Abandon

like a trophy above his head.

Abigail worked her way over to him. “What do you have in there?”

“Everything. My tent. Extra clothes. First-aid kit. Sleeping bag. More bottles of water. A gas stove. Food. I don’t think we’d have made it without this.” He brushed the snow off his solid-black pack and loosened the compression straps.

“Please tell me you have a cell phone.”

“Hate the fuckers.”

“So we’re hiking out.”

“Seventeen beautiful miles.” He dropped a big compression bag in the snow. “But no worries. I’ll whip us up a meal before we go.” He reached into the bag, emerged with two packets of Backpacker’s Pantry freeze-dried dinners. “What’s your pleasure? Paella with saffron rice and chicken, or turkey Stroganoff?”

Within the hour, they were on the move again, heading toward the Sawblade, swaddled in ashen clouds.

After a half mile, Quinn’s tracks branched off from the canyon and climbed the slope toward Emerald Basin.

They pushed on, taking turns breaking a trail through the deepening powder.

By the time they reached the ruins of the Godsend, the drifts came to Abigail’s chest.

“Let’s take a breather,” Scott said. They collapsed near the stamp mill at the foot of that steep white slope that swept up two thousand feet into the clouds.

“What happens if Quinn sees our tracks?” Abigail asked.

“Yeah, I’ve been worried about that.”

“I mean, he will eventually see them, right?”

“Probably. And you’re exhausted. I’m hurting. He won’t have to travel that fast to catch us, and he has one hell of an interest in our never leaving these mountains. I’d feel a lot better if it was snowing like a bastard. We’re target practice out here in the open.”

“You got a gun in your pack?”

“Jerrod kept the pistol with him.”

Abigail squinted down-canyon, subconsciously searching for a tiny figure plodding toward them through the snow. “I’ll bet Quinn has a gun,” she said.

“What we have to do is get as much of a head start as we possibly can. I was listening to my weather radio in the hotel last night, and it sounds like it only snowed above eighty-five hundred feet. If we can get down that far, we should be safe. He won’t be able to track us. But as long as we stay in the snow, it’s just a matter of time.”

Abigail struggled to her feet, gave Scott a hand up. “Then let’s get going,” she said. “I’ll lead for a while.”

1893

SEVENTY-TWO

 S

he used her thumb to pull the hammer back.

“Good. Now put your finger right here.” He eased it onto the trigger. “No, don’t squeeze yet. Not until you’re ready to shoot something.”

“I’m ready.”

“What are you aiming at?”

“Our cabin.”

The hammer snapped down on an empty chamber.

“Okay, now what if you wanna shoot it again?”

She worked the big hammer back.

“Perfect.”

“This time, I’m shootin the chimney.”

Snap.

“I think you’ve got it.”

She heard harness bells ringing a couple hundred feet below, the burros growing antsy. The preacher took the gun from her and broke it open, dropped shiny cartridges into the chambers.

“This becomes dangerous now,” Stephen said. “It’ll be loud.”

“Why you cryin?”

He gave her the gun, took a wipe from his frock coat, and dabbed his eyes.

“Don’t draw the hammer back ’til you’re ready to shoot it.”

Peering through snow-clad branches, she saw the mule skinner emerge from an empty cabin across the