Dead or Alive

Chapter Twelve

Clayton and Kerney arrived at the ranch and learned that a young woman, sobbing in the arms of the resort manager, had been knocked unconscious and tied up by Larson. Four very distraught lodge guests who’d witnessed Larson shoot down the ranch wildlife manager on a hiking trail huddled nearby. They didn’t know if the victim was alive or dead.

Clayton called it in as they rode hard to reach the spot where the man had been gunned down. Before they were out of sight of the lodge, the first of a string of wailing squad cars could be heard coming up the canyon.

At the crime scene Kerney advised Vanmeter by radio that the victim was dead.

“According to the resort manager, there’s a large group of guests out on a guided trail ride,” he added, “and a wedding reception is scheduled for this evening at the lodge. Let’s get the reception canceled, a roadblock set up on the ranch road to keep people out, the trail riders found and brought in, all guests and staff accounted for, and everyone under police protection, ready to be evacuated quickly if need be.”

“Ten-four.”

“We’re moving on,” Kerney said.

“Best to wait for backup,” Vanmeter replied.

“There’s no time to wait. We’re closer to Larson than we’ve ever been. Put some SWAT sharpshooters on the chopper, bring them to the ranch, and have them ready to go airborne at a moment’s notice. That’s our backup. I’ll call for it if and when we need it.”

“Affirmative. Be careful out there.”

“Let’s all be careful,” Kerney replied.

Up ahead, Clayton waited impatiently. When Kerney joined up, Clayton pointed at trampled bunchgrass under some trees.

“He’s traveling cross-country,” Clayton said as he turned his horse to go up the trail. “I checked one of the maps the game and fish officer gave us. The only logical place he can be heading is to a small mountain valley above us. There’s a notation on the map that it’s home to a small buffalo herd owned by the ranch. Other than that, it’s rugged, uninhabited country.”

“Why in the blazes is he going there?” Kerney asked as he came abreast of Clayton’s horse.

Clayton shook his head. “Don’t know, but if we stay on the trail for another mile or so, we’ll intersect a jeep track that will take us right to the valley. If we push it, we may even be able to get there before him.”

“Then let’s ride.” Kerney spurred his horse and left Clayton, who was astride a less than speedy packhorse he’d drafted as his mount, in the dust.

Kerry Larson reached the valley where the buffalo, enclosed by a high fence, were clustered on three hundred acres near one of the streambeds that drained out of the higher peaks and coursed through the basin. The land never got a break from the animals, and the tall grassland and wildflower meadows that had once filled the valley had been grazed and trampled into hardpan. The shallow, wandering, clear streams had been turned into deep, fast-running gullies bounded by eroded banks.

Kerry thought the cattle down on the short grass prairie ranches lived better than these poor animals, who survived on feed brought in by ranch hands on the jeep track. He’d learned somewhere that these were domestic buffalo. Dangerous, as any big animal on the hoof could be, but not wild. They still needed to roam though, maybe not like the truly wild ones up north somewhere in a national park, but enough so the land could heal and not be ground to powder under their hoofs.

Kerry circled the fence, looking for sign that Craig had arrived. Finding none, he climbed the side of a mountain that rose almost vertically from the valley floor, and went directly to the mouth of the small cave he’d discovered with his brother that summer long ago. It was hard to spot the opening through the thick branches of an ancient mountain mahogany, but once there, he threw some stones inside just in case some critters had taken up residence. The stones caused no ruckus, but to be make sure it wasn’t home to a rattlesnake nest, he shined his flashlight around before crawling in.

For a few minutes he sat and looked at the Indian drawings that were still visible on the cave walls. There were deer and bear figures and one of a hunter with a bow and arrow. But his favorite was a warrior wearing a headdress. Down in one corner of the back wall, he and Craig had carved their initials in the rock, along with the date. Kerry ran his hand over the letters, remembering the good times with his brother.

He wrapped his small backpack containing his remaining supply of food and water in his coat and went outside to find a good place to wait on Craig’s arrival. With his back against a big old pine tree and a clear view of the whole valley, he settled in, his rifle close at hand.

He still hadn’t come up with any good words to use on his brother. He was slow all right, just like Craig always said he was. But he wasn’t a bad man, and he didn’t want his brother to be bad anymore.

Not long after leaving the trail where he’d met up with the pistol-packing guide and his flock of bird-loving tourists, Larson found himself on a well-used jeep track that traveled straight up over a summit and down some switchbacks to the valley. At the crest he stopped and looked over the buffalo herd clustered behind the high post-and-wire fence at the far end of the basin. He counted twenty animals, including four calves. That wasn’t as many as he’d hoped for, and they looked none too wild and woolly, but if he could get them stampeded, it still might be fun to see how many he could bring down with the Weatherby Mark V.

A rifle shot from the far side of the valley cut through the air. Larson jumped off the chestnut mare, pulled the Weatherby, and hit the dirt, looking frantically for the shooter. Another shot echoed through the peaks, followed by the sound of his brother’s voice calling him.

Cursing, Larson stood, used the scope of the rifle to scan the mountainside across the valley, and spotted Kerry clutching a long gun and waving at him with his free hand. He hollered, waved back, got on the chestnut, and started down the switchbacks, totally mystified. How could Kerry have possibly known where to come looking for him? More than that, what in the hell was he doing here?

He kept his gaze fixed on his brother as he dropped down the mountain, watching Kerry scramble to the fence line and run along the perimeter toward a gate a good half mile distant. Seeing no horse or vehicle, Larson figured Kerry had hiked into the valley. But why?

A wave of paranoia unexpectedly hit Larson. He pulled the chestnut to a quick stop. What if Kerry had brought the cops here to ambush him? Or barring that, what if the cops had been smart enough to follow his dumb-ass brother? He did a tight three-sixty on the chestnut, looking for any movement or glint of a reflection off a gun barrel or sunglasses. Heart racing, he scanned high and low, half expecting to feel the sudden impact of a slug take him down. After a long ten seconds, nothing had happened. He hurried the chestnut to the valley floor and galloped to his brother, who was still a good quarter mile away from the gate to the high fence.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Larson shouted as he closed the gap. He slipped out of the saddle, tied the chestnut mare to a fence post, and watched his brother jog the final fifty yards.

Winded, Kerry slowed to a walk and caught his breath. “I came to take you home,” he said with an apologetic smile.

“Do what?” Larson replied incredulously. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Kerry stopped three feet away from his brother, his hand tight on the stock of his rifle. “Take you home so you can stand up for me and make it right.”

“Make what right?” Larson demanded.

“That I’m not the cause of you killing all those people.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“People say I told you about Lenny Hampton turning you in to the police and that’s what started you off being a killer. If I hadn’t said anything, you just would have gone away.”

“But you did tell me about Lenny, didn’t you?” Larson said with a short laugh.

Kerry hung his head. “Not to get him hurt. Or those other people either.”

Larson smiled. “Well, let me ease your pain, little brother. I started killing people long before I left your pal Lenny Hampson begging for his life in the desert. Does that make you feel any better? Or do you need a note to take back to all your friends explaining that you’re not to blame for the notches on my gun?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Larson snapped. “But now that I turn the situation over in my mind, it comes to me that you could be an accessory after the fact.”

“What’s that?”

“Somebody who helped me get away from the police.”

“Because you lied to me.”

“The cops aren’t going to believe that.”

Kerry squared his shoulders, both hands locked on his rifle. “That’s why I need you to come with me and give yourself up. To tell the truth.”

Larson laughed in his brother’s face as his hand found the grip of the Glock autoloader. “Never gonna happen, younger brother. And if you point that rifle at me, I’ll shoot you down, brother or not.”

“So you can pretend to be me, right? Just like you said the other day.”

“It’s an idea with some merit,” Larson allowed. “How did you know I’d be here?”

Kerry shrugged. “I just thought on it for a spell and figured this is where you’d come.”

Larson laughed. “Well, isn’t that something? And here I didn’t even know I was headed this way myself. Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“I know I wasn’t, but you were.”

“You’re right about that, little brother. Are you gonna stay and help me when the cops get here?”

“I’ll help you give yourself up.”

Larson groaned in mock disappointment. “That’s not it. I want you to help me shoot the sons-of-bitches.”

Kerry shook his head. “I won’t do that.”

“Then you’re worthless to me.” Larson tilted his head in the direction of the buffalo herd at the far end of the valley. “But that’s okay. You always have been.”

Larson and Kerry locked eyes. It’s like looking in a mirror, but it’s not, Larson thought. “Let’s you and me shoot those buffalo before the cops get here,” he said. “Then you can skedaddle.”

“What?” Kerry asked, mystified.

“I’ve heard that when they’re running, the ground shakes. And when you shoot them while they’re at a full gallop, the thud when they fall sounds like a small explosion. Man, I’d like to see that.”

Kerry looked at his brother as if he were a stranger. “That’s a bad-crazy idea. It’s just more killing for no cause.”

“You think so?” Larson snarled. “I’ll tell you what a bad-crazy idea is. Firing your rifle twice in the air was really bad-crazy. Now the cops know exactly where I am, even if they’re five miles back.”

He stepped up to Kerry and pushed him hard in the chest with the flat of his hand. “Just walk away from me. Get the hell out of here before I shoot you. Go home. Go back to your spark plugs and grease gun, and your simple-minded life. Get going.”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Kerry said.

“Maybe so. But if you stay, I’ll probably get you killed too. Go on now.”

Kerry dropped his gaze and hesitated.

“Get,” Larson ordered sternly. “Do as you’re told.”

Kerry turned, stepped away, stopped, and looked back, his expression like that of a crestfallen puppy.

“Go,” Larson repeated, more severely.

Reluctantly, Kerry walked away, headed back the way he’d come. Larson watched him for a few minutes before mounting up. He turned the chestnut toward the mouth of the valley, where he had spotted a ledge about two hundred feet up the side of the mountain that would give him cover and a great vantage point. That was where he would make his stand.

He looked back once in Kerry’s direction. He was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was hiding in the woods waiting to see what happened and would still manage to get himself killed before the day was out.

Larson decided he couldn’t worry about Kerry anymore. For a time, he had honestly believed that killing him would have been as easy as pie. But when he’d tried to work himself up to pulling the trigger, he’d realized that it just wasn’t in him.

Must be brotherly love, Larson thought with a snicker as he guided the chestnut to the ledge.

The sound of a rifle shot brought Kerney and Clayton to a full stop. The second shot got them out of their saddles and moving cautiously on foot up the jeep track. Just shy of the crest, they dropped down and belly-crawled to a mountaintop shelf shaded by the broad branches of a tall pine tree. They scanned the valley floor and surrounding peaks using binoculars. Below, a small herd of buffalo moved slowly inside a fence that ringed the confined basin. Above, a pair of ravens floated on thermals in the cloudless midday sky.

“See anything?” Kerney whispered.

Clayton shook his head. “Other than a bunch of buffalo in a used-up dust bowl, nothing.”

“Me neither. He could be right below us, or off to one side or the other.”

Clayton put his binoculars aside and turned over on his back. “So other than us becoming targets for him to shoot at, how do we get him to make his play?”

“We could ask him pretty please to give up,” Kerney said as he turned on his side to face Clayton. “Or better yet, we could ask Kerry to ask him to give up. That’s assuming Kerry is still alive after finding his brother.”

“And here I thought you missed those fresh footprints we passed on the jeep track,” Clayton replied with a hint of approval in his voice.

“Not likely.” Kerney returned to scanning with his binoculars. “Let’s assume Kerry has joined up with his brother. That might not be the case, but I’d rather err on the side of caution.”

“Agreed.” Clayton flipped back on his stomach. “So how do we smoke them out?”

“You stay here while I move to the other side of the valley. Once I’m on the ridge across from you with a good line of sight into the basin, I’ll have the chopper bring in the SWAT team. That should get both brothers’ attention.”

“There’s no cover down there,” Clayton said.

“I’ll tell Vanmeter to have the team treat it as a hot LZ.” Kerney pointed to a small clearing outside the fence line, near a stand of trees. “If the pilot lands the bird there, the team can get to cover quickly. Once they flush our targets or draw their fire, we can take our best shots.”

Clayton nodded. “Ten-four. You stay here. I’ll head over to the other side.”

“No, you won’t,” Kerney said as he started to crawl back away from the shelf. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been walking, and don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt like hell. You probably tore a ligament when that horse fell on you. Maybe you even cracked a bone. Stay put and stay alert.”

At the mouth of the cave, Kerry Larson removed the scope from his rifle, stretched out behind the branches of the mahogany bush, and quickly spotted Craig working his way up the mountainside riding the chestnut horse. The trees rose straight up on the rocky, steep slope, and twice the chestnut slipped badly and sunk to its haunches as it scrambled around a tall pine.

Finally, Craig got out of the saddle and led the horse up to a ledge where they disappeared for a minute into heavy timber. When Craig came back on foot, he was carrying two long guns and a bag. He leaned the rifles against a large, jagged rock and took boxes of ammunition and two handguns out of the bag. Kerry couldn’t see Craig anymore after he settled down behind the rock, but he could see the faint swishing of the horse’s tail in the trees behind him; a sure giveaway sign for anyone with a pair of binoculars and a keen eye.

Kerry used the scope to search either side of the jeep track that dropped over the crest to the valley below. It was the only way in, short of breaking a new trail, which would be pretty much impossible to do without chain saws, bulldozers, and a crew of twenty men. When the cops came, they would come that way.

For a moment Kerry thought he saw a quick movement on a shelf off to one side of the track. He held the scope steady on the spot but the only things moving were tree branches in the gusty wind.

The question of what he should do when the cops came pounded through his head, over and over. Help Craig? Help the cops?

Sometimes, when he couldn’t get something figured out, he used a trick he’d learned as a child to clear his mind. He put the scope back on his rifle, crawled into the cave, sat, folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and rocked back and forth.

It took Kerney more than an hour to hike through the forest and find a good location with a sweeping view of the valley. He scanned for Craig Larson and his brother before plugging his headset into his handheld radio and reporting his position to Clayton.

“Okay,” Clayton replied after a brief pause. “I’ve got your twenty. Any sign of our targets?”

“I thought I saw some movement in among the trees behind an outcropping, but I can’t be sure.”

“What if Kerry Larson didn’t come here to join up with his brother?” Clayton asked. “And if he is here, how are we going to tell the twins apart?”

“Good questions. Once SWAT lands and finds cover, we’ll have the team leader broadcast an appeal asking Kerry to stay out of harm’s way. I’m calling SWAT in now. Stay alert. Put down suppressing fire if one or both of them go after the chopper.”

“Ten-four.”

Kerney made the call and Vanmeter gave him a five-minute ETA. When he heard the approaching chopper, the sound of the rotors and the threat of Craig Larson out there somewhere, armed and dangerous, put Kerney back into the Vietnam jungle for an instant. He shook off the flashback just as the bird crested the mountain and dropped quickly toward the LZ.

Larson fired twice at the helicopter before Kerney spotted him on the outcropping he’d scanned a few minutes earlier. He zeroed in his Browning rifle and squeezed off three quick rounds. Across the way, Clayton, who had no line of sight, held his fire.

“Where is he?” Clayton asked.

Larson fired again at the descending chopper and ducked behind the large boulder. Kerney’s bullets ricocheted and splintered into shrapnel off the rock face.

“He’s about a quarter mile on your right and two hundred feet down. He’s on a rock outcropping behind a boulder.”

“I can’t see it from here. I’m moving.”

Larson’s next bullet cut the air six inches above Kerney’s head before it tore into a tree trunk. Kerney scooted back to cover.

“Keep in sight,” Kerney answered, “and I’ll guide you into position. Larson can’t see you.”

“Any sign of Kerry?”

“Negative.”

Larson rose up and fired once more at the chopper as it landed, and Kerney’s bullet creased the boulder next to his head. Larson answered with a shot that blew rock fragments off the spot Kerney had just vacated. He responded with suppressing fire that kept Larson’s rifle silent while the SWAT team made it to the cover of the trees.

Spooked by the helicopter and the gunfire, the buffalo herd began to stampede away from the chopper. When Larson started firing again, it was at the buffalos. Two big animals went down before he quit shooting. As the herd thundered by Kerney’s position, kicking up a cloud of dust from the hardpan valley floor, he saw a flash of movement behind the boulder.

“Stand fast,” he radioed Clayton as he focused on the outcropping with his binoculars. “I think Larson’s on the move.”

“I’m holding,” Clayton replied.

Kerney kept the glasses locked on Larson’s position. There was a quick movement in the trees and then nothing. Below, under the tree cover at the edge of the basin, the SWAT commander’s voice came over the bullhorn, asking Kerry Larson to lay down any weapons he had, make his whereabouts known, keep his hands in plain sight, and remain calm until an officer reached him.

“Well?” Clayton demanded.

Kerney saw the backside of a horse with a man hunched over a saddle flash between two trees. “He’s on horseback but I can’t tell whether he’s traveling up or down the mountain.” He slung the binoculars around his neck, retreated farther into the forest, and started down the slope. “I’m heading to the valley floor.”

“Roger that,” Clayton replied. “I’ll stay up high and track him from here.”

“Ten-four.” Kerney passed the word by radio to the SWAT commander, told him to have his people concentrate the search on the south side of the valley, and continued down the mountain, slipping on the steep slope and fighting his way through thick underbrush.

Once again, the sound of the SWAT commander’s voice rang out over the bullhorn, telling Kerry Larson to disarm himself, keep his hands in plain view, remain calm, and await the arrival of an officer to take him into custody.

Kerney hoped Kerry would do as he was told and avoid getting shot.

Twice Kerry Larson heard somebody calling his name and saying to stay put and remain calm, or something like that. He couldn’t catch it all inside the cave, but from the sound of the arriving helicopter and the shooting, he knew the cops were in a gunfight with his brother.

He collected his thoughts for a moment. He could either stay hidden until the shooting stopped or go out and see what the cops wanted with him. He worried that maybe he would be arrested for that “after the fact” thing Craig said he’d done, being an accessory or something. That Indian cop had said the same thing at the state police station in Springer and showed him the writing in the law book.

He couldn’t stand the idea of going to jail. It scared the bejesus out of him. He needed to put into words that he’d come here to get his brother to give up, not to help him, and that he hadn’t been in cahoots with Craig to help him get away.

He grabbed his rifle and crawled out of the cave into the blinding sunlight. Clutching the weapon, he blinked to clear his vision, scampered down to the flats, and started walking along the fence line. He passed two dead buffalo and shook his head at the idea that Craig had killed them for the fun of it. At the gate, he paused and looked through his rifle sight at the ledge where he’d last seen his brother. All the ammo and weapons Craig had arranged on the outcropping were gone, a sure sign he’d moved on.

“Drop the rifle,” a voice behind him said, “then raise your hands and turn around slowly.”

Kerry turned. Twenty feet away stood the policeman who had partnered up with the Indian cop to track his brother down. He had a nasty-looking semiautomatic rifle pointed at Kerry’s chest.

“Don’t shoot me.”

“Drop the rifle,” Kerney repeated.

“I wasn’t going to hurt anybody,” Kerry replied, as he laid his rifle carefully on the ground.

“I believe you. Step away from the weapon and back up to the gate with your hands raised.”

“Okay.” Kerry walked backward to the gate, his hands high above his head.

Kerney approached, kicked the rifle away, and quickly cuffed Kerry to a gate railing. “You’ll be okay. No one will hurt you. Someone will be here shortly.”

Kerry nodded, and then looked up at the rock ledge.

“We know where he is,” Kerney said, following his gaze.

“He’s bad-crazy,” Kerry whispered, half-afraid Craig might hear him.

“I know,” Kerney replied as he started a zigzag run across the narrow valley, hoping bad-crazy Craig wasn’t looking at him through the scope of his rifle, about to gun him down.

Clayton hugged the ridgeline, traveling as fast as his bum leg would carry him, the pain shooting through his kneecap with each step. He slipped on a loose rock, and the jolt to his knee made him pause and catch his breath. He couldn’t tell if he’d cracked a bone in his leg, but the fibula felt real sore. Maybe it was just a bruised bone.

He pushed on, dipped below the ridgeline twice and clambered back up, before finding some fresh hoofprints. He followed them for a while before checking in with Kerney by radio.

“He’s moving laterally, deeper into the forest,” he said into his headset.

“Give me your twenty,” Kerney responded.

Clayton described what he could see of the mountainside beneath his feet.

“Got it,” Kerney replied. “I’m coming up. How’s your leg?”

“Fine,” Clayton responded as he started out again, wincing at the pain.

“Don’t give me that. Stay where you are.”

“Negative. He’s no more than five minutes ahead of me.”

“Is that based on traveling with two good legs or one?” Kerney shot back.

“I’m moving,” Clayton answered flatly.

Kerney spied a narrow ravine that coursed down the mountain about a hundred yards from Clayton’s summit location. He ran to the mouth of the ravine and began scrambling up, at times pulling himself over large rocks, the Browning slung on his back and his binoculars bouncing on his chest.

Halfway up, a small rockfall cascading through the trees caused Kerney to stop. He looked just in time to see Clayton tumble down a steep slope and land hard, his rifle flying through the air and clattering a hundred feet below.

Kerney called out but got no answer. He climbed the ravine as fast as he could, repeatedly shouting Clayton’s name. It took ten minutes of hard going to reach him, alive but unconscious with what appeared to be a broken leg. With a pocketknife, Kerney cut Clayton’s pant leg. There was bruising and swelling around the lower leg but no visible sign of fracture. Discoloration marked the side of Clayton’s skull and Kerney felt a knot above his left ear.

But his color was good; his skin dry to the touch, his pulse regular, and his breathing strong. Because of the possibility of a head injury, Kerney didn’t elevate Clayton’s feet. He contacted the SWAT commander and asked if there was a medic on the team.

“Affirmative. Officer Hurley was a combat medic in Afghanistan.”

“Send him to me,” Kerney said. “I have an officer down with a broken leg and a possible head injury. He’s unconscious.”

Hurley’s voice came over Kerney’s headset. “Is he in shock?”

“Not so far as I can tell.”

“Give me your location.”

Kerney told him where to look and pitched some baseball-size rocks over the treetops, as a visual cue for Hurley.

“I have you.”

“Larson’s brother is cuffed to the fence gate,” Kerney added.

“We have him in custody,” the SWAT commander replied.

“Send the rest of your team east of my position, and put the chopper up for aerial recon. Larson is moving away from the valley.”

“Ten-four.”

Kerney used his shirt to make a pillow for Clayton’s head and stayed with him, hoping he would wake up, but he didn’t. Every few minutes he checked Clayton’s pulse and respiration while he guided the SWAT team medic to him over his headset.

When Officer Hurley arrived, he quickly inspected Clayton’s skull. “No major swelling around the knot on his head. That’s good.”

He took Clayton’s vitals before inspecting the leg. “No signs of shock, and the break isn’t a compound fracture. All good news.”

Relieved, Kerney nodded.

Clayton opened his eyes, and before Kerney could say a word, Hurley quizzed him to make sure he wasn’t disoriented, sick to his stomach, or agitated.

“How’s the leg feel?” he asked.

“It hurts. Who are you?”

“Pat Hurley. I’m going to immobilize the leg and give you a painkiller, which should help. But it’s gonna take a while to get you off this mountain. I’ll stay with you.”

“That’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.” Clayton smiled apologetically at Kerney. “Sorry to have slowed you down.”

Kerney squeezed Clayton’s hand. “Not a problem. I’ll check back on you in a while.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

Kerney picked up his Browning, told the SWAT commander over his headset he was rejoining the hunt, and started climbing.

Craig Larson didn’t like being shot at. Stopping the cops only made good sense if he could kill them when they weren’t expecting it. Better yet, it was best to kill them when they were unarmed and not expecting it. The cop who had been shooting at him from across the valley had nearly killed him twice, dammit.

He hadn’t gotten very far into the forest when the chestnut lost its footing, spooked, and almost scraped a ponderosa. Larson ducked to avoid a branch, but the tree limb took him out of the saddle anyway and left him sitting on the ground with a throbbing head.

The horse skedaddled before Larson could reach up and grab the reins, and he was left with only the Glock autoloader and one spare magazine. He got on his feet and started walking. If he was going to survive, he needed to catch that chestnut and retrieve the Weatherby and the rest of his ammo.

Up ahead, the sound of a deep, short blow by the chestnut, followed by a loud whinny, got Larson’s attention. He found it with the reins hung up in some thick underbrush, still carrying the Weatherby and the ammo bag. He got it untangled, mounted up, and headed in a direction that would take him around the valley and into higher, rougher country closer to the Colorado state line.

Off in the distance, Kerney heard the whinny of Larson’s horse. He broke into a steady jog toward the sound of it. In the dense, overgrown forest, Larson had little advantage over a man on foot. In pursuit, Kerney dodged trees and skirted groves of mountain mahogany bushes until he came upon a faint game trail. He followed it, running faster, pushing aside the branches of new-growth pine trees that crowded the trace. After about a quarter mile, the trail widened and became more distinct. There, he found fresh hoofprints.

Kerney slowed to a walk, his heart pounding and his chest heaving from running in the thin mountain air. There were tail hairs from the horse in some of the pine branches that overhung the trail, and up ahead a warm pile of dung. He stopped, put a fresh clip in the Browning, switched off the safety, and started moving, treading lightly, breathing as quietly as he could, his eyes scanning for the slightest movement.

The chestnut was completely done in. It walked with its head lowered, mouth open, and showed bared teeth as though prepared to bite. It lashed its tail in irritation and slowed to a stop even after Larson spurred it. He slid out of the saddle, took the Weatherby and ammo bag, turned the animal loose, and watched it wander slowly down the trail.

He was about to follow along on the trail when he heard a sound behind him. He turned to find the cop who used to be the Santa Fe police chief holding a Browning semiautomatic rife on him.

“How many more cops are there?” Larson asked.

“Enough,” Kerney said, “and they all want to kill you.”

Larson dropped the Weatherby and ammo bag. “So, I give up. That way none of you can kill me.”

“Why spoil all the fun?” Kerney asked, pointing the Browning at the Glock semiautomatic stuck in Larson’s waistband. “Are you sure you don’t want to go for that Glock?”

“Against your Browning?” Larson shook his head. “No way.”

“I’ll lose the Browning. Fair enough?”

Larson considered the offer. Maybe he had a chance if he could pull the Glock and get a round off while the cop was losing the Browning. He needed time to think about it. But adding another cop’s name to the plaque of his kills at the St. James Hotel would be really bitching.

“Did you guys kill my brother?” he asked.

“Don’t change the subject,” Kerney replied. “Do you want a chance against me, or a lethal cocktail mixed up especially for you at the state penitentiary?”

The cop looked like a dangerous mother. All of a sudden the idea of prison didn’t seem so bad to him. He raised his hands over his head. “I know you. You used to be the police chief in Santa Fe, right?”

“Right.” Kerney shot him in the midsection with the Browning.

Larson sunk to his knees and clutched himself. “You weren’t supposed to do that.”

Kerney walked up, pulled the Glock from his waistband, and tossed it aside. “Why not?”

The first wave of shock hit Larson hard. “Rules,” he sputtered. “You’re supposed to follow the rules.”

“In your case, I made an exception.”

Larson shivered. “Get me help. Please.”

“You’re liver shot, Larson. You’ll be dead in under twenty minutes.”

“Please,” Larson begged. “Help me.”

Kerney backed away from Larson and waited for him to lose consciousness. Then he called Clayton and told him the hunt was over.

“Larson’s just about dead,” Kerney added.

“How dead is that?” Clayton asked.

“Ninety-five percent dead.”

“Ninety-five percent. That’s good.”

“I think so. How are you doing?”

“Officer Hurley says if the rescue team doesn’t drop me when they haul me off this mountain, I should survive with no permanent damage to my leg or my thick head.”

“I like your odds.”

“Yeah, me too,” Clayton said. “Thanks for making Larson mostly dead.”

“I had no choice,” Kerney replied.