Dead or Alive

Chapter Eleven

Frank Vanmeter called by radio just as Clayton and Kerney finished setting up camp for the night.

“Have you caught him yet?” Vanmeter asked.

“You’ll be the first to know when we do,” Kerney snapped.

“Didn’t mean to make you testy,” Frank said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “Thought you’d like to know that a rancher turned in a satchel he found near the Cimarron River when he was out checking his cattle after the storm. It came from the barn at the ranch where Larson’s brother works and contained at least a hundred thousand dollars in jewelry and cash.”

“Has Larson pulled a robbery that we’ve somehow missed?” Kerney asked.

“I wondered the same thing. So far the answer is negative. But that aside, if Larson was planning on using the jewelry to disappear, he’s now up a creek.”

“And all the more dangerous because of it,” Kerney said.

“Amen to that,” Frank said. “Everything you and Agent Istee asked for is in place. Uniforms are at every mile marker along Route 555, three game and fish officers are moving into the foothills to cover your back, and all aircraft are ready to go again at first light.”

“I’ll talk to you then,” Kerney said.

“Ten-four.”

Kerney filled Clayton in as they fed and watered the horses. Then, on the off chance that Larson might be in the vicinity, they had a light dinner in the growing darkness with no campfire.

Although his stomach still hurt and he had no appetite, Kerney hadn’t eaten all day. So he sat on a fallen log and forced himself to swallow some soup Clayton had mixed up from a packet and warmed over a small propane camp stove, and nibble on some cheese and crackers, hoping to keep it all down. When he couldn’t stand the thought of another bite, he buried the remains of his meal in a pit and covered it, so the smell wouldn’t attract any passing bears or other hungry critters.

“You’re still not feeling good, are you?” Clayton asked as he hoisted the bag of foodstuffs up to a high tree branch and tied it off.

“I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep,” Kerney replied as he took off his boots and slid into the sleeping bag.

He spent the early part of the night awake, leaving the warmth of his sleeping bag once to vomit and returning to swelter in the cool air. When sleep came, he dreamed bizarre images of Craig Larson’s murder and mayhem, and woke up several times in a sweat. Finally the fever broke, and he fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Clayton woke him up with a hot cup of tea. “I heard you in the night,” he said. “You look awful.”

“I bet I do.” Kerney sat up and took the tin mug from Clayton’s hand. “Thanks.”

“I put some honey in it. That should settle your stomach down some.”

Kerney nodded and sipped his tea.

Clayton looked Kerney over with worried eyes. “We can always pull back and have Vanmeter send in replacements.”

“No way. I’m fit enough to continue.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yeah.” Kerney smiled. “Whatever got to me has passed.”

“Do you mean that literally?”

“It’s gone one way or the other.”

“How about some dry toast and a bowl of instant oatmeal?”

“Sounds about right.”

“I’ll get to it.” Clayton rose, went to the camp stove, and got busy with breakfast.

As he drank more of his tea, Kerney watched Clayton, a son he never knew he had until a few short years ago. He thought he was damn lucky to have the man as his son and his friend.

After breakfast, they broke camp and were starting out to cut Larson’s trail when Frank Vanmeter called again. This time, to tell Clayton that Paul Hewitt had died in his sleep overnight.

Clayton stiffened in shock and gave Kerney the news, the expression on his face a mixture of agonized sadness and pure rage.

After thanking Vanmeter, he climbed off his horse, silently handed Kerney the reins, and walked into the forest until he was out of sight. Fifteen minutes later, Clayton returned. His eyes were dry and features composed, but he had hacked off his long hair with his hunting knife. Kerney figured it was Clayton’s way of mourning the loss of Paul Hewitt. It was more eloquent than any spoken words.

“Let’s go,” Clayton said with a hard edge to his voice. He took the reins from Kerney’s hands, got on his horse, and started up the slope of the wooded canyon wall.

Kerney said nothing and followed him.

Throughout the morning, Craig Larson stayed lost until the distant sounds of heavy machinery reached him in the thin mountain air. He followed the sound for hours, winding his way up and down canyons and across the ravines wet with standing pools of murky rainwater from yesterday’s storm. He let his horse drink from them before gulping down the gritty water himself, and although it smelled like burned ash from the recent forest fire and tasted muddy, it didn’t seem to do him any harm. He stayed under the trees with his jittery horse for a good half hour, upwind of an adult bear wallowing in a large pool of water, until it ambled away.

He climbed toward the top of the next ridgeline as the growing sound of engines told him that human activity was close at hand. On the crest, he stayed hidden and looked down into a large valley at an open-pit coal mining operation. It had cut into the earth a good hundred and fifty feet below the surface soil and shale-like substrate. He guessed a good thousand acres were being actively mined while another thousand had been reclaimed with native grasses and shrubs.

There were two monster electric shovels loading ore onto gigantic trucks, and at the far end of the pit, massive front-end loaders were excavating coal from what looked like a blast area. A gravel road left the valley in a direction Larson reckoned hooked up somewhere with the railroad spur. He was glad to be well north of it.

He climbed down from his horse, tied the reins on a tree branch, got some canned food out, and ate it for lunch as he watched the machines and considered his next move. Above him, a single-engine airplane dipped into the valley and flew back and forth across the mining operation.

Finished with his food, he threw the empty tin away, grabbed the Weatherby out of the saddle scabbard, and for the fun of it, sighted the weapon on the big, low-moving electric shovels, the front-end loaders, and the trucks hauling the coal. He zeroed in on the shovel operators, wondering if he could take them out. With the distance to the targets, the constant movement of the machines, and the breezes that were kicking up in the thin mountain air, it would be awesome marksmanship.

Larson decided not to bother. He put the Weatherby away and set out to ride the perimeter of the valley mine under the tree cover. Hopefully, something would turn up to give him a sense of what to do or where to go next.

As he circled, his view of the valley expanded to include another part of the operation where the coal was crushed before being transported to the railhead. He continued the loop, riding for a good hour before arriving on the opposite ridgeline overlooking the valley. From there he headed north until the sound of rubber on pavement made him get out of the saddle.

He tied off his horse to a tree and walked through the forest until he could see a strip of blacktop. It had to be the highway that ran from Raton, past the coal mines and up to the Vermejo Resort Ranch and its fancy lodge, where millionaires came to hunt big game during the day and drink martinis at the bar at night.

He spotted a state police car parked at the side of the road. Within minutes another black-and-white passed by heading toward Raton. He walked on until he could see the access road to the mine, where a state cop car was parked next to a black SUV. A state police officer and a security guard stood talking between the vehicles.

Larson returned to his horse. The cops had figured out exactly where he planned to go and had set a trap for him. There were probably more stationed along the highway waiting to cut him off, with a posse of cops likely coming up behind him on horseback. It was time to make a new plan.

He heard the repetitive thud of a chopper overhead coming up the narrow canyon the highway snaked through. More cops most likely. In his mind it sounded like stop the cops being played over and over again.

That’s what he needed to do, but he had to be smart about it. Run and gun, gun and run, might be the best way. Take a cop out and move on. Then take another and another and another. Make them pay to the max for all the shit they’d put him through. But first, he needed to scope out what he was up against before he pulled the trigger on the first one.

He mounted up and disappeared into the forest, thinking he and not the cops would call the shots.

After hours of riding, Clayton and Kerney cut Larson’s trail at a wildfire burn area that had destroyed a good four thousand acres of timber, sterilized the thin layer of topsoil, and exposed the washed gray granite, hardened quartz, and sandstone rock of the mountainside. They found a disturbed area where Larson had camped overnight, called it in, and kept moving, dropping into the ravine where tracks and sign showed Larson had paused to drink. In the next ravine, they found fresh bear scat and recent hoofprints that traveled even higher, until they topped out on a crest that overlooked an huge open-pit coal mine.

Kerney and Clayton looked down at the raw, gaping wound in the land.

“Well, we all like our cars and electric lights, I guess,” Clayton said.

“Don’t we, though,” Kerney replied, thinking resource extraction could be a whole lot less wasteful. “At least they’re making an effort to reclaim the land. That didn’t use to happen.”

Clayton grunted and moved off to inspect the area for more signs of Larson. Kerney’s gut wrenched and he scurried into the woods and promptly lost all the food in his stomach. Most of the morning he’d been feeling all right, but in the last hour or so the sweats and the chills had returned along with a gut that felt like it was about to explode.

“I’ve called in a chopper to take you to Raton to be looked at,” Clayton said when Kerney returned to the horses.

“I’m not going.”

“Don’t be stubborn. You’re sick. We’ll drop down into the mine so the chopper can pick you up.”

“I don’t want you going up against Larson alone,” Kerney said.

“I won’t be. We’ve got a picket line of uniforms spread out along the length of the highway, so I’ve got all the backup I need.”

“Uniforms sitting in squad cars aren’t the same as someone in the saddle next to you.”

“I’ll be careful,” Clayton said.

Kerney shook his head in protest. “I’m staying.”

“You’re going,” Clayton said flatly. “A sick partner doesn’t do me any good and could get us both killed.”

Clayton was right and Kerney knew it. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get myself checked out.”

They picked their way carefully down to a cut that took them to a gravel road where monster ore trucks rumbled by, kicking up dust so thick it stung the eyes.

“You know,” Clayton yelled over the sound of a passing truck, “if you eat food during a storm supposedly you either lose your teeth before you get old or your stomach stays cranky.”

“Who told you that?” Kerney yelled back.

“Moses Kaywaykla, my uncle by marriage. In fact, if you’re eating and there’s a lightning flash, you’re supposed to spit the food out right away.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“To further your continuing education about Mescalero traditions and beliefs.”

“Oh, and I just thought you were telling me I had a cranky stomach to make me feel better.”

“Your sarcasm is duly noted. Actually, I thought it would take your mind off it.”

Kerney laughed in spite of himself. Up ahead, a state police helicopter came over the tree line and landed on reclaimed flats planted in clover, saltbush, and side oats grama grass.

Clayton broke the roan gelding into a canter and Kerney followed suit on his buckskin, the packhorses loping behind. They reached the chopper to find a lady paramedic standing by. She ordered Kerney off his horse, checked his pulse, listened to his heart and lungs, took his temperature and blood pressure, prodded his gut with her fingers, and told him to get in the chopper.

Kerney hesitated. “What’s the verdict?”

“Don’t know,” the paramedic replied with a smile. “Your heart’s strong and your blood pressure is okay. Maybe food poisoning or some intestinal bug, but we’ll let the doctors decide.”

Kerney gave Clayton a dirty look and got in the chopper with the paramedic. Clayton smiled broadly, backed the horses away, and waved as the pilot fired up the rotors. When the helicopter was airborne, he called Vanmeter and told him Kerney was in-bound to Raton from the coal mine. “Has anyone sighted Larson?” he asked.

“Negative,” Vanmeter replied.

“That means he’s probably discovered we’ve been waiting for him and he’s either doing an end run or moving laterally. I’m going back to pick up his trail.”

“You shouldn’t do it on your own,” Vanmeter cautioned.

“I’ll keep my distance,” Clayton replied, lying through his teeth.

As he trotted the horses down the gravel road, loud, shrill whistles blew, the heavy equipment stopped moving, and all was quiet for a moment before an explosion ripped open an exposed coal seam at the far end of the pit. The dust from the blast formed a dense cloud that floated over the valley and coated the stately mountain evergreens above the pit.

Clayton covered his mouth with a handkerchief and rode away from the mine.

All morning long, radio stations in Raton had broadcast half-hour bulletins about the police manhunt for Kerry’s brother. People were warned not to open their doors to strangers, pick up hitchhikers on the roads, or let their children out unsupervised. Listeners also heard that the reward for information leading to Craig’s capture had reached fifty thousand dollars.

On one of the hourly news shows, a newsman interviewed Truman Goodson’s widow, who broke down crying, demanding Craig be brought to justice. Kerry looked up Mrs. Goodson’s address in the phone book and took the fifteen hundred dollars cash he’d held back from his brother to buy a new deer rifle and put it in an envelope without a note or return address, put four first-class stamps on it to make sure it got there, and dropped it in the mailbox on the highway.

On a talk radio show, a trucker called in to say there were dozen of cops concentrated along Highway 555. He cogitated on the idea that they were flooding the high country looking for Craig. Another caller reported a rumor that the police had recovered out on the prairie a fortune in jewels and a pile of cash that Craig had stolen from a bunch of people he’d killed that the cops didn’t know about.

All the police would say officially was that the manhunt for Craig had intensified and the public would be advised as soon as he was apprehended.

Kerry had gone to work in the morning only to be interrupted by a state police investigator accompanied by Everett Dorsey, who for the umpteenth time questioned him about where Craig was heading with his stolen horses and supplies. For the umpteenth time Kerry played dumb.

When he did get to working again, he was bothered by an Albuquerque television news reporter who barged in asking for an interview while a truck with a satellite dish on top of it idled outside. Kerry clammed up, closed the barn doors, and wouldn’t open them until the reporter and his truck left.

When he was finally alone except for the cop on the ranch road watching him, he locked up the garage, walked back to his house, gathered up a coat, a rifle, and some ammunition, and put it all in his truck along with some bottled water, crackers, and a jar of peanut butter in a small backpack. By force of habit, he checked his oil, coolant, and tire pressure before climbing into the cab.

One summer long ago when they were kids, they had been loaned out by the rancher they worked for as summer help to fix up a corral at the Vermejo Resort Ranch. It was on a high-country pasture deep in the forest an hour off a jeep trail by horseback. They’d camped out at the corral for two nights, and in their free time had found a small cave in the mountainside hidden by thick underbrush. It had all kinds of Indian paintings on the walls and ceiling, and from the looks of it nobody had used if for years.

Kerry figured if Craig was really in the high country and the cops were all around him like the radio said, he would head for the cave to hide out because that’s where they had talked about what fun it would be to live like the old-time mountain men.

He would go there to look for him. Maybe he could talk Craig into giving himself up. Then people would stop thinking bad things about him.

He fired up the truck and took off. Half a mile down the highway one of those unmarked state police cars came up behind him, but Kerry didn’t mind. Where he was going, the cop couldn’t follow.

He turned off at the first ranch-road gate along the highway, locked it behind him, and kept going. In his rearview mirror he saw the car stop, turn around, and head back toward town.

As he drove Kerry wondered what had happened to make Craig so bad-sick in the head.

Craig Larson stuck to the trees for cover and followed the highway for several miles in both directions just to check things out. There were cops everywhere watching and waiting for him. He faded deeper into the woods and traveled in the general direction of the Vermejo Resort Ranch. Back when he was a kid, the ranch catered in the fall and winter months to rifle and bow hunters looking to bring home a trophy-size elk, bear, or deer. In the spring, the bird hunters came for the wild turkey season. During the summer, the lodge operated as a dude ranch and nature study center for wealthy vacationers. Guests could go on fake cattle roundups complete with campfire sing-alongs at night, take horseback camping trips into the wilderness, go on guided nature and wildlife hikes, or just stay put at the ranch headquarters, where they could play tennis, swim in the Olympic-size pool, get spa treatments, and drink martinis in the bar. He doubted anything had changed.

Larson had only been there once, years ago, when he and Kerry had fixed up an old corral in a bad state of repair. At the time, the owners were planning to buy a small herd of buffalo and graze them on a broad high valley tucked between two peaks. A sturdy fence had been built to keep the buffalo from straying, and the repaired corral would be used to cull a few head every now and then for slaughter so the lodge could serve up gourmet buffalo steaks, burgers, and roasts to the paying guests.

Larson wondered if he could find his way to that valley. It would be a hell of a lot of fun to stampede the animals and shoot them down just like the old buffalo hunters used to do. He wondered how many he could kill in an hour or so.

As he continued toward the ranch, the canyon narrowed. Staying out of sight of the highway became more and more difficult. Time and again he had to dismount and climb upslope at a steep angle to avoid being seen. About the only traffic on the road was cop cars going back and forth and some dump trucks traveling down the canyon toward Raton.

At the high point of one crest, Larson found himself looking down at a rock quarry where gravel and stone were being mined and loaded on the dump trucks. He eyeballed the grade at the back end of the mine and decide it was too steep to traverse with the horse. But if he backtracked, he would be in sight from the road when he went around the entrance to the quarry. That wouldn’t do.

The Omega wristwatch Larson had inherited from Pettibone by way of murder told him the quarry would probably shut down for the day in another hour. He decided to wait. He found a fairly level area under a big pine tree that had been hit by lightning some time back, and stretched out for a nap. It had been another draining day.

Other than a bad gut stemming partly from an old gunshot wound that had cost him a few feet of his small intestine, a persistent cold and sore throat with postnasal drip, and an accompanying fever, the doctors at the hospital couldn’t find anything wrong with Kerney. They asked questions, had a nurse draw blood, checked his vitals, and tried to keep him overnight for observation. Kerney wasn’t having any of it.

They let him go with a prescription for antibiotics, told him to get some over-the-counter meds to deal with the gut and nasal symptoms, and gave him a referral to see a specialist in Santa Fe for a colonoscopy. The thought of it held little appeal.

After picking up his meds at the hospital pharmacy, Kerney met Frank Vanmeter in the parking lot next to the empty helicopter landing pad.

“Where’s the chopper?” he asked. “I need to get back up the mountain pronto.”

Vanmeter shook his head. “You’re not going anywhere tonight; Chief Baca’s orders. Even if the chief was inclined to let you return to duty, Agent Istee said he wouldn’t be able to meet up with you until morning.”

“Have you and Clayton snookered me?”

“You could say that,” Vanmeter said with a smile as he opened the passenger door to his unit. “I’ll give you a ride to the motel. Take a hot shower, call your wife, get a good night’s sleep, and if you’re better in the morning, maybe Chief Baca will let you return to duty.”

Kerney settled into the seat. “What else did Agent Istee have to say for himself?”

“Seems our boy Larson is leading him on quite a merry chase. He’s doubling back and stopping frequently to cover his tracks. Clayton says he’s no closer to him than he was when you got airlifted from the coal mine. But now things are a bit more complicated.”

“How so?” Kerney asked.

“Kerry Larson is on the loose,” Vanmeter replied. “Going where, we don’t know. He left the ranch, passed through a locked pasture gate with a key, and slipped his tail. If he’s not careful, he could get shot by somebody who thinks he’s his brother.”

“Great,” Kerney said as they pulled up to the motel.

In his room, Kerney followed Vanmeter’s advice and took a hot shower before calling Sara.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“In a motel room in Raton.”

“It’s not like you not to call.”

“Sorry about that. I’ve been tracking Larson on horseback with Clayton the last two days.”

“Have you got him?”

“Not yet, but he’s almost surrounded. Does that sound as lame to you as it does to me?”

“I’m trying not to scoff.”

“We’ll get him.”

“You sound all stuffed up and congested. Are you okay?”

“Just the sniffles, nothing more.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“I was on the phone with Grace earlier. She’s worried about Clayton. You do know that Paul Hewitt died in his sleep?”

“We heard. Clayton took it pretty hard, but he’s coping.”

“He needs to call home.”

“I’ll let him know in the morning.”

“Isn’t he with you at the motel?”

“No, he’s camped out on Larson’s trail, and Larson’s hiding somewhere on a resort mountain ranch that stretches to the Colorado state line. We’ve got over two dozen officers up there with him.”

“Patrick and I are leaving in the morning for London.”

“So soon?”

“My emergency leave is up, Kerney. Jack and Irene are driving us to the airport.”

“How are they doing?”

“A little bit better. When you get back to the ranch, Lynette wants to talk to you about taking over the breeding program.”

“Did she say anything more about it?”

“No, but two days ago she found out she’s pregnant.”

“That’s heartbreaking,” Kerney said.

“In a way. But in another way she’s delighted. So are Jack and Irene. When will you be joining us in London?”

“As soon as this gets wrapped up.”

“You’re sure?” Sara asked.

“I’m sure.”

“Hold on, there’s a young man here who wants to talk to you.”

Sara turned the phone over to Patrick, and Kerney spent a few minutes reassuring his son that he’d see him in London. He promised to take him riding in Hyde Park soon after he got home. He said good night to Sara, took his meds, set the alarm clock, and went to bed, determined to be rid of what ailed him by morning.

Clayton made camp at dusk, fed the horses, fixed a big meal, and settled in for the night. He remembered his conversation with Paul Hewitt in the hospital and the comment the sheriff had made about going skydiving without a parachute as soon as he finished his rehab. He couldn’t shake the thought that somehow Sheriff Hewitt had found a way to kill himself. Maybe he’d just willed himself to stop breathing. He wondered what the autopsy would reveal, and if it would ever be made public.

Clayton worried about Kerney until Frank Vanmeter called him on the handheld to say the illness wasn’t serious, and that unless Kerney’s symptoms worsened, he would rejoin the search in the morning. He’d missed Kerney’s company. The last two days with him chasing Larson to hell and gone had been the best time he’d ever spent with his father. The man who only a few short years ago had been a stranger was now a true friend.

He tried to call Grace on his cell phone but couldn’t get a signal. He raised Vanmeter on his handheld and asked him to relay a message to Grace letting her know he was okay.

“Anything else you’d like me to pass on?” Vanmeter asked.

“Tell her I’ll call as soon as I can,” Clayton replied.

“Ten-four.”

Clayton ended the transmission, spread open a map on his sleeping bag, and used a flashlight to study it. Except for one drink in a streambed, the horses had gone without water since afternoon. In the morning, he needed to get them to the nearest water source before setting out on Larson’s trail. He noted the closest water to his position, judged it to be less than two miles away, folded the map, and turned off the flashlight. He’d skip breakfast and get started before daybreak. That way he’d be back on Larson’s trail early.

Where the rangeland ran against the foothills, a Forest Service road cut through a canyon and traveled deep into the mountains before ultimately hooking up to a state road that led to the tiny village of Costilla, just south of the Colorado border. There were some primitive campgrounds along the way, up around Ash Mountain, but for the most part the area was mainly wilderness.

For all his adult years, what Kerry Larson loved to do best with his free time was hunt, and time and again he had gone into the backcountry looking to take his annual buck during deer season. In the last twelve years he’d rarely failed to bring a big one home for the freezer.

Kerry knew every Jeep trail, game trail, old abandoned mining road, footpath, and backcountry trace in those mountains. And by nightfall he was five miles beyond where he’d hidden his truck, sitting next to the bank of a crystal-clear stream that fed into the Vermejo River, wrapped in his coat to keep away the chill, eating peanut butter and crackers for his supper.

He figured to be north of the lodge at the ranch by mid morning, and no more than two hours away on foot from the valley where he and Craig had found that cave so long ago. If Craig wasn’t already there, he would wait for him. And when he came, Kerry would make him give himself up to the police.

Kerry washed down his peanut butter and crackers with some water, curled up on a bed of pine needles he’d fashioned next to the streambed, and let the sound of rushing water lull him to sleep.

Craig Larson slept well but woke hungry. Hiking up and down ravines, canyons, and mountains, sometimes having to almost drag his horse to come along behind him, had given him quite an appetite. He checked the supply of food he’d taken from the pantry at the line camp in Dawson where Truman Goodson had caught his bullet. He was down to one can of sardines. He ate it quickly and saddled his horse. It was time to get more provisions, and that meant paying a visit to the ranch lodge. But first, he needed to find water and grass for the horse.

After two hours of difficult riding over rocky ground and through dense tree cover, Larson broke clear into a long finger-like meadow ringed by tall pines, causing a startled doe and her fawn to bolt for the woods. He dismounted and walked the horse to a stream where they both drank before he turned the animal loose to graze on the tall grass.

Larson wasn’t exactly sure of his location, but he knew he was beyond the coal mine and the gravel pit and more or less parallel to the pavement that dead-ended at the ranch. Eventually he would top out on a summit that overlooked the valley where the lodge nestled. Once there, he’d stop and make a plan on how to conduct his attack.

He thought about Truman Goodson and decided to give him the moniker of “Good Old Truman.” That way he could join Kid Cuddy, Ugly Nancy, Cowgirl Tami, and Porky Pettibone as victims firmly entrenched in Larson’s mind. And how could he forgot la cucaracha, Bertie Roach, whose neck he’d snapped in that Albuquerque motel? An idea surfaced that he needed to come up with nicknames for all the people he’d killed. It would make the memorial plaque that much more historically interesting.

Larson let the horse graze for a good long time before riding on. Underneath a tall pine, he looked back and saw a rider trailing three horses come into view at the far end of the meadow. He pulled the Weatherby from the scabbard and looked through the scope. It was the Indian-looking cop he’d seen coming out of the Raton motel with the state police officer.

He sighted in on the cop and squeezed off a round. Horse and rider went down in the tall grass and neither got up. The three riderless horses, one saddle mount and two pack animals, scampered back into the trees.

Larson dismounted and fired five more rounds at the spot where the horse and rider had fallen. From his vantage point he couldn’t tell if his shots had hit the mark. He waited a good ten minutes for any sign of life before scrambling partway up the slope to see if his quarry was down.

He cautiously peered around a tree and a bullet almost took his ear off. Larson blind-fired rounds before retreating to his mount and riding away. He figured the cop’s horse was dead. If the cop was unharmed, he’d have to round up his scattered animals before he could continue the chase.

Larson decided to get to higher ground, find a good spot, and pick the cop off if and when he closed the gap.

Cradling his rifle in his elbows, Clayton belly-crawled through the tall grass. He made it to the tree line, found cover, called in a 10-55, officer under fire, gave his location, and inspected the leg his roan had fallen on. From what he could tell it was maybe a pulled ligament and not broken. Standing behind a thick pine tree for protection, he stood up and put some weight on the leg. It didn’t buckle.

He keyed his handheld and reported he was limping a bit but otherwise unhurt, then went looking for the buckskin and the two packhorses, and found them one by one. He returned to the edge of the meadow, secured the horses, and crawled back to the dead roan. It had taken all six rounds meant for Clayton. Keeping his head down, he removed the animal’s saddle and bridle, secured it on his back, and crawled to where the horses waited.

Kerney’s voice came over the handheld as Clayton was about to circle the meadow and attempt to get behind Larson.

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

“Affirmative.”

“I’m in a chopper five miles out. Give me your exact GPS coordinates.”

Clayton did as asked. “I’m at the near edge of a narrow meadow,” he added. “You can’t miss it.”

“Ten-four.”

“If you’re planning to come along with me,” Clayton said, “eighty-six the idea. The roan is dead and I’m riding the buckskin.”

“You’re not getting shot at again without backup,” Kerney countered. “Put your saddle on one of the packhorses and stay off my buckskin. How far ahead is Larson?”

“No more than an hour if you hurry and he isn’t perched somewhere up high waiting to pick us off.”

“Is the meadow big enough for a safe landing?”

“It is.” Clayton could hear the approaching chopper.

“Cover us if it’s a hot LZ.”

“Ten-four.”

The bird came over the ridgeline, dropped fast into the meadow, and made a quick pass from one end to the other before delivering Kerney, who tumbled out the door and zigzagged to the trees.

Clayton walked to him and handed the reins to the buckskin. “Hold this while I saddle the packhorse,” he said.

“You’re limping,” Kerney replied, eyeing Clayton’s leg.

“Yeah, I’m limping and you’ve got a crabby gut.” Clayton unhitched the frame from a packhorse and wrestled it to the ground.

“I’m better.”

“That’s good to hear,” Clayton answered. “As soon as I’m on horseback I’ll be better too, because I won’t be limping.”

Kerry Larson hiked through a thinned-out stand of trees at the edge of the valley where the Vermejo River gurgled clear and cold in a rocky streambed. He was well north of the ranch lodge, with one tall summit left to climb to reach the secluded valley where he and his brother had long ago rebuilt the old corral.

Kerry had been back several times since then on solo elk hunting trips. He always took some time to visit the hidden cave with the Indian drawings and watch the small herd of buffalo that roamed the fenced-in valley.

Although he had no way to prove it, Kerry knew for certain that his brother would come to that valley, and it wasn’t just the mountain man comment that made him know it. In the past, he’d have hunches Craig was about to call him or had sent him something in the mail, and it would happen just like he thought.

He started up the mountain, his thighs aching from the effort, his calves still sore from his steep descent into the valley. He paused for a drink of water from the canteen in his backpack. What could he say to Craig to make him stop running? He had always bossed Kerry around, but not this time. Not this time.

Kerry concentrated his thoughts as he climbed, trying hard to put together words he could use to get Craig to do the right thing and give himself up.

Craig Larson heard the chopper and changed his mind about lying in wait to bushwhack the cop. He’d already passed beyond the meadow and didn’t want to return and risk the possibility that the helicopter had landed and disgorged a half dozen more cops who were already scrambling up the hillside to run him down. He guided the horse through the trees as fast as it would go, stopping occasionally to listen for the sound of pursuit. Except for the wind in the trees and brief bird songs all was quiet behind him.

Larson walked the horse sideways down a steep gully where the tree cover parted enough to give him a glimpse of the highway below. Beyond the slight curve in the road he caught sight of a stretch of grassland, and hurried the gelding along to take a better look. He broke free of the trees on a rock shelf that gave him an unobstructed view of the valley and the ranch lodge with its many outbuildings, barns, stables, and corrals.

The lodge was an old timber-frame building with a pitched shingled roof, deep verandas, and massive stone chimneys. The guest parking lot adjacent to the building held a dozen expensive passenger cars and SUVs.

The barns and outbuildings sprinkled through the sheltered valley were of the same design as the lodge. A rectangular building set well back behind the stables had a gravel lot at the rear where an assortment of much less expensive vehicles were parked. Larson figured it to be staff housing.

In a large paddock in front of the stables were several sleek, fine-looking horses. Larson decided to bypass the lodge, see what kind of food he could grab in the staff quarters, and get a fresh mount from the paddock.

He doubted he would be able to get in and out without being spotted, so he checked the magazine in the Glock autoloader to make sure it was full before backing the horse off the outcropping and following a well-worn trail down to the valley.

Once on the valley floor, Larson spurred his horse toward the staff quarters, expecting to be seen and challenged. But nobody came to intercept him. He made it safely to the stables only to be greeted by a young freckle-faced woman who stepped outside to meet him.

“Can I help you?” the young woman asked.

Larson smiled as he slid off the horse, stuck the Glock in the young woman’s face, and hustled her back inside the stables.

“Why yes you can, Cutie Pie,” he said. “Tell me, where is everyone else beside you?”

“You’re that man,” the woman replied, almost screeching. “That man.”

Larson put her in a headlock and pressed the Glock against her eye. “I’ve got no time for small talk, Cutie Pie. Where is everybody?”

Cutie Pie swallowed hard before answering. “Most of the guests are out on a trail ride with our wranglers. The others are on a birding walk with our wildlife manager. And the lodge staff are getting ready for an early evening wedding reception.”

“That’s good, Cutie Pie,” Larson said, easing the pressure on her neck. “The building behind the stables is where the staff lives, right?”

The woman nodded. She had pretty blue eyes filled with tears.

“Who is there right now?”

“Nobody. Everyone’s at work.”

“What about the gardeners who keep the grounds shipshape?”

“There’s only one gardener and he’s helping set up for the wedding party.”

“Is there food at the staff quarters?”

“Yes, we have our own kitchen.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Larson released his grip and poked her in the kidney with the Glock. “Act natural. Try to run, and I’ll kill you. Scream or shout, and I’ll kill you. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Inside the staff quarters, Larson found the refrigerator and cupboards well stocked. He ordered Cutie Pie to fill a pillowcase with food and carry it back to the stables.

He walked behind her, prodding her along with the Glock. “What’s your name, Cutie Pie?” he asked.

“Celia Calvin.”

“I’m gonna make you famous.”

“How? By murdering me?”

Larson laughed as he pushed her into the stables. “I probably should. No, I’m gonna let you live so you can tell people Craig Larson didn’t hurt you much.”

“How much is not much?”

Larson slapped her. “I hate a smart mouth on a woman. Don’t make me change my mind about killing you. You tell them I didn’t violate you. No rapine, as the old-timers used to call it. You tell them Craig Larson was a gentleman. That he tipped his hat to you and thanked you for the food and the loan of a horse. You got that?”

“Okay.”

“Say it!” Larson ordered with a snarl.

“No rapine,” she replied in a shaky voice. “You were a gentleman who treated me like a lady.”

Larson bared his teeth and smiled. “That’s good. Real good. Bring that chestnut mare in here and saddle it for me.”

Celia did as she was told. When she finished, he clubbed her on the side of the head with the Glock, laid her facedown on the floor, hogtied her with rope, and stuck a rag in her mouth. He packed the food from the pillowcase into saddlebags, transferred the sheathed Weatherby to his fresh horse, and mounted up.

Behind the stables and the staff quarters, the forest underbrush had been cleared and the trees thinned, creating a parklike setting. There were several well-marked trails that led to vantage points above the valley, complete with signs giving the mileage to each destination. Larson followed the trail that took him in the general direction of the buffalo pasture and the cave hidden in the mountainside.

He was about to leave the trail and strike out cross-country when a man packing a sidearm and leading a group of four sturdy-looking boomers, two men and two women, came into view. They all had binoculars around their necks and wore floppy hats, hiking shorts, and hiking boots.

When the man with the pistola held up his hand and told Larson to stop, he shot him with the Glock. The boomers looked on in stunned silence for a minute until one of the women started to scream.

He pointed the Glock at her but didn’t pull the trigger. “Shut the fuck up,” he yelled.

She covered her mouth and gagged for air.

“I should kill you all,” Larson announced, “but I won’t. Because I want you to tell the law it was a fair fight. You tell them he was gonna draw down on me. Understand?”

The foursome nodded in unison.

Larson waved the Glock at the dead man. “What was his name?”

“Wade Christopher,” one of the men replied, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

Larson smiled. “Wade. I like that name. It’s a good Western name. I’m proud to have shot him down.” He pointed the Glock in the direction of the lodge. “Get going, before I change my mind.”

The foursome moved quickly around the body, sidestepped Larson on the chestnut mare, and scurried down the trail. He fired a couple of bullets in the air to hurry them along and continued up the mountain.