Bitter Recoil

Chapter 22

The moon was huge and bright. It shone into Steamboat Rock Canyon like a gigantic spotlight. When I stepped out of Estelle’s patrol car in the campground parking lot, I could see my shadow. Garcia and Martinez waited.

The moon-washed air was dead. I hitched my gun a little higher under the overhang of my gut. Not a stir through the pine needles, not a whisper down the halls of the canyon. Nothing. I sighed.

“They better be sound sleepers,” I muttered and watched Paul Garcia thumb five fat cartridges into his shotgun. He was nervous and that would keep him alert. Martinez fidgeted. He didn’t much like staying behind.

Except for the three vehicles and Al Martinez, the campground was deserted as we started up the trail through the silent forest. We reached the fork of the trail, and then we veered even farther to the north, cutting away from the trail and following the granite spine of the ridge that paralleled the creek. I tried to breathe quietly, but after a few yards I was rasping like an old steam engine. Estelle slowed some, and when we reached a rock outcropping fifty yards above the trail fork she stopped.

I sat down on one of the ledges with a grunt. My pulse slammed in my ears, and out of habit I counted it for a minute.

“This is crazy,” I whispered.

“We’ll take it easy,” Estelle murmured.

“It’s still crazy.” I took a deep breath. The banging in my ears receded a little. The smells were rich, floating up from where our boots crushed the pine needles, grasses, and herbs. “When we reach the top of this ridge, it’s going to be rough. If one of us kicks a single pebble, the sound’s going to carry.”

Estelle nodded and repeated herself. “We’ll take it easy.”

I stood up and looked ahead. “I’m ready.” We faced perhaps a hundred yards of open rock slide and then the timber capped the granite ridge.

One rock at a time was my pace. I made sure of my footing before trusting my weight to wobbly ankles.

I reached the trees, and both Estelle and Paul made motions as if they were ready to move on. I held up a hand. Tour guides were all alike. They rushed ahead to the next attraction and waited for the old tourists who were poking along behind. When everyone caught up, it was time to be off again. The guys bringing up the rear, gasping because of bad hearts or recent hernias, never got to stop and rest. “We should have called for a helicopter,” I said.

“Are you all right?” Estelle asked, and I waved a hand.

“Just fine. I love hiking, don’t you? Especially in the middle of the goddamn night when I can’t see where to put my goddamn feet.” I turned and surveyed the hillside. The terrain swept up steadily, curving off slightly toward the east.

Estelle whispered, “If we just stay on the highest line, we should be just right.”

“Let me lead,” I said. I was under no illusions that I was the most competent woodsman of the group or even that I had the best nose for direction. But I hated being there more than the other two did, and because of that I might make fewer mistakes.

Hell, Estelle had time to take up knitting lessons while she waited for me to select steps. But we made progress. I passed a big, mistletoe-twisted ponderosa and saw rocks jutting out to the right toward the canyon.

I turned and held a finger over my lips. Both Estelle and Paul stopped. I made my way in slow motion out on the outcropping. I could see, off to the south, where the two canyons joined down by the creek. If my distance judgment was correct, the hot springs were less than a quarter mile away.

I remembered…it seemed a year now rather than a day…seeing Finn and little Daisy walk down through the timber. The slope hadn’t been extreme. That was the route we should take, coming in from the north behind the tent site.

I grunted up from my squatting position and waved for Estelle and Paul to follow. As we drew away from the terminus of the ridge and worked toward its root where it joined the mesa top, the pines were widely spaced, a park stand that would have been lovely to a Forest Service timber cruiser.

The ridge’s spine curved to the right, and I knew it circled behind the campsites below. I stopped. Estelle stepped so close I could smell the faint aroma of the shampoo she’d used.

“We’ll come in right behind them,” I whispered. She nodded. I motioned to Paul Garcia and laid a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t want to go down the hill as a group. Spread out and watch your footing. You on the left, Paul, with Estelle over on the right. Don’t get ahead of me. Don’t rush.”

His head bobbed with excitement, but I didn’t release my grip on his shoulder. “When we’re about a hundred feet from the camp, I want to stop and listen. You watch for my signal. And we’ll stay there for a while, so don’t get in a hurry.”

The footing was easy. I kept the inchworm pace, giving each boot toe plenty of time to find twigs or sticks that waited to let out rifle-shot cracks. Like three ghosts, we moved down through the timber.

The moonlight was broken into soft patches by the forest canopy, but before long I could make out Finn’s tent. The black rectangle was a geometry out of place in the tapestry of irregular shapes.

I held up a hand and stopped. To my right, I could see Estelle. She stood at the base of a ponderosa that was thick enough to hide three of her. With the authority of her uniform stripped away by the night, her figure was almost that of a child. The outline of her Stetson reminded me of the flat brim of an Easter bonnet worn by a girl a century ago.

I twisted at the waist and for a moment Paul Garcia remained invisible. Almost all the images in the nighttime forest were vertical…everything else disappeared.

My eyes clicked from tree to tree until I found him. He was leaning against a pine as if he were taking a breather during a Sunday afternoon stroll. He must have taken off his Stetson, because I could see the curved outline of the top of his head.

He pushed away from the tree and took a half step forward. I stopped breathing as I saw the moonlight touch the blond hair that swept down to his shoulders.