, GPScoordinates, and schedules that stretched him to the limit, trying to get to the next stop on time. Not to mention bad food at gas stations, quick showers where they charged by the minute, and sleeping in the back of his own rig to save money. Spending almost two thousand dollars on a whim just because he wanted something was like a dream in a fairy tale.
"I just want to give it back to you," said Kyle. "I don't want the reward. It would be wrong to take it."
A five hundred dollar reward was probably a drop in the bucket to a guy who could buy an antique for almost two thousand dollars on a whim. Yet, the notion of not taking a reward was a noble one.
Uncle Bill would approve of the gesture, though as Clayton cast a glance down at his phone thinking he'd call him, he saw that the battery was getting low. Where was his charger? Well, he'd wait to call Uncle Bill anyway because when he did talk to him, he wanted the whole thing taken care of so that he could, yes, tell Uncle Bill the entire story. By that time, the knife and sheath would be safe beneath Luke's roof, and Shawn would be able to dream up adventures while pretending to be a mountain man.
"Fine," said Clayton. "Where are you located?"
"I live in Orchard, Colorado," said Kyle.
"Orchard?" asked Clayton. "That's in the middle of nowhere. Why the hell do you live there?"
"I like it quiet," said Kyle, and his voice became a tad fierce, as if he had been defending his decision to move there from the start. "I live near Pawnee National Grasslands, which I think is beautiful and if you don't approve then too bad for you."
"But jeezus," said Clayton. "What do you do in a blizzard?"
"Same thing as I always do," said Kyle firmly. "I stock up on groceries. I have a generator in the cellar. The house is old, but it's sturdy, and I have storm windows. I have a view of the river."
"The South Platte," said Clayton.
