feet.
“I’ve got Frank Vanmeter bringing in people to start searching around here pronto,” Clayton said. “They’ll go door to door first to check on the residents, and then do field searches, including the mesas, when the fogs lifts.”
Kerney stuck his head out the barn door and looked at the sky. “Which won’t be anytime soon.” He looked at Clayton’s damp, saddled roan gelding. “What have you been up to?”
“Out cutting Larson’s trail,” Clayton said. “When the storm hit, he was well past the village on a straight path for Miami Lake, due west of here. You would have figured that he would have kept going directly for the mountains, but I found his tracks doubling back toward the village.”
“Maybe he backtracked to seek shelter,” Kerney said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Kerney asked as he threw his saddle on the back of his horse.
“Because he didn’t make a beeline when he doubled back,” Clayton replied. “Instead he wandered partway up a mesa trail before trying to hide his tracks on some rocky ground. I found some fresh horse apples and several hoofprints from his pack animal. He headed west again.”
“So it was a feint to throw us off.”
Clayton nodded. “But I thought it best to have Vanmeter and his people do a sweep anyway.”
Kerney cinched his saddle. “Good thinking.”
He put the bridle on the buckskin and walked him to the barn door where Clayton waited, sitting in the saddle and ready to go. “So, I take it we’re heading west, young man,” he said.
Clayton nodded and handed Kerney the reins to the two packhorses.
“Lead on,” Kerney said as he mounted up and stared out into the soupy, dense fog. “But try not to guide us into trees, buildings, barbwire fences, ditches, or any moving vehicles,” he said.
Clayton pulled the hood of the rain poncho over his head. “I’ll do my best.”
Larson chased the pack animal into a thick fog that enveloped and disoriented him. He knew he would be in a hell of a fix if he couldn’t find that animal. Already, half of his equipment, gear, and provisions was spread along the last five miles of rangeland. But as far as he could determine, several weapons and all of the ammunition were still strapped to the pack frame, and that’s what he needed most.
With his head bent over the neck of his horse and his eyes glued to the tracks on the ground, Larson didn’t spot the animal until he heard it whinny. He looked up to see it lying in the mud, struggling without success to rise. He dismounted and walked to the animal. It had broken a front leg and the shattered bone showed just above the fetlock.
Cursing the worthless, stupid beast, Larson put a bullet in its brain, and retrieved the weapons and ammunition, all of which had fortunately remained securely tied to the pack frame.
He put the Colt and Ruger handguns in the ammunition bags, tied them to his saddle horn, stuck the 9mm Glock autoloader back in his waistband, and slung the lever-action 30.06 Winchester over his shoulder. He’d been carrying the Weatherby Mark V in the saddle scabbard, so the only rifle he had to leave behind was the Remington Safari.
He looked around for the satchel with the money and the jewelry, and it was nowhere to be seen. Through the fog, Larson sensed a slight lessening of the charcoal gray sky. Should he risk backtracking to find it? He checked Pettibone’s Omega wristwatch, looked again at the sky, and decided against it, although the idea of losing the satchel pissed him off. It was getting on to first light and surely the cops would be out in force looking for him, even if the storm stuck around and dumped more moisture.
He mounted up and turned the horse in the direction of the Cimarron River. After twenty minutes of steady riding, he reached the banks and walked the horse to the edge of the fast-moving water. Larson guessed it was no more than five or six feet deep and twenty feet across, but if he tried to swim across on the horse they could both be swept away.
Back when he’d cowboyed on the ranch there had been a landing strip close to the highway that ran from French Tract to Cimarron. An old plank bridge on a ranch road to the landing strip crossed the river at that point. His best bet was to go there and hope that it hadn’t been washed out.
Larson followed the river, found the ranch road, reached the intact plank bridge, and gave a sigh of relief. It had been rebuilt and reinforced with riprap, and native trees and vegetation had been planted along the riverbed to control erosion. He crossed over the river and rode to the gate that accessed the highway at the end of the landing strip. As he expected, it was locked.
He took the Weatherby out of the scabbard, blew the lock into a dozen metallic pieces, unwrapped the chain from around the gate, and walked the horse through. He couldn’t see more than ten feet in either direction, but there was no sound of traffic on the two-lane highway. He closed the gate, led the horse across the pavement to the far fence line, remounted, and headed west, hugging the fence line, looking for another gate.
Four vehicles passed him by in a twenty-minute stretch, headlights dim and flickering in the soupy fog. But he stayed invisible in the murkiness.
The anger Larson felt about losing his equipment, provisions, and supplies lifted somewhat. He was halfway to safety, with one more river and one more road to cross. Once in the forest, he’d hunt for his food and build a shelter, if need be. But it might not come to that. People lived in the mountains. There was a resort in the high country, some summer cabins, even some mining operations, if they hadn’t been shut down, which happened periodically. There might be slim pickings where he was going, but there were pickings nonetheless.
At a painstakingly slow pace, Kerney and Clayton tracked Larson through the fog until it lifted and revealed scattered provisions and gear on an open expanse of rangeland. They followed the litter to the dead packhorse.
Clayton swung out of the saddle and gave the animal the once-over. “It broke a foreleg,” he said. “Larson put it down.”
“It’s the only killing he’s done so far that makes any sense,” Kerney said. “How far behind are we?”
Clayton got back on his horse. “I’d say we’re no closer than we were when we started out. But he lost his provisions, and left behind a rifle.”
“Well, that’s something,” Kerney said glumly.
“Are you all right?” Clayton asked, eyeing Kerney closely.
Kerney nodded but said nothing in response.
Above, the sky had lifted and patches of blue broke through the fast-moving cloud cover. In the distance they could hear the sound of approaching airplane propellers and helicopter rotors.
Clayton looked up. “We’ve got air support now. That’s something to cheer about.”
Kerney keyed his handheld radio and made contact with Frank Vanmeter. He gave him their location and asked to have all aircraft concentrate the search to the west, north, and northeast of their position.
“You’re sure of that?” Vanmeter asked.
“I don’t think there’s a chance that he’s going to turn around,” Kerney replied. “Not this close to the foothills and canyons. Tell the pilots and spotters to look for a horse and rider only. The pack animal is dead, and most of Larson’s supplies are scattered near our twenty.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“I wish I shared your optimistic outlook. Stay in touch.” Kerney fell in behind Clayton, who’d picked up the trail, heading northeast.
The breeze turned blustery. Over the mountains the sky was a cloudless pure blue. Soon a hot July sun, still blocked to the east by the remaining clouds of the vanishing storm, would begin drying out the land. But it was going to be a muddy twenty-four hours before the puddles, sinks, ditches, arroyos, and dirt roads began to firm up.
Kerney pulled up even with Clayton, who gave him a questioning look.
“What?” he asked.
“You look kind of pale,” Clayton said.
