Crested Butte looks less like a cowboy town than a nineteenth century New England village plopped down in the mountains. The buildings along Elk Avenue have Victorian facades, and flowers line every street and window box. The windows are mostly dark, but as I move along the street, a shopkeeper backs out of a doorway, gives me a furtive glance, then locks his door and hurries to a truck parked across the street.

Twenty yards farther on, a yellow funnel of light appears down a side street to my left, illuminating a wooden bell painted silver. I turn down the alley and crunch through the snow as fast as my tingling feet will carry me.

The Silver Bell has old-fashioned swinging doors. It’s a rustic place that caters to locals, not a “ski bar” fluffed up for the tourist trade. There are three people sitting at the bar and two loners at the tables. All look like serious drinkers. Behind the bar stands a giant of a man with a gray-flecked black beard.

He has to be Tiny McSwain.

As soon as he sees me, he moves around the bar as though to throw me out. Before he can, I hold up my hands and croak:

“If you’re Tiny McSwain, Dwight Stone sent me.”

He stops, his eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“Better for you if you don’t know. Stone told me you’d help me.”

“Somebody heard shots up near the mesa,” he says suspiciously. “Was that Dwight?”

“It was the people trying to kill him. Him and me both.”

“I’ll call the sheriff. Where’s Dwight?”

“He’s back by the creek. He told me not to call anybody. He said everything would be over by the time anybody could get to him, and if not, they’d get killed for nothing.”

“Those his words?”

“Near enough.”

Tiny nods. “Then we don’t call anybody.”

“There are at least two men up there, probably more.”

“Stone’s a tough old boy. What did he tell you to do?”

“He said tell you to take me to an airport.”

“Which airport?”

“Denver. And he said do it quick.”

Tiny motions for a T-shirt–clad woman at a table to get behind the bar, then takes a set of keys from his pocket. “Let’s go, friend.”

“Hey,” calls the woman. “Where are you going, if anybody asks?”

“If anybody asks, me and this guy went back up the Slate to help Dwight.” Tiny McSwain looks at his customers, who are staring indifferently at me. “Nobody else says different.”

Blank nods from the drinkers.

“My Bronco’s parked out back,” he says. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 36