Ted brought the butt of his canteen down against the pommel of his saddle hard enough that both horses yanked their heads up. “My grandson killed a man, Sheriff, shot him in the head, and he took with him the pistol he used to do it!”
“Teddy—”
“And I’ll be damned to hell, Sheriff, if I’ll let a bunch of cops and newspeople out here in a woods they don’t belong in, siccing their dogs and cameras on those boys!” Teddy tossed his canteen back in his saddlebag.
“Teddy—”
“To hell with it. To hell with you.” Teddy took the reins in his hands.
“We can’t do this ourselves.”
“Maybe you can’t, Sheriff,” he said as he turned his horse to face the hill.
“Teddy, those boys are in danger out here. This ain’t about what you want.”
“They’re smart boys. They’ll make good choices until I find them.” He snapped his reins and trotted up the hill.
Cal cursed under his breath. “Get back here, Teddy!”
Ted turned in his saddle and pointed a hand through the trees toward the river. “You’d better stick to the river after dark, Sheriff. The crossing is four miles upstream. Give my horse to my daughter. She’ll be at my farm already, knowing her. I’m headed downriver.”
“Teddy!”
His horse made the top of the hill. The light in the woods was bluish now. Cal hated the idea of heading back without Ted in tow. But he hated even more the idea of spending the night in these woods, only to spend another day aimlessly ducking pine branches. Ted was right about the stir the story of his grandson would cause. There would be news cameras. But that energy might help find the boys too, news helicopters or otherwise. That was the way things were done. But Cal still needed Teddy. The search, however complex it became, needed a man who knew these woods intimately.
Teddy’s figure slipped in and out of sight between trees.
Cal cupped his hands to his mouth. “Teddy Branson,” he yelled, “you are under arrest!”
No response came back through the forest. Teddy had disappeared from sight. Cal shifted his boots in the silent woods. The noise they made in the leaves seemed louder than it should have been. The forest at dusk tightened its grip. Cal tried to spit, but his mouth was too cottony. The mare looked at him with one large white eye.
“You’re under arrest too,” he told the horse.
There was no sense waiting around. Ted was stubborn, and Cal knew he wasn’t coming back. He looked out toward the river. The light was still warm there, but was quickly giving way. He approached his horse, reached for the pommel, and put his foot in the stirrup.
When he tried to pull himself up, however, the horse trotted sideways and then bolted. Cal pulled himself toward the saddle, gripping the pommel with both hands, but was swatted from the horse’s side by the branches of a scrub pine. Cal had the wind knocked out of him as he fell onto his back. He instinctively tried to sit up, but pain shot through his tailbone. He let his head fall back into the leaves, gasping. Above him, the branches wove a dark lattice across a purple sky with a streak of orange in it. The mare stood on top of the ridge, through the brambles where only minutes ago it had reared in defiance. It lowered its head now and calmly bit a mouthful of something sprouting through the forest floor, flicked its tail. Cal shut his eyes. His tailbone throbbed. Otherwise he seemed uninjured. He still had his hat. His flashlight. One of his boots was missing. He felt for the pistol in his holster. It was secured. He wondered how long it would take him to walk out of these woods once he caught his breath. He worried Teddy would find the boys without him and wondered what such a thought said about him as a sheriff. The mare whinnied on the ridge past the brambles. Cal wondered what horse tasted like, grilled over a cedar fire.
Eight
FISH WHISTLED QUIETLY, AND BREAD’S MUD-SMEARED FACE emerged from behind a tree twenty yards away. It was becoming hard to see in the shadows. The sun was nearly gone. Only a backdrop of orange and red shone between the gaps in the forest. With Bread’s attention, Fish pointed to his own eyes, then to a ledge of rock ahead, dotted on its top with baby spruce. He made a flapping motion with his elbow, and then a walking motion with two fingers. As his body moved, his mind whispered to his friend, On ledge, a chickadee, I am closing in.
Bread nodded, looked to the ledge, and began stalking forward with spear in hand.
The chickadee was distractedly preening its feathers, the bird’s black and white head beating up and down. Fish slipped forward, stopping only when the bird stopped preening to look about. Fish felt every twig under his bare feet, every subtle shift of the air against his skin. He wondered why he had never tried this before—running away and swimming a river, getting muddied up and stalking birds on an island. The freedom thrilled him. He was a lone and painted warrior, cutting his teeth in the wild. He was Adam, the world’s first man, plus Bread. He had a cedar spear. A knife. A flint. He was good and strong, like his grandfather said.
Fish tried to keep cedar trunks between himself and the chickadee until he closed the distance to about ten feet. Bread worked into good position as well, crouching now behind a moss-covered stump.
The bird stopped preening its feathers.
Fish looked to his friend with his eyes only, his head unmoving. Bread’s eyes seemed to nod, and his throwing arm moved slowly back behind his head. Fish readied his.
The chickadee cocked its head at the branch it
