Lone Creek

30

I stashed the Victor in a stand of quaking aspen a quarter mile short of the shed and walked from there. The ride had gone about like I'd expected, starting out in prairie and sparse timber and then getting into rougher country, including one narrow rocky defile that almost turned me back. But the bike had run like a champ, and the reason I'd stopped short wasn't a physical obstacle or worry about somebody hearing me.

The storm-thick sky had brought a premature twilight bearing down on the land, a restless tapestry of shifting clouds, driven by a wind that grabbed at my hair and clothes. Maybe it was only because the lift I'd wanted from the crosstops had kicked in by now, heightening my senses and probably also my imagination. But moving through that kind of weather in that kind of country at dusk was like being in a thrilling dream that hovered on the edge of turning frightening at any second. I had become aware of that feeling early in childhood and had felt it on a thousand occasions since, and I'd never gotten over its message-that extremely powerful forces were aware of my being on their turf, and while they might tolerate me, they didn't like it and they were capable of changing their minds completely at any second.

The instinct that had arisen in me was to pay the toll with respect. That was why I'd decided to hike the last stretch. There was something arrogant about speeding through on a noisy machine. Going on foot was humbler and gave me a deeper appreciation, even awe, of my surroundings. It was a small gesture-I could only hope the thought counted. In general, I spent a fair amount of energy in my daily life trying to find little ways to propitiate those powers in advance for times like this, when I had to cut corners.

The ranch's electric fencing didn't extend this far into the hinterlands-there was just old-fashioned barbed wire strung on posts of lodgepole pine. I climbed over it, waded Lone Creek without taking off my boots, and stopped inside the edge of the sheltering line of trees along the stream.

The shed was about a hundred yards away, a dark bleak mar against the horizon, underscoring the solitude in the way that abandoned signs of human presence sometimes could. Nothing moved in the surrounding stubbly hay fields except some scatterings of alfalfa and timothy that the swather had missed, their fronds dipping and tossing in a submissive little dance to the wind.

When I got there everything looked the same as when Madbird and I had left last night, with the hay bales still at the ambush site. I opened the barn doors to let in light and started prowling. I didn't have any specific ideas of what to look for-only the faint hope of turning up something we'd missed.

He was right about there being shotgun pellets in the walls-I found a few right off. But like the organic residue, they were worthless as evidence-a ranch hand could have been hunting rats or just expressing himself after downing a six-pack or two. It didn't offer any hints about what was behind this, either. I kept looking, but I didn't see anything else that seemed out of place.

I'd been there about ten minutes when I thought I heard a faraway sound deeper than the wind. I strode to the doors. I couldn't see anything new moving out there.

But my eye was caught by a strip of bright blue embedded in the ground a few yards in front of the shed. I'd missed it on my way in-it was tiny and hidden, from most angles, by a ridge of dirt.

A ridge, I realized, that had been made by the Cat's blade.

I knelt beside the blue strip and pulled it free. It was a shred from a nylon tarp-like the one that had been wadded up with the carcasses in the dump.

Then I heard the noise again, a low rumble like an engine's. It might have been a passing plane or even thunder, but I couldn't take the chance. I slammed the shed doors shut and ran in a crouch for the trees. My wet boots were heavy to pick up and slogged down with ankle-turning clumsiness, and the distance seemed a lot longer than a hundred yards. I got behind a good-size bull pine and leaned against it, breathing hard. The sound was clear now, even over the pounding of my pulse. I edged my face out for a look.

Sure as hell, a pickup truck was approaching on the dirt road. It looked like one of the several almost identical gray Fords that belonged to the ranch.

I sagged back against the tree. I couldn't believe that anybody had seen or heard me coming here-the country I'd crossed was as deserted as the dark side of the moon. But it was almost as hard to believe that somebody would happen along, in this blowy Sunday twilight, for any other reason. Maybe I'd tripped some kind of security device I didn't know about. I faded another twenty yards into thicker cover. But I couldn't resist getting a look at who was in that truck.

The driver was just stepping out-a fit-looking man wearing jeans and a cowboy hat pulled low. But I didn't recognize him as any of the hands, and he seemed to walk a little awkwardly, like he wasn't used to his boots.

It was Wesley Balcomb himself.

Ordinarily, he drove a sunburst orange Humvee. I'd never seen him in one of the ranch rigs. The Humvee was a glossy, pristinely kept showpiece-maybe he hadn't wanted to take it over rough dusty roads. But my stronger guess was that he didn't want to be recognized by anybody who might glimpse it.

Instead of going to the shed, he walked away from it until he had a clear view in all directions. Then he turned slowly in a full circle, taking in the wide horizon of what he owned. There was no way in hell he could have seen me, crouched in the timber almost two hundred yards away. But I'd have sworn that his gaze paused for a couple of seconds just after it passed.

I didn't move again until he'd driven away.