Spooked by the helicopter and the gunfire, the buffalo herd began to stampede away from the chopper. When Larson started firing again, it was at the buffalos. Two big animals went down before he quit shooting. As the herd thundered by Kerney’s position, kicking up a cloud of dust from the hardpan valley floor, he saw a flash of movement behind the boulder.
“Stand fast,” he radioed Clayton as he focused on the outcropping with his binoculars. “I think Larson’s on the move.”
“I’m holding,” Clayton replied.
Kerney kept the glasses locked on Larson’s position. There was a quick movement in the trees and then nothing. Below, under the tree cover at the edge of the basin, the SWAT commander’s voice came over the bullhorn, asking Kerry Larson to lay down any weapons he had, make his whereabouts known, keep his hands in plain sight, and remain calm until an officer reached him.
“Well?” Clayton demanded.
Kerney saw the backside of a horse with a man hunched over a saddle flash between two trees. “He’s on horseback but I can’t tell whether he’s traveling up or down the mountain.” He slung the binoculars around his neck, retreated farther into the forest, and started down the slope. “I’m heading to the valley floor.”
“Roger that,” Clayton replied. “I’ll stay up high and track him from here.”
“Ten-four.” Kerney passed the word by radio to the SWAT commander, told him to have his people concentrate the search on the south side of the valley, and continued down the mountain, slipping on the steep slope and fighting his way through thick underbrush.
Once again, the sound of the SWAT commander’s voice rang out over the bullhorn, telling Kerry Larson to disarm himself, keep his hands in plain view, remain calm, and await the arrival of an officer to take him into custody.
Kerney hoped Kerry would do as he was told and avoid getting shot.
Twice Kerry Larson heard somebody calling his name and saying to stay put and remain calm, or something like that. He couldn’t catch it all inside the cave, but from the sound of the arriving helicopter and the shooting, he knew the cops were in a gunfight with his brother.
He collected his thoughts for a moment. He could either stay hidden until the shooting stopped or go out and see what the cops wanted with him. He worried that maybe he would be arrested for that “after the fact” thing Craig said he’d done, being an accessory or something. That Indian cop had said the same thing at the state police station in Springer and showed him the writing in the law book.
He couldn’t stand the idea of going to jail. It scared the bejesus out of him. He needed to put into words that he’d come here to get his brother to give up, not to help him, and that he hadn’t been in cahoots with Craig to help him get away.
He grabbed his rifle and crawled out of the cave into the blinding sunlight. Clutching the weapon, he blinked to clear his vision, scampered down to the flats, and started walking along the fence line. He passed two dead buffalo and shook his head at the idea that Craig had killed them for the fun of it. At the gate, he paused and looked through his rifle sight at the ledge where he’d last seen his brother. All the ammo and weapons Craig had arranged on the outcropping were gone, a sure sign he’d moved on.
“Drop the rifle,” a voice behind him said, “then raise your hands and turn around slowly.”
Kerry turned. Twenty feet away stood the policeman who had partnered up with the Indian cop to track his brother down. He had a nasty-looking semiautomatic rifle pointed at Kerry’s chest.
“Don’t shoot me.”
“Drop the rifle,” Kerney repeated.
“I wasn’t going to hurt anybody,” Kerry replied, as he laid his rifle carefully on the ground.
“I believe you. Step away from the weapon and back up to the gate with your hands raised.”
“Okay.” Kerry walked backward to the gate, his hands high above his head.
Kerney approached, kicked the rifle away, and quickly cuffed Kerry to a gate railing. “You’ll be okay. No one will hurt you. Someone will be here shortly.”
Kerry nodded, and then looked up at the rock ledge.
“We know where he is,” Kerney said, following his gaze.
“He’s bad-crazy,” Kerry whispered, half-afraid Craig might hear him.
“I know,” Kerney replied as he started a zigzag run across the narrow valley, hoping bad-crazy Craig wasn’t looking at him through the scope of his rifle, about to gun him down.
Clayton hugged the ridgeline, traveling as fast as his bum leg would carry him, the pain shooting through his kneecap with each step. He slipped on a loose rock, and the jolt to his knee made him pause and catch his breath. He couldn’t tell if he’d cracked a bone in his leg, but the fibula felt real sore. Maybe it was just a bruised bone.
He pushed on, dipped below the ridgeline twice and clambered back up, before finding some fresh hoofprints. He followed them for a while before checking in with Kerney by radio.
“He’s moving laterally, deeper into the forest,” he said into his headset.
“Give me your twenty,” Kerney responded.
Clayton described what he could see of the mountainside beneath his feet.
“Got it,” Kerney replied. “I’m coming up. How’s your leg?”
“Fine,” Clayton responded as he started out again, wincing at the pain.
“Don’t give me that. Stay where you are.”
“Negative. He’s no more than five minutes ahead of me.”
“Is that based on traveling with two good legs or one?” Kerney shot back.
“I’m moving,” Clayton answered flatly.
Kerney spied a narrow ravine that coursed down the mountain about a hundred yards from Clayton’s summit location. He ran to the mouth of the ravine and began scrambling up, at times pulling himself over large rocks, the Browning slung on his back and his binoculars bouncing on his chest.
Halfway up, a small rockfall cascading through the trees caused Kerney to stop. He looked just in time to see Clayton tumble down a steep slope and land hard, his rifle flying through the air and clattering a hundred feet below.
Kerney called out but got no answer. He climbed the ravine as fast as he could, repeatedly shouting Clayton’s name. It took ten minutes of hard going to reach him, alive but unconscious with what appeared to be a broken leg. With a pocketknife, Kerney cut Clayton’s pant leg. There was bruising and swelling around the lower leg but no visible sign of fracture. Discoloration marked the side of Clayton’s skull and Kerney felt a knot above his left ear.
But his color was good; his skin dry to the touch, his pulse regular, and his breathing strong. Because of the possibility of a head injury, Kerney didn’t elevate Clayton’s feet. He contacted the SWAT commander and asked if there was a medic on the team.
“Affirmative. Officer Hurley was a combat medic in Afghanistan.”
“Send him to me,” Kerney said. “I have an officer down with a broken leg and a possible head injury. He’s unconscious.”
Hurley’s voice came over Kerney’s headset. “Is he in shock?”
“Not so far as I can tell.”
“Give me your location.”
Kerney told him where to look and pitched some baseball-size rocks over the treetops, as a visual cue for Hurley.
“I have you.”
“Larson’s brother is cuffed to the fence gate,” Kerney added.
“We have him in custody,” the SWAT commander replied.
“Send the rest of your team east of my position, and put the chopper up for aerial recon. Larson is moving away from the valley.”
“Ten-four.”
