“His tracks keep following the railroad spur,” Kerney said, “so I don’t think he’s trying to outfox us quite yet.” He opened one of the maps the game and fish officer had given them and studied it. “Besides, the most reliable water source in the area is right here on the Vermejo River. The map shows that the canyons on either side of us drain the runoff from the high country by occasional streams and dry creek beds.”
Clayton nodded as he bit into a sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “How far into Dawson Canyon does the railroad spur go?”
“About fifteen miles from where it crosses the highway, and ten miles or so from the old Dawson town site.”
Clayton took another bite and chewed it down. “It would make sense that Larson would use the spur line as the fastest route into the tall pines. Once he’s in the dense forest, it’s going to be damn hard to find him and flush him out.”
Kerney put the map away and swung into the saddle. “Let’s get moving.”
“Aren’t you eating?”
Kerney shook his head. “Grumpy gut.”
“That’s why you look so pale. You got a fever?”
“Mount up and let’s go.”
Clayton pulled himself up on his horse. “You didn’t answer the question.”
Some years back, Kerney had been gut shot by a drug dealer during a gunfight, which had forced him to be more careful than most people when it came to what he ate and drank. “I haven’t been doing a good job of minding what I eat,” he explained.
Clayton eyed Kerney with concern. “Let me know if you need to stop or something.”
Kerney handed the reins to the packhorses to Clayton and took the lead. “I’ll be just fine.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Clayton called out. “You’re such a tough guy.”
“Give it a rest,” Kerney called back as he slowed the buckskin to a walk across a muddy patch.
Within the hour, they entered the Dawson town site and came upon the crashed pickup truck and overturned horse trailer under a canopy of trees that had blocked any view from above. The driver and the two horses he’d been hauling in the trailer were dead.
“This guy Larson just doesn’t stop,” Clayton said, cursing as he speed-dialed Frank Vanmeter to give him the news and request assistance.
Kerney looked at the old house, which must have surely been a residence for a mine manager or superintendent back when Dawson was truly a town. He walked over to the truck and horse trailer and studied the skid marks. “I bet Larson shot the victim from inside the house, through the open door.”
Clayton snapped shut his cell phone. “The poor guy never saw it coming.”
Kerney walked across the remnants of an old sidewalk, went up the dirt path, entered the house through the open front door, and gave the interior a quick once-over.
“Are there any other victims?” Clayton asked when Kerney stepped back outside.
“No,” he replied, “but he’s re-provisioned himself, although it’s hard to tell how much he took. I’d guess he’s got two or three days’ worth of food. What’s Vanmeter’s ETA?”
“Thirty minutes, maximum.” Clayton put his foot in the stirrup and looked at Kerney. “We’re not going to wait for him, are we?”
“Nope.” Kerney swung into the saddle. “Let Vanmeter know we’re pushing on.”
“I already did.”
Kerney shook his head in mock disbelief. “Then why in the hell did you ask me?”
“I read somewhere that it’s important to give retired people a sense of empowerment.”
Kerney grunted. “You know, I’m starting to think that maybe it’s the company I’ve been keeping lately that’s giving me my grumpy stomach.”
Clayton shook off the barb and gritted his teeth before smiling. “Touche.”
“You’re damn right, touche.” Kerney dropped the reins against the buckskin’s neck and the horse stepped out nicely, showing Clayton its rump.
Figuring it was time to throw off whoever might be following him, Larson left the railroad spur far below where it dead-ended. The canyon had narrowed considerably and the tracks squeezed through tapered gaps where the thick pine forest dropped down to the rocky roadbed.
He paused for a few moments to let the gelding graze on bunchgrass along the side of the spur. Then he walked it through the overgrown forest, winding his way around stands of trees too dense to penetrate and making slow progress as he moved up the side of a mountain. The tree canopy cut the bright sunlight down to a dusklike glimmer, and except for the scurrying of squirrels and an occasional birdcall, the forest was quiet.
He reached the crest of the mountain hoping for a fix on the horizon so he could get oriented, but all he saw before him was another steep, thickly forested incline. Winded, he sat under a tree and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t lost.
There was no way he could go back to the railroad spur. If there was a posse on his trail, that would be just plain foolish. He checked the time on Pettibone’s Omega and looked up, trying to use the sun to get a general sense of direction, but the light was too diffused.
He decided to follow the ridgeline for a while before climbing the next crest in hopes of finding a break in the forest that would give him a better sense of direction. The ground underfoot was a hazardous combination of moist, rocky soil covered by a thick layer of pine needles, and he’d already turned his ankles several times on some loose stones.
Larson searched for a route between the two crests, gave up after twenty minutes, and started up the next steep incline. The woods were so thick that no matter how hard he tried to avoid low branches, his face stung with welt marks and there were scratches along the shoulders and flanks of the horse.
He topped the next crest and grunted in disgust at the wall of tall pines on a steep slope that greeted him. The slight tinge of panic that had been growing in his gut turned to bile in his throat. He turned on his heel and did a three-sixty, hoping for a view of anything that would give him a hint of which way to turn, but found nothing.
Larson found himself sweating and laboring for breath in the thin mountain air, his throat dry and his body aching. He could go no farther without resting. Even his jaded horse looked ready to drop. He unsaddled the animal, tied it off to a nearby tree, and stretched out, using the saddle as a pillow.
How long had he gone without sleep? Two days? More? Killing that old cowboy at the line camp felt like it had happened days instead of hours ago. What was the cowboy’s name? Larson couldn’t remember.
He reached into his shirt pocket and took out the cowboy’s wallet. Truman Goodson, that was his name. Before he dozed off, Larson decided he needed to make a list of all his kills before he forgot their names completely.
Where Larson’s trail left the railroad spur, Clayton and Kerney paused, rested their animals, studied maps, and considered their next move.
Kerney ran his finger over a map. “If Larson doesn’t get disoriented, and keeps traveling northeast, he’ll be in mountain wilderness until he reaches the paved highway that runs from Raton to the York Canyon coal mine.”
“If he makes it through the mountains to the highway, which is iffy, I doubt he’s going to ride his horse into Raton,” Clayton replied.
Kerney nodded in agreement.
“And if he doesn’t make it through the mountains,” Clayton added, “chances are slim we’d ever find his body.”
“That’s unacceptable,” Kerney said. “Let’s have Vanmeter saturate the road to the coal mine with uniforms. Constant 24/7 patrols, plus officers stationed at every mile marker along the length of the pavement.”
Clayton nodded. “And if he changes direction?”
Kerney pointed on the map to where the spur line ended. “If he cuts back, eventually he’ll intersect the river somewhere above the end of the railroad tracks. At that point I’d guess he’d follow the river north to the York Canyon coal mine.”
