“We won’t know what he does unless we follow him,” Clayton said, “and I suggest we don’t. At least not right away.”
Kerney looked up from the map. “Explain yourself.”
“Where Larson is headed, it’s all up and down, except for two major north-south drainage ravines. Unless he gets totally lost and confused, he’ll reach one or the other of them sometime tomorrow. But if we stay on the spur right-of-way, we can gain a hell of a lot of ground on him and, with an early start in the morning, cut across both ravines if necessary and pick up his trail that way.”
Kerney folded the map. “Let’s get game and fish to put some people on horseback behind us to keep Larson from sneaking down the mountainside.”
“We should keep some planes in the air over our sector during the daylight hours to cover any breaks in the tree cover,” Clayton said. “That should keep Larson on the move.”
“Call Vanmeter, give him our coordinates, tell him what we want, and ask him to get the ball rolling,” Kerney said.
Clayton hesitated before keying the handheld. “You do know with all this, we could still lose him out there.”
Kerney shrugged. “Larson’s luck can’t hold forever. It’s time for us to catch a break.”
The sound of an airplane overhead woke Larson. He sat up, looked skyward, and listened as the sound of the engine receded and then returned again. He told himself that it was nothing to worry about, but decided to get moving anyway while he still had enough light to see by. He saddled the horse, led it to the ridgeline, and found a game trail that wound under old growth trees to a rock outcropping. There he discovered a pool of fresh rainwater in a shallow stone basin.
Both Larson and the horse drank from the pool. When he finished and looked up, he could see through the undergrowth a large burn area of blackened trees that extended to the top of the next summit. Above was blue sky. Staying hidden under the canopy, Larson made his way to the burn area. The shadows cast by dead trees told Larson the direction of the sun.
He checked the time on Pettibone’s Omega. Toward dusk, when the planes stopped flying for the night, he’d cross to the next ridge line, make camp, get his bearings in the morning, and move on.
Larson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe his luck was still holding. His good spirits returned. This might turn out to be fun again after all.
Chapter Eleven
Frank Vanmeter called by radio just as Clayton and Kerney finished setting up camp for the night.
“Have you caught him yet?” Vanmeter asked.
“You’ll be the first to know when we do,” Kerney snapped.
“Didn’t mean to make you testy,” Frank said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “Thought you’d like to know that a rancher turned in a satchel he found near the Cimarron River when he was out checking his cattle after the storm. It came from the barn at the ranch where Larson’s brother works and contained at least a hundred thousand dollars in jewelry and cash.”
“Has Larson pulled a robbery that we’ve somehow missed?” Kerney asked.
“I wondered the same thing. So far the answer is negative. But that aside, if Larson was planning on using the jewelry to disappear, he’s now up a creek.”
“And all the more dangerous because of it,” Kerney said.
“Amen to that,” Frank said. “Everything you and Agent Istee asked for is in place. Uniforms are at every mile marker along Route 555, three game and fish officers are moving into the foothills to cover your back, and all aircraft are ready to go again at first light.”
“I’ll talk to you then,” Kerney said.
“Ten-four.”
Kerney filled Clayton in as they fed and watered the horses. Then, on the off chance that Larson might be in the vicinity, they had a light dinner in the growing darkness with no campfire.
Although his stomach still hurt and he had no appetite, Kerney hadn’t eaten all day. So he sat on a fallen log and forced himself to swallow some soup Clayton had mixed up from a packet and warmed over a small propane camp stove, and nibble on some cheese and crackers, hoping to keep it all down. When he couldn’t stand the thought of another bite, he buried the remains of his meal in a pit and covered it, so the smell wouldn’t attract any passing bears or other hungry critters.
“You’re still not feeling good, are you?” Clayton asked as he hoisted the bag of foodstuffs up to a high tree branch and tied it off.
“I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep,” Kerney replied as he took off his boots and slid into the sleeping bag.
He spent the early part of the night awake, leaving the warmth of his sleeping bag once to vomit and returning to swelter in the cool air. When sleep came, he dreamed bizarre images of Craig Larson’s murder and mayhem, and woke up several times in a sweat. Finally the fever broke, and he fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
In the morning, Clayton woke him up with a hot cup of tea. “I heard you in the night,” he said. “You look awful.”
“I bet I do.” Kerney sat up and took the tin mug from Clayton’s hand. “Thanks.”
“I put some honey in it. That should settle your stomach down some.”
Kerney nodded and sipped his tea.
Clayton looked Kerney over with worried eyes. “We can always pull back and have Vanmeter send in replacements.”
“No way. I’m fit enough to continue.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yeah.” Kerney smiled. “Whatever got to me has passed.”
“Do you mean that literally?”
“It’s gone one way or the other.”
“How about some dry toast and a bowl of instant oatmeal?”
“Sounds about right.”
“I’ll get to it.” Clayton rose, went to the camp stove, and got busy with breakfast.
As he drank more of his tea, Kerney watched Clayton, a son he never knew he had until a few short years ago. He thought he was damn lucky to have the man as his son and his friend.
After breakfast, they broke camp and were starting out to cut Larson’s trail when Frank Vanmeter called again. This time, to tell Clayton that Paul Hewitt had died in his sleep overnight.
Clayton stiffened in shock and gave Kerney the news, the expression on his face a mixture of agonized sadness and pure rage.
After thanking Vanmeter, he climbed off his horse, silently handed Kerney the reins, and walked into the forest until he was out of sight. Fifteen minutes later, Clayton returned. His eyes were dry and features composed, but he had hacked off his long hair with his hunting knife. Kerney figured it was Clayton’s way of mourning the loss of Paul Hewitt. It was more eloquent than any spoken words.
“Let’s go,” Clayton said with a hard edge to his voice. He took the reins from Kerney’s hands, got on his horse, and started up the slope of the wooded canyon wall.
Kerney said nothing and followed him.
Throughout the morning, Craig Larson stayed lost until the distant sounds of heavy machinery reached him in the thin mountain air. He followed the sound for hours, winding his way up and down canyons and across the ravines wet with standing pools of murky rainwater from yesterday’s storm. He let his horse drink from them before
