moon gave him enough light to confirm his fears. The two cops had been nosing around. He stepped cautiously from rock to rock until he reached the cave entrance. The stones were not in the same order he had put them in. It made him sick with worry. He knew the law. He could be charged with murder. He was as guilty as the man who had killed Yazzi. No one was supposed to get hurt. It wasn't his goddamn fault the soldier had showed up at exactly the wrong time. Hiking in the boondocks with a sketchbook, for chrissake. Nosing around where he had no business being. Walking into the cave with a wide-eyed, shit-eating grin. Asking questions. Gutierrez retraced his steps until he dropped below the rim of the mesa and sat on a rock, looking at the ranch below. What the fuck was he going to do? The story about a pleasure trip was pure bullshit. He might have bought it if Brannon hadn't asked all those questions about Yazzi. He'd almost shit a brick when she brought the subject up. Damn it! If they had only listened to him and let him move the rest of the stuff right away. That was the smart thing to do. No, no, too risky, too soon, let it quiet down, they said. Shit! In too deep to back out, he almost wished he'd never found the cave. Can't cry over spilt milk. The last load was behind the seat of his truck. Two thousand gold and silver coins and a leather dispatch case filled with historical military letters. Worth plenty. Fuck the others! He didn't need them. He'd sell it himself in Mexico and just disappear. As far as he could tell, he wasn't under suspicion, but that could change. He looked down at his shaking hands and clasped them together to stop the trembling. He needed a plan. Something he could pull off. There was no way in hell he was going to prison.
'I've got to improvise,' he whispered to himself. It was still dark. The bare ceiling light cast a harsh glow throughout the kitchen, and the aroma from a wood fire in the cook stove filled the room. Sara, drying two plates at the sink, turned and looked at Kerney as he came in.
'Is Gutierrez gone?' Kerney asked. There was a pot of coffee and pan of scrambled eggs on the top of the cast-iron stove. He was stiff from head to toe, but rested.
'Before I got up,' Sara reported, putting the plates on the table.
'Coffee?'
'Please.'
'How long will it take to get back to the Rocking J?' She asked, putting a mug of coffee in front of him.
'We can make good time if we run the ridges over Rhodes Canyon.'
'That may not be wise,' Sara said. Kerney sipped his coffee and laughed.
'Trust me, your people won't even see us coming. I watched the Army build that concealed outpost in the canyon when I was a kid.'
'You're not supposed to know about that,' Sara chided, half-jokingly.
'I won't tell a soul.'
They ate breakfast, enjoying each other's company, cleaned up the dishes together, and headed out to saddle the horses. Gutierrez watched the three horses and two riders leave the ranch veering south and west. At first light he had picked a vantage point that would keep them in view for some time. His plans depended on the route they took. He would use his knowledge of the terrain and his speed to his advantage. He knew the mountains and could outrun them easily in the truck. Yesterday's storm had brought a blessing. The usual telltale funnel of dust thrown up by the tires would be missing. He followed them with his binoculars.
Going southwest was good, he thought. It would take them to Rhodes Canyon, probably above the pass. Anything farther on was more than a day's journey by horseback. They weren't provisioned for another night.
He had searched the pack and knew what supplies they carried. He just had to be patient. He held their shapes in the lenses until they turned into dots, then fired up the truck. He got in position just in time to watch Kerney bypass the canyon that ran out of Tipton Spring. They were running the ridge tops to Rhodes Canyon. Had to be. From where they were now, they had no alternative. Water still filled the washes from the storm. It would be too dangerous to ride through the draws. Two canyons over they'd hit Amole Ridge. There would be two steep steps up and down. They would have to break trail and lead the horses through it on foot. Above the eastern scarp of the ridge they would reach high country of broken benches, cedar breaks, and gentle slopes.
After that, they could easily pick up the road through Rhodes Pass. He moved the truck again and watched until they entered a stand of cedars. He held his breath as he scanned the prehistoric reef Kerney had to use to scale Amole Ridge. They came back into view just where he had his glasses trained. He watched them weave slowly back to the west.
Gutierrez was starting to feel good. He would be way ahead of them when they reached the road. *** Sara held the horses while Kerney fed them the last of the oats from the bag Dale Jennings had provided. The view was stunning; so completely different from the slashing gorges and mean canyons on the ride in. On both sides of the tight pass the land rolled in soft hills that hid the vast desert from sight. The road below her, carved and blasted out of the mountainside, clung to the edge of a drop-off dotted by the crowns of tall pine trees, rising seventy-five feet from the canyon floor, that formed a natural border along the shoulder. Here the turns in the road were gradual. Farther along it slashed in a series of cutbacks that pierced deeper into the canyon.
Sara had traveled the road many times before, but the vantage point from the top of the canyon threw her off. She asked Kerney to locate the MP outpost for her. He smiled and pointed at her feet. They were standing on top of the outpost, which was carved out of the mountainside.
Kerney finished with the horses and swung into the saddle. She mounted the gelding and took one last look at the breathtaking beauty around her before moving her horse down the slope to the road. *** Gutierrez surveyed the roadside patiently before selecting his spot. Where the granite changed to limestone, the ground was still soggy from yesterday's storm. At a blind corner, a large slab of limestone had separated from the top of the cliff. Chunks of stone and earth partially blocked the roadway. He drove around it carefully, the truck tires inches away from the fall-off into the canyon, found a place to turn around, and parked close to the rock wall below the slide. He climbed to the top of the cliff and scanned in all directions. Above him, there was no possibility of passage down to the pass. Kerney and Brannon would have to join the road long before they reached his position. He stayed back from the ledge, stretched his arm over the crevice, and poked at the crumbling limestone.
A small clump broke away and dribbled down the bluff. He kept working on the slab until rock blocked the entire road. After climbing down he moved rocks into a pile, then stopped to think things over. His back ached and his shirt stuck to him like a wet rag. He walked around the blind corner and then back to his truck, studying the road. He got a shovel from the truck and moved dirt and rocks from the lip of the road, leaving just enough space to allow foot traffic around the rockpile. He sprinkled earth and pebbles over it to make it look natural. He put the shovel in the bed of the truck and walked back up the road, pacing off five-yard increments, marking each with a small rock until he was fifty yards from the corner. He turned and examined his labors. The slide would look passable to anyone approaching on horseback. He went back to the slide and eyed the height of the pile. He needed it to be at least to the top of the truck's bumper and loosely packed. He threw some of the bigger stones over the side and hollowed out a peephole where he could watch the road without being seen. Judging the timing and the amount of force he would need was the only remaining problem. He estimated distances and moved the truck farther down the road. He walked from the farthest marker, timing himself as he went. He did it once more, walking backward to erase the footprints. It might be a Rube Goldberg scheme, but it would work. Shit happens, Gutierrez thought, smiling to himself. He spread some damp dirt over the rocks to make the pile look more natural. Kerney and Brannon would have to ride single-file to get around it. He stretched out at the peephole, still sweating from the exertion, and waited. When everything was over, he would erase any traces of his presence and be on his way. He checked his watch. He would be long gone before anyone came looking. Maybe to Yucatan or Veracruz on the Gulf of Mexico. He had visited both areas before, and Spanish was his first language. He'd blend right in. An hour passed. He was starting to get restless when Kerney came around the last bend. Kerney reined in and stopped, the roan packhorse siding up to the bay. Gutierrez held his breath. Finally Kerney moved and Sara Brannon came into view, closing the gap between her and the roan.
Gutierrez counted off the seconds as Kerney passed the first marker. The pace of the animals was perfect. He forced himself to wait, timing Kerney's progress over the next thirty yards. Still perfect. He crawled backward and scrambled to the truck. It was going to work! He started the engine, jammed it into gear, and plowed it into the rockpile, only a second or two faster than planned. Kerney was past the nose of the truck and on Gutierrez's right side, but the rocks still splattered his horse. Kerney spurred the bay desperately and dropped the reins to the roan. The bay was flying, landing with forefeet on tumbling rocks, fighting for solid ground, hind feet flailing in the air. The packhorse dropped over the edge, making sounds Gutierrez had never heard from a horse before. Amazingly, the truck continued to roll.
He braked hard, fishtailed into the wall, bounced over the remains of the rockpile, and landed hard on the
