The first meeting was arranged for the following afternoon. “You’re sure this sergeant’s legitimate, Gabe?” “It’s my ass, too, if it doesn’t work, Dick. You look him over and see if he doesn’t look like every sergeant you’ve ever met.” “I never met any. But we’ll talk to him and see how things sound.” “When can we get together? He wants to move quick.” “What’s the rush?” “He’s nervous.” “Bad enough to fink?” “Naw, just nervous. Hell, he’ll be stealing half the goddam armory.” “Right. Let’s meet in Left Hand Canyon. You know that little picnic area about three miles up Left Hand Creek?” “Right side of the road?” “That’s the place. At two.” Sergeant Johnston said little on the drive up through Boulder and over the rolling highway that ran like a seam where the prairie met the mountains. The mouth of the canyon was marked by a restaurant, sprawling like a large ranch house and unlikely with its parking lot and sign in the emptiness of short grass and sloping foothills.
