He saw the softening rain and clearing sky as a double-edged sword. He could see better, but so could they. With the lack of heavy rain, he would be able to hear his pursuers better. And they him.
The terrain sloped this way and that, the ground and the rock formations slippery, the tree limbs biting. He attempted to weave among the trees, making as little noise as possible, while keeping his speed up as best he could.
The worse news was that Dalton had reinforcements. How many, he had no way of knowing for sure, but from what he managed to overhear, Dalton had said his boss, whoever the hell that was, was sending three men. Made it four to one. At least Jessie was out of the picture. Buck’s only advantage was that he had somewhat of a head start. A slim one, but every second counted.
He picked up his pace, weaving through the trees. Downward, always downward. As he cut between two trees, his feet slipped and he tumbled to the ground. Air exploded from his lungs. He managed to maintain his grip on the shotgun, but his head bounced against a tree. Light flashed behind his eyes. He struggled to his feet, sensing pain along his left ribs. He touched them. Tender. Great, just great.
He pressed on, watching more carefully where his feet landed. The moonlight stabbed through the tree canopy, making picking a path easier. Not less slippery though. His footfalls betrayed him a few times but he managed to stay on his feet and continue forward.
Another couple of hundred yards and he stopped, listened. What was that? Did he hear something? Was it his imagination? Move. He sidestepped down a slope and into a shallow depression that diagonaled downhill. He quickened his pace. After a few minutes he halted and listened. No doubt. He heard something moving through the brush. Whoever it was, they weren’t far behind. He circled a rock formation, and squatted. Run or make a stand right here? Neither choice seemed a good one.
He had Jessie’s handgun and the shotgun. But there were four of them, and they were trained for killing. Sure he had hunted as a kid. Rabbits and squirrels. Not humans, like Dalton and his crew.
The sounds of brush being pushed aside grew closer. But Buck heard something else. Grunts and a soft yelp.
A dog?
Jesus.
He peered over the rock, looking for movement. Nothing. Then, he saw it. A nasty looking pit bull. He slowly racked a shell into the shotgun’s chamber, trying as best he could to muffle the sound. Not very successfully. The dog stopped. Now only thirty yards away, its muscular shoulders twisted in his direction.
The pit bull lowered its head; a deep growl came from its throat. The beast locked on Buck and moved forward and to the left, as if triangulating its target. Another guttural groan, mouth slightly open, teeth now visible. Buck and the animal stared at each other for what seemed like forever.
This dog was trained for this, Buck thought. Knew exactly what it was doing. Its hesitation more planning than fear.
Then, it moved. Fast. Head low, shoulders forward, it hurtled toward him, teeth bared, snarling.
Buck raised the shotgun and pointed it toward the animal, now fifteen yards and closing. He squeezed the trigger.
The discharge was deafening among the trees. The dog yelped, fell. Its paws churned the air for a few seconds and then it fell still.
No doubt Dalton and his crew weren’t far behind and now they knew exactly where he was.
Run. No need for stealth. Speed was everything now.
CHAPTER 50
Cain was an excellent hunter. He had been trained in the art since childhood, mostly by Uncle Al and Uncle Mo. Typically employing bows and knives; occasionally shotguns. The family refrained from guns when near towns or farms. Didn’t want to alert or annoy the locals. Preferring to do their hunting off the radar. Throughout the South there are large swaths of forested land; some far from civilization, others butted up against towns and farms. Finding truly isolated hunting grounds wasn’t always easy.
As an itinerant group, they were outsiders and constantly raised suspicions. Rural folks rarely trusted strangers. Particularly a group of travelers. No roots, no connections to the local community. They were viewed as scavengers at best, thieves at worst. The family was both.
Sure they shopped at markets like everyone else. When they could afford it. But, when necessary, as was often the case, they would scour the woods in search of meat for the nightly meal. Mostly rabbits, squirrels, deer, and wild hogs—those that escaped from farms and became feral packs. The farmers actually appreciated them taking down feral pigs since they were extremely destructive—eating through gardens, devastating chicken coops, and even taking down young calves. When they became nuisance enough, the farmers would band together and go hunting. If someone else was willing to do that, and they didn’t have to take time and energy away from their farming, so much the better.
A real treat was when they managed to bag a turkey. Most people think of turkeys as big, dumb birds that magically appear on the Thanksgiving Day table. In the wild, nothing could be further from the truth. Smart, tough, and very wary, they could settle in brush, unmoving, their coloring allowing them to melt into the environment and render them invisible. They could run through brush with amazing speed and agility and fly, hugging the ground, through even the densest forest, like a jet fighter along a narrow valley—something Cain had witnessed more than a few times in Afghanistan. Usually from some mountain crevice where he had hunkered down with a couple of Navy Seals on his way to or from an elimination mission. Missions that were no small feat to successfully complete. Same was true of
