Nowhere to Run

28

They followed the tracks of the horses that had been there before them into the mountains. Joe determined that the men from Michigan had six horses. What he couldn’t tell was if that meant there were six men total or if at least a couple of the animals were packhorses. The horses they were following had been recently shod, based on the sharp edges of the imprints in the dust and mud.

But who were they, these men? And how did Dave Farkus get hooked up with them? Joe’s best guess was Farkus stumbled on the men and was taken along-or disposed of along the way. The purpose of the riders was unclear as well, although Joe was pummeled with the many connections to Michigan and the Upper Peninsula that kept cropping up. Were these riders after the brothers? Or allies with them?

Joe and Nate quickly fell into a procedure where if they wanted or needed to talk, they would sidle next to each other on horseback so they could lean into each other and keep their voices down. Joe sidestepped his horse off the trail and let Nate catch up and rein to stop.

Joe said, “What do you think happened to the boys from Michigan?”

Nate narrowed his eyes while looking ahead of them up the mountain. “All I know is that they haven’t come back down the trail to their vehicles. That says they’re still up here. Or that they aren’t ever coming down.”

“I’d opt for the latter,” Joe said, leaning on the pommel and looking ahead.

“I’m trying to figure out why the brothers went after their vehicles,” Nate said. “It seems kind of pointless to expose themselves that way.”

Joe nodded. “Unless the purpose was more general.”

Nate caught Joe’s meaning. He said, “Like a warning to everybody out there that if you try to go after the brothers, they’ll come around behind you and destroy your property. They’re saying, Stay the hell out of these mountains.”

“Just like the message they gave Sheriff Baird,” Joe said.

Nate started to say something but didn’t. He swallowed and made a face as if he’d tasted something bitter.

As he rode, Joe continually scanned the trail up ahead of him and shot hard looks into the trees lining both sides. His shotgun was within quick reach. If the brothers didn’t know they were being pursued, it was possible he and Nate could simply ride up on them. He wanted to be ready.

The afternoon sun lengthened the shadows across the trail and enhanced the fall colors of the aspen into almost blinding acrylic hues. It would be effortless for the brothers to simply meld into the throbbing colors of the trees and for Joe not to see them, he thought.

A doe mule deer and her fawn stayed ahead of them on the trail and Joe kept seeing her at each turn. She’d graze with the fawn until the horses came into sight, then startle with a white flap of her tail and bound ahead again and again. Joe wished she’d move off the trail for good, because each time she saw him and jumped, his heart did, too.

An hour later, as dusk muffled the eastside slopes and the acrylic colors muted into pastels, Joe again spooked the doe and fawn. But rather than running ahead along the trail where it narrowed and squeezed through the trunks of two massive spruce trees, the deer cut into the timber to the right. Joe was pleased the deer had finally got out of the way, but then he saw them reappear yet again on the trail farther up the mountain slope like before.

Instinctively, he leaned back in the saddle and pulled back on the reins. He said, “Hold it, Nate,” quietly over his shoulder.

Nate rode up alongside. “Are you wondering if the packhorse and panniers are going to fit through that narrow chute?”

“No,” Joe said. “I’m wondering why those deer went around in the trees instead of staying on the game trail.”

Joe and Nate approached the trap from behind after tying off their horses in the trees. The design of the trap was a brutal work of art, Joe thought. And if it weren’t for the deer, he would have ridden right into it.

The brothers had cut down and trimmed a green lodgepole pine tree about as thick as Joe’s fist near the base. The base was wedged into the gap between two branches on the large spruce, then bowed back almost to the point of breaking before being tied off with wire. The wire was fed through a smooth groove around the tree trunk and stretched ankle-high across the trail. It was tied off to a set of ten-inch lengths of wood that were notched back and fitted into one another. A thick foot-long sharpened stake was lashed to the tip of the lodgepole. If the wire was tripped, the notched lengths would pull apart sideways and release the tension that held the cocked arm and stake back.

“Chest high for a rider,” Joe said, absently rubbing a spot just below his clavicle.

Nate found a stump in the timber and carried it toward the trap from behind. “Stand back,” he said, and threw the stump with a grunt. It landed on the wire, which yanked the notched sticks apart and sent the lodgepole and stake slicing through the air with surprising speed and velocity.

While the pole and stake rocked back and forth, Joe said, “This was more than a warning to stay away.”

“That it is,” Nate said, inspecting the cuts on the lodgepole where branches had been trimmed away. With his fingertip, he touched an amber bead of sap that oozed from one of the cuts. “Fresh,” he said. “The boys probably put this up within the last couple of days. Maybe they’re expecting us.”

At that moment, far up the mountainside, was the harsh crackle of snapping branches. Joe and Nate locked eyes for a moment, then dived for the ground. They lay helplessly while a dislodged boulder the size of a small car smashed down the slope leveling small trees and splintering big ones along its path. The boulder rolled end-over-end, coming within ten yards of where they were on the trail. Remarkably, the horses didn’t snap their tethers and run away.

When the boulder finally stopped rolling and settled noisily below them, Joe stood up. The sharp smell of broken pine trees was in the air, along with the damp odor of churned-up soil.

“Man. ” Joe whispered.

“They’re real close,” Nate said. “And they know we’re right behind them.”

When they rode to the edge of the tree line, Joe and Nate paused on their horses before continuing up. The sun had sunk behind the western mountains an hour before. The moon was narrow and white, a toenail clipping, and the wash of stars was so bright and close as to be almost creamy. Ahead of them was a long expanse of treeless scree. The trail they were on switchbacked up through the scree, but dissolved into darkness near the top of the summit.

“I can’t see what’s up there,” Joe whispered. “But we’ll be in the open. This would be a great place to get ambushed.”

Nate said, “If we can’t see them, they can’t see us, right?”

“I wish there was a way to get over the top some other way,” Joe said, trying not to ascribe powers to the Grim Brothers that they didn’t realistically possess.

“There isn’t,” Nate said, nudging his horse on.

Joe had rarely ever felt as vulnerable, as much of a target, as he did riding up through the talus. He urged his horse to keep him walking fast, hoping the herky-jerky gait would make him less easy to hit if someone was aiming. There was nothing quiet about his ascent; his horse’s lungs billowed as it climbed, the gelding nickered from time to time to call to Nate’s horse and the packhorse, and the gelding’s steel shoes struck some of the shale rocks with discordant notes and tossed off sparks from time to time. By the time he made it to the summit and the ocean of mountaintops sprawled out before him to the west, his horse was worn out from the forced march and Joe had a slick of sweat between his skin and his clothing.

But no one fired, and nothing more happened.

He pushed the gelding on, over the top, so they’d no longer be in silhouette against the sky if the brothers were somewhere in the timber below them looking back. Nate was soon with him, his own horse breathing hard as well. They tucked away to rest the animals in a stand of aspen.

In the shadows of the trees, Joe’s boot heels thumped the hard ground as he dismounted to let his horse get his breath back. Nate did the same. They stood in silence, holding the reins of their horses, eyeing the dark timber and meadows out in front of them, wondering where the Grim Brothers were.

It was approaching midnight when Joe’s gelding stopped short. He recognized the horse’s familiar signals of fear or agitation: the low rumbling whoof, the whites of his eyes, the ears stiffly cocked forward. Joe’s horse took several steps back, nearly colliding with Nate’s mount.

Nate whispered, “What’s wrong?”

Joe shook his head. “Don’t know. Something’s spooked him.” He managed to get control of his horse after spinning him back around.

When Joe looked up, he could see Nate grimacing, his face illuminated by a splash of starlight.

“Jesus,” Nate said. “Look.”

Joe leaned forward and peered ahead on the trail, willing his eyes to see better in the dark. Something hung across the trail, reminding him of gathered curtains hanging from a rod. He slipped his Maglite out of its holster and adjusted the beam on a moon-shaped human face-eyes open but without the gleam of life, a dried purple tongue hanging out of its mouth like a fat cigar.

Joe twisted the lens of this flashlight to increase the scope of the light. While he did, he forgot to breathe.

Three male bodies, two in black tactical clothing and one in camouflage, hung from ropes tied to a beam that crossed the trail. The bodies were hung by their necks, but it was obvious they hadn’t died from hanging because of the wounds on them. One of the men in black had a hole in his chest, one’s skull was crushed in on the side like a dropped egg, and the third had an arrow shaft sticking out of his throat.

Joe recognized the make of the arrow.

He squelched the light of his flashlight and reached out for the saddle horn to steady himself because he felt suddenly light-headed.

“Oh, God,” he said, fighting nausea.

Nate said, “I think we found the boys from Michigan.”

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5