Walker’s vision lost focus and he swayed against the porch. Gripped the rail for support, closed his eyes and fought the nausea.
An iron fist gripped his upper arm. He opened his eyes, looked at it: Baraclough’s fist.
Walker’s eyes rode up to the face. Baraclough looked heavy-lidded, detached-as if sexually released.
Baraclough said, “We could argue about it if we had time.”
“Could we.”
“They’ll know we were here, of course, but that won’t tell them who we are-what we looked like. The cop was the only one who could have told them that.”
So the cop was dead, strangled by the wiry fingers that gripped Walker’s arm, and the note pinned on the dead cop’s shirt would tell the other cops what the Major wanted them to know. Walker had seen the note when the Major had handed it to Baraclough: Keep your distance. We have Mrs. Lansford. She stays alive as long as we are not harassed.
Walker said, “You were the one who said it was stupid to leave dead cops lying around.”
“That was before Hanratty killed the old man, wasn’t it.” The sensuality of Baraclough’s little smile made him turn away.
The Major had the woman over by the horses. She hadn’t heard Baraclough and there was no reason to think she knew the deputy had been killed. She wasn’t supposed to know: ignorance would keep her more tractable.
The Major was talking to her:
“Hanratty here isn’t much of a cowboy. Can you pick out a horse for him? Which one of these animals is nice and slow and gentle?”
Mrs. Lansford made a point of avoiding the Major’s eyes. “I suppose that one.” She nodded toward a sleepy- looking sorrel; then she threw her head back: “The penalty for kidnaping is damned severe, you know.”
“Possibly. When you’re already wanted for murder it doesn’t matter all that much any more.” The Major tugged his cap down tight. “We’ve got very little to lose, you see. We’re desperate men.” He said it deadpan. And before the woman could speak again he added, “And please don’t tell us we won’t get away with it. Now please pick out a horse for yourself and get mounted.”
The woman thought about arguing with him, thought better of it, turned and looked over the animals. Without much hesitation she walked toward the big blue gelding at the head of the string. The blue’s ears were upright, alert; it watched her approach and the hide along its flank quivered.
“Fine,” the Major breathed; and lifted his voice like a whip: “Stop right there, Mrs. Lansford.”
She turned around. “What now?” Lovely eyes full of anger.
The Major flicked his glance toward Walker. “Can you ride pretty well?”
“I used to. Long time ago.”
“It comes back to you, doesn’t it? Like riding a bike.”
“I guess so.”
“You ride the white horse, then.”
The woman opened her mouth; the Major cut her off: “And you ride the old sorrel, Mrs. Lansford. The one you picked out for Hanratty. Obliging of you to point out the slowest horse.”
The woman’s face changed. Now for the first time it was genuine hate. The Major had tricked her and she was too proud to accept that.
Walker went over to the blue-what the Major had called the white horse-and picked up the reins. The woman turned slowly and went stiffbacked toward the old sorrel and began to adjust the stirrup length for herself. The Major spoke to her back: “Understand this, Mrs. Landlord. We’re miles from the nearest help, there’s no one within screaming distance. You’ve got a slow horse and if you try to run for it Captain Walker will have no trouble running you down. Then we’d have to tie you and put a gag in your mouth. It wouldn’t be very comfortable. You understand?”
She spoke without turning her head. “I understand.” She buckled the stirrup leather and let it drop. “I’d like to know where you’re taking me.”
“You’re entitled to know that.”
Instantly the Major had everyone’s attention. He lifted his arm toward the heavy darkness of the mountain peaks to the north. “We’re going up there.”
Silence: Swish of horsetails, thump of hoof. Hanratty squeaked. “Shit. You must be out of your gourd.”
Walker took a step forward. “Major, we’ll get buried under a ton of snow up there. You don’t know these mountains.”
“I’ve spent a good part of my life in montagnard country, Captain. I’ll keep you alive.”
“It’s insane. It’s a dead end.”
The woman wheeled. “Your friend is right. No one goes up in those mountains after the first snow. It’s suicide.”
The Major said, “I certainly hope the police are as convinced of that as you are, Mrs. Lansford.”
Baraclough came past Walker and climbed into a saddle. When he had his feet settled in the stirrups he said, “Major Hargit knows wild country survival better than any man alive. He’s right. Now let’s quit arguing and start moving.”
When Walker turned to put his foot in the stirrup he somehow caught the eye of the woman and for that brief instant their glances locked with tremendous impact: an exchange of sudden shared understanding, of bleak and hopeless regret.
Hanratty said, “Somebody help me get on top of this animal.”
CHAPTER 5
1
Through the infrared scope they showed up plainly: boot-heel indentations, scuffed ground, a patch where the pebbles had been disturbed when they’d set down their burdens to rest or reconnoitre.
“Watch yourself now. Monument Rock just over the hill.”
“Okay, kemo sabe.” The knapsack made Stevens look hunchbacked.
Sam Watchman covered the last twenty yards on his belly and took his time looking it over. There were lights burning in the front room of the house. He didn’t see anything move.
After he had completed his naked-eye inspection he lifted the Weatherby to his shoulder, switched on the infrared beam and put his eye to the scope.
The snooperscope was designed to make heat visible. The image on the lens revealed contours of temperature rather than light. The warmth of the earth made it red; the relative coldness of the air made it green. The buildings, which stored less heat than the ground but more than the air, were an indeterminate mauve. The heat of lamplight against the front window made it show up very hot. The trees behind the house were a madras patchwork of shades.
If there had been human flesh in the beam’s line it would have shown up heavily red on the lens.
Watchman made a hand signal and the rookie handed him the walkie-talkie. He spoke into it with low-voiced clarity: “Watchman to Vickers. You still reading me?”
“I hear you.”
“How long since you’ve heard from the deputy at Monument Rock?”
“I haven’t heard from him at all. Hold on, I’ll check with Cunningham.”
Watchman put the scope on the tracks going down the hill. It took a few minutes to sort out the spoor. Four of them had walked down the hill. Two had walked up again. Three, carrying heavy loads-the indentations were deeper-had walked down again.
The FBI agent’s voice sputtered in his ear. “No word from Deputy Foultz since eleven o’clock.”
Watchman twisted his wrist to check the time. Almost two in the morning. “Then you’d better get over here and bring some people with you.”
