Gideon's Corpse

After a moment, Gideon said, “Right now I can’t let you go. I need your help.”

“You mean, you need a hostage.”

“I have to prove my innocence.”

“I can’t wait for that moment to turn you in.”

They rode on in angry silence. The sun was now almost straight overhead.

“We need to find water,” Alida said in a surly tone. “For my horse.”

Past noon, they topped out on a high forested ridge that overlooked the valley behind them.

“Hold on,” Gideon said. “I want to see what’s happening below.”

She halted the horse and Gideon turned around. Through the thick screen of trees he could see down into the grassy plains below. A huge cloud of smoke still billowed from the ruins of the movie set, with fire trucks parked all around, white jets of water arcing into the remains. His eye followed the course of Jasper Wash and there, at the beginning of the steep hills, he could make out rows of parked cars, people gathering, and what looked like a mass of searchers moving up the wash and fanning out. He could hear the faint baying of hounds. Horses were being unloaded from a large stock trailer and riders were mounting up, forming a posse of sorts.

“That’s some manhunt gearing up,” said Alida. “And listen to that—choppers.”

Sure enough, Gideon could hear a throbbing sound as three black specks resolved themselves in the distant blue sky.

“Wow, you are in some deep shit,” she said.

“Alida, I don’t know how to make you believe me, but I’m completely and totally innocent. This is a grotesque mistake.”

She stared at him, then shook her head. “Those people down there don’t think so.”

They headed down from the ridge, made their way across another ravine, and then climbed steeply through stands of Douglas fir, enormous boulders and fallen timber impeding their progress. They found themselves traversing the hillsides, back and forth, trying to get around rocks and downed timber.

“We’ve got to lose the horse,” said Gideon.

“No way.”

“He’s leaving too clear a track, and those dogs will be following the horse’s scent trail. If we turn him loose, he’ll divert them from us. And besides, the country’s getting too rough for a horse.”

“Forget it.”

“If we let Sierra go, he’ll get water sooner. There’s no water in this part of the Jemez. Especially in June.”

Alida was silent.

“He’s exhausted. He’s supporting two riders. He can’t go on like this. Look at him.”

Again she did not respond. The horse really was exhausted, soaking wet and all lathered up around his saddle skirts and breast collar.

“If they catch up to us, they just might shoot first, ask questions later. You saw what happened back there: those guys are so eager to kill me, they don’t care about a little collateral damage.”

They were working their way up a small tributary wash that ended in an enormous ridged mountainside, rising at steep angles all around them. There was no way to go but straight up.

Alida stopped the horse. “Get off,” she said curtly.

They dismounted awkwardly, shackled together. She untied the saddlebags and tossed them to Gideon. “You carry these.” She removed Sierra’s bridle and reins, tied them securely to the saddle horn, and slapped the horse on the butt.

“Go,” she said. “Get out of here. Go find yourself a drink.”

The horse, puzzled, stared at her, ears pricked.

“You heard me. Git!” She slapped the horse again and he trotted off, stopping once again to look back in puzzlement. She picked up a stick, waved it. “Hyah! Git!”

The horse turned and ambled away down the canyon.

She spat and turned to Gideon. “Now I really hate you.”

34

After a long, arduous climb up the mountainside, in the late afternoon they topped the last ridge and found themselves looking across a wilderness of mountains and valleys, unbroken by roads or any sign of human life. They stopped to rest. From time to time Gideon had heard the throbbing of choppers, some passing fairly close overhead. But the forest was so dense that he’d been able to hide the two of them under thick vegetation before there was any chance they’d be spotted.

It was a vast area called the Bearhead: the remotest part of the Jemez Mountains. Gideon had fished the lower reaches of the Bearhead but had never been deep into it before. The sun was now setting, throwing the mountains into deep purple.

“A person could go in there and vanish forever,” Alida said, squinting into the hazy distance.

“Right,” said Gideon. He dropped the saddlebags and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m afraid I have to pee.”

She stared at him, her eyebrows arching in disdainful amusement. “Go ahead.”

“Maybe you should turn around.”

“Why? I didn’t ask you to cuff us together. Go on, let’s see what you’ve got.”

“This is ridiculous.” He unzipped his fly and peed, turning away from her as best he could.

“My, your face is red.”

They descended a series of steep slopes, keeping to the cover of a gully, and found themselves in a heavy oak brush, forming an understory below towering firs and spruces. They pushed ahead, barely able to see where they were going, up and down precipitous slopes. It was hard travel, but they were well hidden.

“So what’s the plan, Abdul?” Alida asked at last.

“That’s not funny.”

“As I see it, you’re running from the combined law enforcement of the entire US of A, the sun is setting, you’ve got no shirt, we’re in the middle of nowhere with no food and no water. And you don’t have a plan. Wow.”

“There are supposed to be some old mines in the Bearhead. We’ll go to ground.”

“Okay, we spend the night in a mine. And then?”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” What would my old buddy Sergeant Dajkovic do in a situation like this? he wondered to himself. Probably drop and do a hundred push-ups.

They hiked into the Bearhead, following elk trails that appeared and disappeared, until they came to the edge of a tiny meadow beside a dry creekbed. Beyond, partway up the hillside, stood the dark openings of several mines, with old shaft houses and tailing piles.

“Here’s where we spend the night,” Gideon said.

“I’m thirsty as hell.”

Gideon shrugged.

He gathered handfuls of dry grass from the meadow and tied them into a tight bundle. They climbed up to the closest tunnel. At the mouth, he borrowed her lighter, lit the bundle, and then they moved cautiously into the passage, the firelight flickering over the massively timbered walls and ceiling. It was an old hard-rock tunnel that went straight into the hillside. He hoped to find signs of water, but it was as dry in the mine as it was in the creekbed outside.

The bottom of the mine was a bed of soft sand. Alida sat down and fished a cigarette out of her pocket, used the burning grass bundle to light it. She inhaled deeply, blew out a long stream of smoke. “What a day. Thanks to you.”

“Um, may I—?”

“Unbelievable. You kidnap me, hold me hostage, get me shot at—and now you’re bumming cigarettes.”

“I never said I was perfect.”