the case and snowpack, so my only option was the Colt in my holster. I yanked the glove from my hand with my teeth, spitting it to the side. I breathed a quick cloud of relief as I unsnapped and drew the. 45 and clicked off the safety.
They would be to the left from where I’d rolled, and from the angle of deflection they must’ve been above. If they were smart they’d approach me from ground level at the frozen creek, but if they didn’t want to wade through the drifts, they’d stay on the ridge where they’d have to reveal themselves before they could take another shot.
I aligned the barrel of the Colt through the overturned tracks of the Cat, close to the undercarriage where it might not be so noticeable, and carefully reached up to where the kill switch was and turned the thousand cc’s off; evidently, Omar didn’t believe in safety lanyards. I smelled gas and couldn’t afford to just let the thing run. Let them wonder if it had cut out on its own.
It was quiet, except for the wind and the swaying of the trees, and I kept my attention on the ridge that was only thirty feet away, allowing my eyes to go unfocused, evolving into motion detectors. I thought I might’ve heard some noise; I waited, but it was quiet again, and I took my eyes away just long enough to assess my situation.
Screwed, pretty much, as Vic would say.
The big pack had borne the brunt of the impact on my back, but my head and shoulder had taken the front. I could feel something wet trailing down from my forehead and into my eye socket, something wet and warm.
My hand was beginning to shake from lack of blood, bad positioning, and the adrenaline rush that was still blistering through my veins. I breathed as shallowly as I could, attempting not to sound like a derailed locomotive, and waited.
It was possible that there were more than one of them, and in that case I might have the barrel of another pistol aimed at the back of my head. Maybe I was wrong about the deflection, and they were farther ahead or more to the rear.
I smiled to myself, just the tiniest grin of bitter acknowledgment of the fact that I was the prey and falling victim to the voices of the second guess. These voices are the ones that rabbits and mice hear when they think they are safely underneath the sagebrush, but they hear the hoot of an owl or the screech of an eagle that sets them to wondering if this patch of cover they’ve got is good enough or if they should make a run for it-maybe that patch over there is better.
Then they move.
Then they die.
I could afford to stay still and ignore the voices-I had. 45 teeth.
There was another sound, coming from where I’d expected it, faint and up on the ridge. I was really shaking now with the exertion of holding my arm steady. I took another short breath and slowly let it out, wondering how long I could stay like this. I figured it had been about five minutes since my pileup.
Movement.
The pistol was the first thing I saw, which was a mistake on his part, because now there would be no hesitation in my response. I had been shot at twice; they hadn’t said anything and were now approaching me armed. I figured the response I had in mind was prudent and reasonable.
I waited-they might’ve been able to see part of the wreckage, but it was possible they still couldn’t see all of me.
A few tiny pieces of snow broke from the ridge and tumbled down the hillside in a miniature avalanche. I saw a knit cap, and the face underneath had a beard. I was sure it was one of the convicts from the Ameri-Trans van- the one with the long hair.
There was a second’s pause and another round blew into the ice and snow behind me.
I fired.
It’s never a pretty sight; his head yanked back and then fell forward, blood leaking onto the snow and sliding down the slope along with the pistol that now lay halfway in the ten yards between us.
I dropped my arm and just lay there breathing. Still holding the Colt, I wiped my face and could see the blood on the back of my hand, but there wasn’t too much. I pushed down with my elbow and was able to make a pocket where I could slide out my other arm. I stretched it, getting some feeling back in my hand, and stared at the man’s head. I decided I should check. I raised the. 45 and yelled, “Hey!”
He didn’t move, and I fought against the sickness that always overtook me.
“Hey, are you dead?” I glanced around and assessed my predicament. “Because if you aren’t you can help get this four-wheeler off me.”
It would appear that I was on my own.
The way the big machine had flipped, I was pretty much buried in the snowbank but could still feel something solid against my trapped leg. If I was lucky, the hard thing I could feel was just snow frozen in the serrated layers of thaw/freeze. If I was unlucky, it was one of those boulders I’d been thinking about earlier. I shoved the. 45 back into my holster and tried to rock the snow machine. I figured that even if I got it to roll over me and the rest of the way down the bank, it was better than just lying there like an indisposed turtle.
I pushed, but there wasn’t any way to get solid purchase and nothing moved. I tried again, finally throwing my head back in the trough it had formed and staring at the leaden sky. “You have got to be kidding.”
I slipped my glove back on and started digging under the saddle and around my leg and could smell the gas and see where it was leaking. I wasn’t sure if the tank had been ruptured or if one of the fuel lines had been cut or partially torn loose. It wasn’t a lot of gas, but it was gas and the fumes were strong.
My position was awkward, and I wasn’t able to get at much of the snow below my leg, but when I finally got to my knee, I could tell that although my leg hadn’t broken, it was securely lodged in the crack of what felt like ice over a granite shelf.
“Damn.”
I thought about my options: continuing the struggle or waiting for the summer thaw. I carefully placed a boot against the floorboard and pushed.
Nothing, not even a nudge.
I lay there for a few more minutes in an attempt to gather some strength, but the fumes leaking from the gas tank were a little nauseating. I repositioned myself in an attempt to get farther away from the smell as something struck me in the face. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it burned and I swatted it away.
I looked up the thirty feet at the dead man and was rewarded with a bloody grin as he looked down at me with the knit cap pooched up at an odd angle. He flipped another match that landed farther down the embankment.
“Hey, do you mind not doing that?”
He continued to smile with one eye puckered shut and pulled another match from the small box in his hands. You would think that his motor functions would have been impaired by the shot he’d taken in the head.
The next match struck the gas tank, but I slapped it out with my glove. “Hey!”
I pulled the. 45 out and held it so that he could see it. “You remember this?”
He lay there, staring at me, and it was time to put up or shut up. I lodged my foot against the floorboard and grabbed the nearest side of the handlebars with one hand, the fumes from the gas starting to take the hair from my nose.
I gave it all I had.
Nothing.
My head dropped back in frustration, and I clamped my teeth as another match struck the machine and ricocheted off into the snow with a brief, adderlike hiss.
I aimed the. 45 at him. He was smiling again, blood staining his lips, and he ducked a little. “Stop it. Now.”
He tipped the tiny box of matches up and shook it, then slid the cover open further and tried to look inside.
He was out of matches.
I had to laugh, but when I looked back at him, he was trying to climb over the crest of the hill toward me. Not so funny. I looked at the Sig about halfway down. If he got his legs over the edge, he could just slide to his pistol.
