checked his day pack to make sure he was adequately equipped. With a flashlight, water, freeze-dried rations, flares, matches, a first-aid kit, sweater, and a lightweight tarp, he could handle just about any situation. He added a hand-held radio and his holstered sidearm to the pack, slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, and started out at a brisk pace.
The new trail, built by Amador's crew, soon separated from the road and scaled the canyon wall.
Jim stayed on the roadbed, searching for any indication of motorized travel. Halfway up, he found a pull tab to a beverage can in the fine sand of a small arroyo that cut across the road. He bagged it, made a search of the area, found nothing more, and moved on. Beyond him, the new trail dipped to a low ledge before twisting up the side of the canyon. He scrambled to the trail and scanned the old road in both directions. A glimmer of reflected light in a cluster of boulders caught his eye. He climbed down to investigate. It was an aluminum beer can. Using a twig to retrieve it, he bagged the container and put it in his pack.
The canyon, wide at the mouth, narrowed as it ran against Mangas Mountain. Tree cover thickened until the forest canopy cut off his view of the lookout tower on the peak. The canyon closed in sharply before it fanned out into a small clearing at the mine. All that remained at the site was the rubble of a stone cabin, a few rotted pilings that once held up a wooden sluice used to divert water from a small creek, and a ramp with tracks for ore carts that ran from the shaft to where the canyon floor met the creek.
The creek was still running. Jim splashed water on his face before shedding his pack and looking around. Maybe Amador had seen evidence of an ATV, but all Jim could find were elk tracks near the creek that trailed off in the direction of Little Springs, the last watering spot before the meadows.
It wasn't surprising; wind and recent rain would have erased any tread signs.
Stiles turned his attention to the mine. Above the shaft entrance a horizontal row of logs braced by two vertical timbers held back the hillside. The entrance, trussed with a thick beam and joists, was square-cut and less than six feet high. He crawled in, flashlight in hand. The chamber plunged abruptly, the angled walls supported by heavy timbering above the ore cart tracks. It looked decidedly unsafe. The beam of his flashlight was swallowed up by the darkness of the tunnel.
Disappointed, Jim sat back on his heels. There was no way he could climb down without a rope and someone to pull him up in case he ran into trouble.
He crawled out, stood up, and felt something sticky on his knees. His jeans were stained with motor oil.
He rubbed a finger on the smudges and sniffed it to make sure. There was no doubt.
Back in the mine he found an area saturated with oil. Smiling to himself, Jim worked on a scenario.
Any poacher who knew his business would scout the meadow on foot until he was sure of the cougar's territory. An elusive animal rarely seen in the wild, a mountain lion could range up to fifty square miles in two days or less. It would take a lot of stealth and patience to bring the animal down, and driving an ATV deep into the cougar's range would Spock it and defeat any possibility of a sighting. The old mine was a good place to stash the ATV while hunting the cat.
It plays out. Stiles thought. The killer had to know that the Padilla Canyon road was closed the day he took the mountain lion and shot Hector Padilla. So he followed the horse trail partway with the ATV, hiked in, baited his trap, and waited at the shooter's blind. He was probably in position long before the mountain lion appeared to take the bait. Only an experienced, patient hunter could pull it off.
He sopped up the oil with a handkerchief and put it into his shirt pocket, thinking a lab analysis might help identify the type of vehicle that had been hidden in the mine.
Outside, Jim nestled the flashlight under his arm lit and bent over to brush the grime off his jeans. As he straightened up, he felt the bullet slam into his left side. The impact drove him against the cliff.
A second round missed, splintered rock fragments into his face, and blinded him. It felt as if he had been gouged by dozens of flaming-hot barbs. He lay where he fell, unable to see, pain searing down his arm.
He couldn't tell if the first shot had passed through his upper arm into his lung. The shots had come from above him on the canyon rim. The shooter would have to work his way down to confirm his kill.
He stayed motionless, opened his eyes, and saw nothing. He thought about trying to crawl to the day pack for his handgun and gave up on the idea. Even if he could make it to the pack, he couldn't see to shoot.
He would play dead and hope his sight came back. He listened intently, trying to make out the crunch of footsteps, the whisper of movement through the trees, the sound of snapping twigs. He felt pretty stupid about coming up the canyon alone.
Then he lost consciousness.
Kerney arrived at the Catron County Sheriff's Department expecting to find Jim Stiles stashed away in a cubbyhole studying Jose Padilla's papers.
Instead, he encountered a lone dispatcher in the outer office who looked like a younger version of Omar Gatewood, with the same puffy cheeks and stocky frame.
Kerney introduced himself and asked for Stiles.
'Ain't here,' the boy replied.
'He's up in Padilla Canyon.'
'Doing what?'
'Don't know. Said for you to meet him there. At the old mine.'
'When did he leave?'
'About three hours ago.'
Kerney pointed to the radio.
'Call him up.'
'Can't,' the kid replied.
'Transmitter won't reach into the canyon. It's a blind spot.'
'Who can talk to him?'
'The forest lookout on Mangas can,' the kid replied.
'Call,' Kerney suggested.
'See if they've had any contact with Stiles.'
'Sure thing.'
The kid made contact, and Kerney listened to the conversation. There had been no communication between Stiles and the lookout tower.
The kid looked up at Kerney.
'Anything else?'
'Who's working in the tower?'
'Henry Lujan.'
'Ask Henry the quickest way to get to Padilla Canyon.'
'I can tell you that,' the kid replied.
'Fine. Then ask Henry to get Stiles on the radio.
Tell him to keep trying until he gets a response.'
'Ten-four,' the kid replied. He passed along the message and gave Kerney directions to Padilla Canyon.
'Put search and rescue on standby,' Kerney said, as he headed for the door.
'And tell your father.'
The kid's eyes brightened. This might turn out to be as good as the Elderman Meadows murder. He was keying the microphone before the door slammed behind Kerney.
Kerney found Jim's truck and started up the trail at a fast pace, his anger with Stiles building as he ran. Going into the canyon alone was dumb, and failing to call in made it worse-raising the possibility that something had gone wrong.
He pushed himself to run faster, and his knee almost buckled in protest.
He hated the damn thing for slowing him down. The pain that ran like a spike up his thigh he could handle, it was the permanent sub par performance the knee caused that really pissed him off.
Finally the knee locked up and he was forced into a slow trot. Pockets of white clouds, empty of any rain, blocked the late-afternoon sun and cooled him down, but he had lost a lot of body fluid and his mouth felt like dry cotton. He started sprinting again when he saw Stiles sprawled in front of the mine entrance. Breathing hard, he reached Jim and bent over his body. He was alive but unconscious.
His face was a bloody mess, and his left eyelid was almost torn off. A bullet had cut through muscle in Jim's
