He thought about Truman Goodson and decided to give him the moniker of “Good Old Truman.” That way he could join Kid Cuddy, Ugly Nancy, Cowgirl Tami, and Porky Pettibone as victims firmly entrenched in Larson’s mind. And how could he forgot
Larson let the horse graze for a good long time before riding on. Underneath a tall pine, he looked back and saw a rider trailing three horses come into view at the far end of the meadow. He pulled the Weatherby from the scabbard and looked through the scope. It was the Indian-looking cop he’d seen coming out of the Raton motel with the state police officer.
He sighted in on the cop and squeezed off a round. Horse and rider went down in the tall grass and neither got up. The three riderless horses, one saddle mount and two pack animals, scampered back into the trees.
Larson dismounted and fired five more rounds at the spot where the horse and rider had fallen. From his vantage point he couldn’t tell if his shots had hit the mark. He waited a good ten minutes for any sign of life before scrambling partway up the slope to see if his quarry was down.
He cautiously peered around a tree and a bullet almost took his ear off. Larson blind-fired rounds before retreating to his mount and riding away. He figured the cop’s horse was dead. If the cop was unharmed, he’d have to round up his scattered animals before he could continue the chase.
Larson decided to get to higher ground, find a good spot, and pick the cop off if and when he closed the gap.
Cradling his rifle in his elbows, Clayton belly-crawled through the tall grass. He made it to the tree line, found cover, called in a 10-55, officer under fire, gave his location, and inspected the leg his roan had fallen on. From what he could tell it was maybe a pulled ligament and not broken. Standing behind a thick pine tree for protection, he stood up and put some weight on the leg. It didn’t buckle.
He keyed his handheld and reported he was limping a bit but otherwise unhurt, then went looking for the buckskin and the two packhorses, and found them one by one. He returned to the edge of the meadow, secured the horses, and crawled back to the dead roan. It had taken all six rounds meant for Clayton. Keeping his head down, he removed the animal’s saddle and bridle, secured it on his back, and crawled to where the horses waited.
Kerney’s voice came over the handheld as Clayton was about to circle the meadow and attempt to get behind Larson.
“Are you all right?” he demanded.
“Affirmative.”
“I’m in a chopper five miles out. Give me your exact GPS coordinates.”
Clayton did as asked. “I’m at the near edge of a narrow meadow,” he added. “You can’t miss it.”
“Ten-four.”
“If you’re planning to come along with me,” Clayton said, “eighty-six the idea. The roan is dead and I’m riding the buckskin.”
“You’re not getting shot at again without backup,” Kerney countered. “Put your saddle on one of the packhorses and stay off my buckskin. How far ahead is Larson?”
“No more than an hour if you hurry and he isn’t perched somewhere up high waiting to pick us off.”
“Is the meadow big enough for a safe landing?”
“It is.” Clayton could hear the approaching chopper.
“Cover us if it’s a hot LZ.”
“Ten-four.”
The bird came over the ridgeline, dropped fast into the meadow, and made a quick pass from one end to the other before delivering Kerney, who tumbled out the door and zigzagged to the trees.
Clayton walked to him and handed the reins to the buckskin. “Hold this while I saddle the packhorse,” he said.
“You’re limping,” Kerney replied, eyeing Clayton’s leg.
“Yeah, I’m limping and you’ve got a crabby gut.” Clayton unhitched the frame from a packhorse and wrestled it to the ground.
“I’m better.”
“That’s good to hear,” Clayton answered. “As soon as I’m on horseback I’ll be better too, because I won’t be limping.”
Kerry Larson hiked through a thinned-out stand of trees at the edge of the valley where the Vermejo River gurgled clear and cold in a rocky streambed. He was well north of the ranch lodge, with one tall summit left to climb to reach the secluded valley where he and his brother had long ago rebuilt the old corral.
Kerry had been back several times since then on solo elk hunting trips. He always took some time to visit the hidden cave with the Indian drawings and watch the small herd of buffalo that roamed the fenced-in valley.
Although he had no way to prove it, Kerry knew for certain that his brother would come to that valley, and it wasn’t just the mountain man comment that made him know it. In the past, he’d have hunches Craig was about to call him or had sent him something in the mail, and it would happen just like he thought.
He started up the mountain, his thighs aching from the effort, his calves still sore from his steep descent into the valley. He paused for a drink of water from the canteen in his backpack. What could he say to Craig to make him stop running? He had always bossed Kerry around, but not this time. Not this time.
Kerry concentrated his thoughts as he climbed, trying hard to put together words he could use to get Craig to do the right thing and give himself up.
Craig Larson heard the chopper and changed his mind about lying in wait to bushwhack the cop. He’d already passed beyond the meadow and didn’t want to return and risk the possibility that the helicopter had landed and disgorged a half dozen more cops who were already scrambling up the hillside to run him down. He guided the horse through the trees as fast as it would go, stopping occasionally to listen for the sound of pursuit. Except for the wind in the trees and brief bird songs all was quiet behind him.
Larson walked the horse sideways down a steep gully where the tree cover parted enough to give him a glimpse of the highway below. Beyond the slight curve in the road he caught sight of a stretch of grassland, and hurried the gelding along to take a better look. He broke free of the trees on a rock shelf that gave him an unobstructed view of the valley and the ranch lodge with its many outbuildings, barns, stables, and corrals.
The lodge was an old timber-frame building with a pitched shingled roof, deep verandas, and massive stone chimneys. The guest parking lot adjacent to the building held a dozen expensive passenger cars and SUVs.
The barns and outbuildings sprinkled through the sheltered valley were of the same design as the lodge. A rectangular building set well back behind the stables had a gravel lot at the rear where an assortment of much less expensive vehicles were parked. Larson figured it to be staff housing.
In a large paddock in front of the stables were several sleek, fine-looking horses. Larson decided to bypass the lodge, see what kind of food he could grab in the staff quarters, and get a fresh mount from the paddock.
He doubted he would be able to get in and out without being spotted, so he checked the magazine in the Glock autoloader to make sure it was full before backing the horse off the outcropping and following a well-worn trail down to the valley.
Once on the valley floor, Larson spurred his horse toward the staff quarters, expecting to be seen and challenged. But nobody came to intercept him. He made it safely to the stables only to be greeted by a young freckle-faced woman who stepped outside to meet him.
“Can I help you?” the young woman asked.
Larson smiled as he slid off the horse, stuck the Glock in the young woman’s face, and hustled her back inside the stables.
“Why yes you can, Cutie Pie,” he said. “Tell me, where is everyone else beside you?”
“You’re that man,” the woman replied, almost screeching. “That man.”
