Larson put her in a headlock and pressed the Glock against her eye. “I’ve got no time for small talk, Cutie Pie. Where is everybody?”
Cutie Pie swallowed hard before answering. “Most of the guests are out on a trail ride with our wranglers. The others are on a birding walk with our wildlife manager. And the lodge staff are getting ready for an early evening wedding reception.”
“That’s good, Cutie Pie,” Larson said, easing the pressure on her neck. “The building behind the stables is where the staff lives, right?”
The woman nodded. She had pretty blue eyes filled with tears.
“Who is there right now?”
“Nobody. Everyone’s at work.”
“What about the gardeners who keep the grounds shipshape?”
“There’s only one gardener and he’s helping set up for the wedding party.”
“Is there food at the staff quarters?”
“Yes, we have our own kitchen.”
“Good. Let’s go.” Larson released his grip and poked her in the kidney with the Glock. “Act natural. Try to run, and I’ll kill you. Scream or shout, and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Inside the staff quarters, Larson found the refrigerator and cupboards well stocked. He ordered Cutie Pie to fill a pillowcase with food and carry it back to the stables.
He walked behind her, prodding her along with the Glock. “What’s your name, Cutie Pie?” he asked.
“Celia Calvin.”
“I’m gonna make you famous.”
“How? By murdering me?”
Larson laughed as he pushed her into the stables. “I probably should. No, I’m gonna let you live so you can tell people Craig Larson didn’t hurt you much.”
“How much is not much?”
Larson slapped her. “I hate a smart mouth on a woman. Don’t make me change my mind about killing you. You tell them I didn’t violate you. No rapine, as the old-timers used to call it. You tell them Craig Larson was a gentleman. That he tipped his hat to you and thanked you for the food and the loan of a horse. You got that?”
“Okay.”
“Say it!” Larson ordered with a snarl.
“No rapine,” she replied in a shaky voice. “You were a gentleman who treated me like a lady.”
Larson bared his teeth and smiled. “That’s good. Real good. Bring that chestnut mare in here and saddle it for me.”
Celia did as she was told. When she finished, he clubbed her on the side of the head with the Glock, laid her facedown on the floor, hogtied her with rope, and stuck a rag in her mouth. He packed the food from the pillowcase into saddlebags, transferred the sheathed Weatherby to his fresh horse, and mounted up.
Behind the stables and the staff quarters, the forest underbrush had been cleared and the trees thinned, creating a parklike setting. There were several well-marked trails that led to vantage points above the valley, complete with signs giving the mileage to each destination. Larson followed the trail that took him in the general direction of the buffalo pasture and the cave hidden in the mountainside.
He was about to leave the trail and strike out cross-country when a man packing a sidearm and leading a group of four sturdy-looking boomers, two men and two women, came into view. They all had binoculars around their necks and wore floppy hats, hiking shorts, and hiking boots.
When the man with the
He pointed the Glock at her but didn’t pull the trigger. “Shut the fuck up,” he yelled.
She covered her mouth and gagged for air.
“I should kill you all,” Larson announced, “but I won’t. Because I want you to tell the law it was a fair fight. You tell them he was gonna draw down on me. Understand?”
The foursome nodded in unison.
Larson waved the Glock at the dead man. “What was his name?”
“Wade Christopher,” one of the men replied, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.
Larson smiled. “Wade. I like that name. It’s a good Western name. I’m proud to have shot him down.” He pointed the Glock in the direction of the lodge. “Get going, before I change my mind.”
The foursome moved quickly around the body, sidestepped Larson on the chestnut mare, and scurried down the trail. He fired a couple of bullets in the air to hurry them along and continued up the mountain.
Chapter Twelve
Clayton and Kerney arrived at the ranch and learned that a young woman, sobbing in the arms of the resort manager, had been knocked unconscious and tied up by Larson. Four very distraught lodge guests who’d witnessed Larson shoot down the ranch wildlife manager on a hiking trail huddled nearby. They didn’t know if the victim was alive or dead.
Clayton called it in as they rode hard to reach the spot where the man had been gunned down. Before they were out of sight of the lodge, the first of a string of wailing squad cars could be heard coming up the canyon.
At the crime scene Kerney advised Vanmeter by radio that the victim was dead.
“According to the resort manager, there’s a large group of guests out on a guided trail ride,” he added, “and a wedding reception is scheduled for this evening at the lodge. Let’s get the reception canceled, a roadblock set up on the ranch road to keep people out, the trail riders found and brought in, all guests and staff accounted for, and everyone under police protection, ready to be evacuated quickly if need be.”
“Ten-four.”
“We’re moving on,” Kerney said.
“Best to wait for backup,” Vanmeter replied.
“There’s no time to wait. We’re closer to Larson than we’ve ever been. Put some SWAT sharpshooters on the chopper, bring them to the ranch, and have them ready to go airborne at a moment’s notice. That’s our backup. I’ll call for it if and when we need it.”
“Affirmative. Be careful out there.”
“Let’s all be careful,” Kerney replied.
Up ahead, Clayton waited impatiently. When Kerney joined up, Clayton pointed at trampled bunchgrass under some trees.
“He’s traveling cross-country,” Clayton said as he turned his horse to go up the trail. “I checked one of the maps the game and fish officer gave us. The only logical place he can be heading is to a small mountain valley above us. There’s a notation on the map that it’s home to a small buffalo herd owned by the ranch. Other than that, it’s rugged, uninhabited country.”
“Why in the blazes is he going there?” Kerney asked as he came abreast of Clayton’s horse.
Clayton shook his head. “Don’t know, but if we stay on the trail for another mile or so, we’ll intersect a jeep track that will take us right to the valley. If we push it, we may even be able to get there before him.”
“Then let’s ride.” Kerney spurred his horse and left Clayton, who was astride a less than speedy packhorse he’d drafted as his mount, in the dust.
Kerry Larson reached the valley where the buffalo, enclosed by a high fence, were clustered on three hundred acres near one of the streambeds that drained out of the higher peaks and coursed through the basin. The land never got a break from the animals, and the tall grassland and wildflower meadows that had once filled the valley had been grazed and trampled into hardpan. The shallow, wandering, clear streams had been turned into deep, fast-running gullies bounded by eroded banks.
