Dead or Alive (27 page)

“I've got a lieutenant making those calls right now,” Vanmeter replied.

“Can you get Kerry's boss to outfit Clayton and me with good horses and enough gear and supplies to stay on Larson's trail for a week, minimum?”

“Starting when?”

“Right now,” Kerney replied. “But we want good, sturdy, endurance trail horses, not the ones for the tenderfoots that are stabled here at this barn.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Vanmeter said.

“Better have your lieutenant tell the folks at the scout ranch that they should mother hen all their Boy Scouts for a day or two.”

“Affirmative.”

“Thanks.” Kerney keyed off his handheld and looked at Clayton. “Are you ready for a midnight trail ride?”

Clayton nodded. “More than ready.”

When Larson reached Miami Lake, he checked the time on the nice Omega wristwatch he'd taken off Carter Pettibone's pudgy dead body. It was just coming up on midnight and he was a little behind schedule, slowed down by the darkness, broken terrain, and a few locked gates he'd been forced to skirt. As he watered the horses, he kept an ear tuned to the sound of any traffic along the two-lane highway that passed by the lake, but all was quiet.

A little west of the lake, the dim outline of Kit Carson Mesa jutted into the night sky, barely lit by the Milky Way. Behind it stood the Cimarron Range, an inky black swath that Larson could feel more than see. But that would soon change, for in the east, the first hint of a rising three-quarter moon broke over the horizon. With it, Larson would have enough light to pick up the pace. He'd have to be careful of badger holes, but figuring six to eight miles per hour riding at a steady trot, he should be across Rayado Creek, beyond Hagerdon Lake, past Coyote Mesa, and entering Dawson Canyon well before dawn.

He decided to throw any trackers off by crossing the highway and heading in the opposite direction, toward the mesa south of the farming settlement of Miami before correcting course. Hopefully, if a search for him was mounted at first light, it would be concentrated there, while he would be a good twenty miles away, about to enter the high country.

Larson mounted up and spurred his horse into a trot, the pack horse following behind. For a time he'd actually be riding in the ruts of the Old Santa Fe Trail, crossing some of the most famous ranching land in the West.

He thought about the Clay Allison plaque in the St. James Hotel in Cimarron. If he remembered it correctly, along with the names of the men Allison had killed, it listed a number of unnamed Negro soldiers he'd gunned down.

While there weren't any more Buffalo Soldiers around to kill, the idea of riding over to Philmont Scout Ranch and shooting a parcel of Boy Scouts held a certain appeal. But Larson dropped the idea. He'd already racked up one kill down at that Bible-thumping church camp in Lincoln County, and he didn't like the notion of repeating himself by shooting more clean-cut all-American boys. Besides, his true calling now was to kill more cops.

All he had to do was find the perfect place and then draw them in.

Chapter Ten

Arranging for the horses and gathering all their supplies and equipment held Kerney and Clayton up well past midnight. They delayed pushing off for another twenty minutes while a just-arrived state game and fish officer briefed them on the major trails into the mountains, the best places to find good water and forage for the horses, and the location of several line camps and old cabins to use in case of severe bad weather. He gave them a set of clearly labeled keys that would get them through locked gates on private and public land, some Bureau of Land Management and U.S. Geological Survey topographical maps to guide them, and a global positioning system receiver loaded with more maps.

“The GPS should keep you from getting lost,” the officer said with a smile. “Watch out for the black bears. It's the tail end of their mating season, and they get seriously irritated when interrupted.”

“We'll keep that in mind,” Clayton said, throwing a leg over the saddle of the roan gelding he'd picked out to ride.

Kerney mounted a buckskin quarter horse and took the reins of the two packhorses from Frank Vanmeter's outstretched hand.

“I'll have aircraft in the air before first light,” Vanmeter said.

Clayton looked skyward. “Maybe not.”

Both Vanmeter and Kerney looked at the clear night sky and then glanced at Clayton questioningly.

“The wind has shifted, the pressure is dropping, and we're in for a blow,” he explained.

“And you know this how?” Vanmeter asked.

“At dusk, the crows were cawing, the swallows stayed close to the ground, and the hawks weren't soaring as high as usual.”

“So, it's like some Apache insight into the natural world, right?” Vanmeter said.

Clayton laughed. “Actually, I learned it in a wilderness survival class I took years ago.” He turned to Kerney. “Let's go. We're a good five hours behind Larson, and I want to close the gap before the rain comes.”

“Lead on, Chief,” Kerney replied as he waved a good-bye to Vanmeter.

Clayton shot him a look over his shoulder. “I hope you mean that in the nicest possible way.”

“I do,” Kerney replied as he fell in behind Clayton. “I'm sure you know it was the gringos who came up with the idea of calling the leaders of the Apache bands chiefs. They couldn't grasp the concept of a warrior society without one person holding absolute authority.”

“And it's still true today,” Clayton replied. “Have you been studying Apache history?”

“I figured with an Apache son, I'd better learn something about it,” Kerney said.

After a pause, Clayton said, “I think my mother was wise to choose you to mate with.”

“Now that's a compliment I bet a father rarely hears,” Kerney replied with a laugh.

The two men fell silent as they followed Larson's trail west across the rolling rangeland. In the deepest part of the night, the wind picked up, the temperature dropped, and the short prairie grasses swirled in cross breezes that whipped through the plains. Soon, lightning flashes were cutting the night sky, illuminating the mountaintops as cascading rolls of thunder roared down the slopes.

Massive, boiling clouds that had been hidden from view came over the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Clayton and Kerney broke their horses into a fast trot.

“We're going to have to take shelter before this storm comes in,” Kerney said as he came up alongside Clayton.

“We can hole up in Miami,” Clayton said, “but we're gonna get wet along the way.”

Damp but safe under shelter in an empty barn on the outskirts of Miami, they shook the rain off their ponchos, hung them over the door to a stall, and watched the deluge start. Lightning strikes lit up the sky and wind-driven rain battered the cottonwood trees that bordered the road through the settlement.

“This weather sure doesn't help us any,” Kerney said as he wiped down his horse with an old towel he'd found in a rag bin. When he finished, he got more dry rags and moved on to the pack animals.

“It shouldn't delay us that much,” Clayton said as he dried his mount. “If Larson hasn't found shelter, he's been slowed way down on making tracks. When it clears, we'll circle the village, cut his trail, and follow his tracks. After this storm, fresh hoofprints won't be hard to find.”

“Plus,” Kerney added, “Larson didn't do a good job of loading his packhorse. The animal's left rear hoofprint is deeper than the others.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

“I grew up on a ranch, remember, so I'm not a complete novice when it comes to tracking livestock,” Kerney said as he spread a blanket on a bed of straw and stretched out on it. Some distance away on the open prairie a big lightning bolt struck. “Wake me when it's time to move.”

“How can you sleep through this?” Clayton asked.

Kerney closed his eyes. “Watch me.”

 

 

Drenched and cold to the bone, Craig Larson dug his heels into the flanks of his frightened horse and pushed on. He tugged at the reins of the reluctant packhorse and it grudgingly raised its head and picked up the pace. When he crested a small rise, he stopped and listened. Although he couldn't see it through the sheets of rain, close by he could hear the roar of the usually dry creek that wandered along the foot of Coyote Mesa.

Larson dismounted and slowly walked the horses to the edge of the creek. Four feet below him, brown, foaming water filled the creek, rising fast, carrying with it tree branches, plastic bottles bobbing up and down, and other debris. He'd have to find a better place to cross. He got back on the horse and rode away from the mesa, toward the grassland where he knew the creek forked and ran between shallow banks. Once there, he dismounted and walked the skittish horses through the knee-deep, swiftly moving water safely to the other side. If he'd arrived five minutes later, he might not have made it across and would have been stuck waiting for the water to recede.

Born and raised in the Big Empty, Larson knew better than to be out in bad weather with lightning strikes hitting all around. But there wasn't anyplace close by where he could stop and hunker down. Going into the town of Cimarron would surely get him caught or killed, and it was way too risky to head for the ranch headquarters where his brother's bosses lived. By now the cops probably had all the area ranchers on alert looking for him.

Under a piece of canvas he had fashioned into a make-do rain slick, Larson slogged on, knowing that with the creeks rising fast, the Cimarron River up ahead would be running full and angry. Although it wasn't a broad river, he could be stranded on the bank waiting for the water to drop. If the skies cleared by daybreak and he was still there, he would be easy to spot from the air.

He looked up, searching for a break in the cover, a hint of predawn light, but it was far too early and the storm was parked low overhead. If it stopped raining but stayed heavily overcast well into the morning, he might still be able to reach the mouth of Dawson Canyon undetected.

Beyond the Cimarron River, he'd have two highways and another river to cross in order to get there. That's if he made it through the storm and across the plains in one piece.

A lightning bolt seared through the cloud cover and hit the ground half a mile away. The horses shied at the thunderclap that followed, but Larson kept his seat and held fast to the reins of the packhorse.

He hadn't sat a horse in years, and his butt was sore and his legs ached. Rain ran down the brim of the cowboy hat he'd taken off the coatrack in Kerry's front room, and then it splattered against his face. Behind him the packhorse slogged through the mud of the rutted ranch road with its head lowered. This was a doozy of a storm that would have every rancher on the plains thanking the dear lord for the moisture come Sunday morning at worship.

In spite of the piss-poor weather, his sore butt, and the obstacles he faced up ahead, Larson felt exhilarated. This was life the way the old-timers had lived it. They fought the elements and anything or anybody that got in their way, including the law. So with gumption and a little luck he just might avoid being bush-whacked, or shot by a sniper from an airplane, or surrounded by a posse of cops. And if he made it to the high country, he could do some payback shooting of his own.

A sudden tension on the packhorse's reins made him look over his shoulder. The load the animal was carrying had shifted precariously. Larson cursed, dismounted, and with cold hands tried to undo some of the knots he'd tied so he could adjust the load. But the soggy ropes were swollen shut. He tried forcing a knot to give with the tip of a hunting knife, but all he managed to do was cut through it. He tried repositioning and tightening the pack frame, but it was cinched as far as it would go. Fumbling with the loose ends of the cut rope, he managed to retie it, got back on his horse, and cursed again. He'd have to slow down his pace even more or risk seeing his provisions, weapons, and equipment strewn along the ground.

He moved on through the storm with a little less enthusiasm than before. It seemed like ever since he'd stabbed that corrections officer in the eye with a stick and made his getaway, stupid little glitches had come along to fuck things up for him.

Lightning cracked, loud and close enough above him to send a shiver of electricity down his spine. His gelding did a dizzying three-sixty twirl, and the pack animal reared, pulled the reins free from his hand, and galloped off into the gray night. He clamped his legs tight and fought to stay in the saddle as his horse spun again. The horse planted both front hoofs, bucked hard, stomped its forelegs, shook its head, and made another full circle before coming to a shaky, snorting stop.

Larson took a deep breath. With an unsteady hand he turned his gelding in the direction where he'd seen the packhorse disappear into the night, and started after it in a slow trot.

 

 

Some time after the downpour had diminished to a steady drizzle, Clayton shook Kerney awake. He sat up and looked out the open barn door. Darkness and a blanket of fog made it impossible to see more than two feet.

“I've got Frank Vanmeter bringing in people to start searching around here pronto,” Clayton said. “They'll go door to door first to check on the residents, and then do field searches, including the mesas, when the fogs lifts.”

Kerney stuck his head out the barn door and looked at the sky. “Which won't be anytime soon.” He looked at Clayton's damp, saddled roan gelding. “What have you been up to?”

“Out cutting Larson's trail,” Clayton said. “When the storm hit, he was well past the village on a straight path for Miami Lake, due west of here. You would have figured that he would have kept going directly for the mountains, but I found his tracks doubling back toward the village.”