Dead or Alive

Kerney used his shirt to make a pillow for Clayton’s head and stayed with him, hoping he would wake up, but he didn’t. Every few minutes he checked Clayton’s pulse and respiration while he guided the SWAT team medic to him over his headset.

When Officer Hurley arrived, he quickly inspected Clayton’s skull. “No major swelling around the knot on his head. That’s good.”

He took Clayton’s vitals before inspecting the leg. “No signs of shock, and the break isn’t a compound fracture. All good news.”

Relieved, Kerney nodded.

Clayton opened his eyes, and before Kerney could say a word, Hurley quizzed him to make sure he wasn’t disoriented, sick to his stomach, or agitated.

“How’s the leg feel?” he asked.

“It hurts. Who are you?”

“Pat Hurley. I’m going to immobilize the leg and give you a painkiller, which should help. But it’s gonna take a while to get you off this mountain. I’ll stay with you.”

“That’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.” Clayton smiled apologetically at Kerney. “Sorry to have slowed you down.”

Kerney squeezed Clayton’s hand. “Not a problem. I’ll check back on you in a while.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

Kerney picked up his Browning, told the SWAT commander over his headset he was rejoining the hunt, and started climbing.

Craig Larson didn’t like being shot at. Stopping the cops only made good sense if he could kill them when they weren’t expecting it. Better yet, it was best to kill them when they were unarmed and not expecting it. The cop who had been shooting at him from across the valley had nearly killed him twice, dammit.

He hadn’t gotten very far into the forest when the chestnut lost its footing, spooked, and almost scraped a ponderosa. Larson ducked to avoid a branch, but the tree limb took him out of the saddle anyway and left him sitting on the ground with a throbbing head.

The horse skedaddled before Larson could reach up and grab the reins, and he was left with only the Glock autoloader and one spare magazine. He got on his feet and started walking. If he was going to survive, he needed to catch that chestnut and retrieve the Weatherby and the rest of his ammo.

Up ahead, the sound of a deep, short blow by the chestnut, followed by a loud whinny, got Larson’s attention. He found it with the reins hung up in some thick underbrush, still carrying the Weatherby and the ammo bag. He got it untangled, mounted up, and headed in a direction that would take him around the valley and into higher, rougher country closer to the Colorado state line.

Off in the distance, Kerney heard the whinny of Larson’s horse. He broke into a steady jog toward the sound of it. In the dense, overgrown forest, Larson had little advantage over a man on foot. In pursuit, Kerney dodged trees and skirted groves of mountain mahogany bushes until he came upon a faint game trail. He followed it, running faster, pushing aside the branches of new-growth pine trees that crowded the trace. After about a quarter mile, the trail widened and became more distinct. There, he found fresh hoofprints.

Kerney slowed to a walk, his heart pounding and his chest heaving from running in the thin mountain air. There were tail hairs from the horse in some of the pine branches that overhung the trail, and up ahead a warm pile of dung. He stopped, put a fresh clip in the Browning, switched off the safety, and started moving, treading lightly, breathing as quietly as he could, his eyes scanning for the slightest movement.

The chestnut was completely done in. It walked with its head lowered, mouth open, and showed bared teeth as though prepared to bite. It lashed its tail in irritation and slowed to a stop even after Larson spurred it. He slid out of the saddle, took the Weatherby and ammo bag, turned the animal loose, and watched it wander slowly down the trail.

He was about to follow along on the trail when he heard a sound behind him. He turned to find the cop who used to be the Santa Fe police chief holding a Browning semiautomatic rife on him.

“How many more cops are there?” Larson asked.

“Enough,” Kerney said, “and they all want to kill you.”

Larson dropped the Weatherby and ammo bag. “So, I give up. That way none of you can kill me.”

“Why spoil all the fun?” Kerney asked, pointing the Browning at the Glock semiautomatic stuck in Larson’s waistband. “Are you sure you don’t want to go for that Glock?”

“Against your Browning?” Larson shook his head. “No way.”

“I’ll lose the Browning. Fair enough?”

Larson considered the offer. Maybe he had a chance if he could pull the Glock and get a round off while the cop was losing the Browning. He needed time to think about it. But adding another cop’s name to the plaque of his kills at the St. James Hotel would be really bitching.

“Did you guys kill my brother?” he asked.

“Don’t change the subject,” Kerney replied. “Do you want a chance against me, or a lethal cocktail mixed up especially for you at the state penitentiary?”

The cop looked like a dangerous mother. All of a sudden the idea of prison didn’t seem so bad to him. He raised his hands over his head. “I know you. You used to be the police chief in Santa Fe, right?”

“Right.” Kerney shot him in the midsection with the Browning.

Larson sunk to his knees and clutched himself. “You weren’t supposed to do that.”

Kerney walked up, pulled the Glock from his waistband, and tossed it aside. “Why not?”

The first wave of shock hit Larson hard. “Rules,” he sputtered. “You’re supposed to follow the rules.”

“In your case, I made an exception.”

Larson shivered. “Get me help. Please.”

“You’re liver shot, Larson. You’ll be dead in under twenty minutes.”

“Please,” Larson begged. “Help me.”

Kerney backed away from Larson and waited for him to lose consciousness. Then he called Clayton and told him the hunt was over.

“Larson’s just about dead,” Kerney added.

“How dead is that?” Clayton asked.

“Ninety-five percent dead.”

“Ninety-five percent. That’s good.”

“I think so. How are you doing?”

“Officer Hurley says if the rescue team doesn’t drop me when they haul me off this mountain, I should survive with no permanent damage to my leg or my thick head.”

“I like your odds.”

“Yeah, me too,” Clayton said. “Thanks for making Larson mostly dead.”

“I had no choice,” Kerney replied.

Chapter Thirteen

Kerney stayed with Clayton as the rescue team carried him safely down the mountain and put him on a helicopter for a short flight to the Raton hospital. The remainder of the day he spent wrapping things up. Convinced that Kerry Larson had not deliberately or knowingly colluded with his brother, Kerney released him from custody and had an officer drive him to where he’d hidden his truck. He took statements from the young woman Larson had battered and the guests who’d witnessed the murder of the ranch employee on the trail. He debriefed with the SWAT team, made arrangements to return the borrowed horses and equipment used to track Larson, and talked to the ranch owner about compensation for the roan that had been shot out from under Clayton.

Late in the afternoon, Andy Baca flew in from the Santa Fe headquarters with his boss, the governor’s