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    White Peak
    White Peak
    White Peak
    Ebook52 pages52 minutes

    White Peak

    By Darrel Bird

    ()

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    About this ebook

    An FBI agent is sent back to Montana where he was raised to find out who murdered two Indian surveyors who were surveying for a casino. As he delves into the problems at White Peak he finds murder, corruption and greed.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDarrel Bird
    Release dateMar 6, 2015
    ISBN9781310935473
    White Peak
    Author

    Darrel Bird

    Darrel Bird has written and published 47 short stories. He attended Bakersfield college, and is an avid motorcyclist.

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      Book preview

      White Peak - Darrel Bird

      White Peak

      by Darrel Bird

      Copyright 2015 by Darrel Bird

      Smashwords Edition

      Smashwords License Statement

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Gordon Masterson stared through the windshield at the road ahead, wishing he had gotten a motel at the last town, as the towns were getting fewer and farther between on the great plains of America. Actually, there were as many mountains as plains in Wyoming. There was snow on the skirts of the mountains that resembled a woman wearing a white dress with a black bottom.

      Quit slobbering out the window. Satch, it's blowing back in the car.

      Satch was his 85-pound yellow lab with an extra-long set of ears. When he heard his name, he pulled his head back inside the car with a skein of slobber that trailed back along his ear and his neck.

      Do you know you have a big problem?

      The dog looked askance at him, maybe thinking it was getting along past dinner. It had been a long trip from Chicago, and they still had many miles to go. Gordon drove, thinking about why and where he was going. He had been with the Chicago division of the FBI for the last twenty years. The company had called him in on a kidnapping case and announced he was being sent to White Peak, Montana.

      His boss and head of the Chicago division was a block-headed fellow that would make a mother cry the day he was born. He wore small round glasses that made it look like someone had slingshotted a couple glass eyes at him.

      Masterson, the Washington division has been sifting through personal files looking for someone just like you, and they found you; you are American Indian, ain’t you? You changed your name before you went to work for us, didn’t you? Well good then, you are being sent to Montana.

      How did they know I changed my name?

      Masterson, or Longtree, or whatever the hell your name is... Don’t you know by now that the FBI knows every damn thing there is to know about you?"

      I changed it before I left the Republic; that’s a sovereign nation.

      Don’t give me that batshit Masterson; that’s the United States; hell, we even own Canada, even if the Canooks don’t know it.

      Why do they want me to go out there? I haven’t been back in twenty years; I wouldn’t know the difference between an Indian and an Afghani.

      There's some crap being stirred up between the Indians and the whites over some casino land; there have even been a couple murders. They want you to go out there and straighten this crap out; now go before I change my mind and send you to Pokehole Alaska!

      There isn’t any PokeHole Alaska.

      Exactly, don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out, Longpine.

      Gordon left quickly, mainly because he couldn’t abide men like Rupert, who didn’t know what polite language was and used his fowl mouth to try and intimidate his employees. He resented being sent to some backwoods assignment most of all, but he had to admit it wasn’t Rupert's fault; in fact, it wasn’t the computer analyst's fault either. It was just the luck of the draw on some computer back in D.C., or maybe it was fate. When he left the poverty of the reservation twenty-five years ago, he swore to the stars in heaven he would never go back.

      He saw a sign ahead that announced Wind River-Two Miles and sighed a breath of relief at the possibility he wouldn’t wrap the car around a telephone pole, at least tonight.

      He stopped at

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