High Desert Barbecue (19 page)

B
esides, Scott had been his close buddy ever since that half-remembered encounter by the Flagstaff police car (Rollo had been drinking his way through town at the time, so he’d needed the details filled in after the fact).

“
We did what?”

“
We slashed the tires on a cop car. Don’t you remember? It was only half an hour ago.”

“
Well … that’s embarrassing. We didn’t get caught, did we?”

“
No. No, we didn’t get caught. Are you sure you want another beer?”

H
e worried about Scott. His friend didn’t need to be in this situation and wouldn’t be at risk if Rollo hadn’t dragged him into his long-running feud with the Forest Service.

A
s for Lani … the self-styled mountain man hated to admit it, but he enjoyed sparring with the little blonde firecracker. He didn’t exactly
like
her, but she kept him on his toes—and she wasn’t hard to look at either.

H
opping from one rocky ledge to the next, Rollo bounded like a mountain goat on native terrain. Harried as he was, he still felt a bit of his usual exhilaration at being out-of-doors and beyond the reach of civilization with its rules and expectations. The air tasted cleaner, his mind seemed clearer, and he felt like dropping his shorts and wagging his sunburned—yes, sunburned—ass at the whole world of rangers, ex-wives, cops and debt collectors.

I
n fact, he had dropped his pants to the world on many occasions; some of them by the light of a (he assumed) sympathetic moon shining above. But there had never before been an audience to appreciate his sentiments, and he didn’t have time to take advantage of the audience he had at hand.

A
s his efforts took him close to the top, he slowed, briefly, to admire a cluster of stud-like projections from a slab of stone. He’d seen their like in the area before.

“
Fossils. Cool.”

A
s Rollo knew from experience, the southwestern landscape, with its petrified forests and deep-cut canyons slicing through layers of rock, is like an unlabeled museum of Earth’s ancient history. You might never know for sure what you were looking at, but you could be certain there was a hell of a story behind it. Once again, he reminded himself to take the time someday to try to identify the long-dead things that had catalogued themselves here into the museum of nature’s permanent exhibit.

I
f he ever made it to town again, that is. He decided not to dwell on that point.

T
he top of the rim came up sooner than Rollo had any right to hope. He was drenched with sweat and bleeding from scratches on the palms of his hands when he pulled himself up on a final ledge, and then shimmied through a narrow gap that had him sucking in his gut.

H
e looked around. The mesa top was dominated by juniper trees and well marked with cow pies left by local ranchers’ cattle.

“
Excellent,” he muttered. “Now, where the fuck did I bury that stuff?”

Chapter 41

W
ith the men behind her, essentially guarding her back, Lani felt more secure than she had since the whole misbegotten adventure had started. The safer she felt, the more guilt nibbled at her conscience over feeling secure when Scott and … well … yeah, Rollo, too … were staying behind to face the lunatics dogging their tails.

W
ithin a few hundred yards, Lani had herself worked into a tearful frenzy. She would have turned back if she could figure out a way to get Champ to climb the canyon wall. But she couldn’t. So onward she went.

A
ttuned to his owner’s moods, Champ whined and licked Lani’s hand. When she paused to look back the way she’d come, he pawed at her for attention. She ruffled the fur between his ears reassuringly. He rubbed his muzzle against her leg in response, leaving a small drool stain on the fabric of her shorts.

D
espite her doubts, she started walking again. She resigned herself to setting one foot in front of the other for as long as necessary. There was no point to what the men were doing if she didn’t get the video to somebody who could help.

W
hat form that help would take was anybody’s guess, and the uncertainty set Lani to fretting again. She removed Scott’s instructions from her pocket and glanced at the carefully printed text. She was no computer whiz, but her boyfriend knew that and had rendered the instructions as detailed as he could, and in plain English. It still looked like nonsense—a bit like asking somebody for driving directions and getting a monotone recitation of
Jabberwocky
in response.

“
Why couldn’t it have been literature, damn it? Or correcting papers? I’d feel a lot more comfortable if Scott had asked me to stop the firebugs by marking up some essays in red pen.”

C
hamp gazed up at her sympathetically.

“
Well,” she added. “I’m also good at playing the guitar. Why couldn’t he have asked me to help out with some blues chords? There
are
things I’m good at, just not computers.”

S
he wasn’t sure, but she thought Champ nodded in agreement.

“
Thanks, boy. I’m glad you’re with me.”

T
he dog grinned back, and then lifted a leg to piss on a prickly pear.

T
he sun shone overhead, with no clouds visible in the slice of sky revealed between the canyon walls. The sway of Lani’s pack and the rhythmic slosh from her water bladder set a cadence as she hiked along. It was easier to concentrate on the hike than on what lay behind or ahead, so she kept her mind on the trail and did her best to take pleasure in the scenery.

E
njoyment came more easily than she’d anticipated. With Scott and Rollo laying for the firebugs, she no longer felt a need to look over her shoulder. She was finally able to appreciate the simple fact of being outdoors. Exploring the desert was one of her favorite activities, and she soaked up the details: the rapidly evaporating pools of water left by the rain, the flitting lizards evading her steps, the scrubby trees and brush. Refreshed by the monsoon rains, the vegetation showed an unusually vivid green that emphasized the natural beauty of the normally dry area. With an experienced eye she dodged sharp desert holly that lured with pretty leaves and tore at unsuspecting hikers’ skin.

T
wice she passed by small cairns left by earlier hikers. Each marked a faint trail that wound up and into the distance. Tempted though she was, she knew that any diversion from the canyon floor itself would leave her truly on her own; Scott and Rollo would have no idea where she was. Worse, Rollo had warned his companions that, while trails official, unofficial and recognized solely by the animal kingdom did wander through the area, the best she could hope for was to emerge on a jeep road miles from help—or even water. Other trails just led further into wilderness.

S
o onward she walked.

I
t was several hours later, as the shadows grew longer, when she heard gunshots behind her, in the distance.

Chapter 42

W
ith Ray leading the way, Jason’s team trudged slowly, tentatively and with varying degrees of enthusiasm (or lack thereof) down the canyon. As if to make up for the recent rains, the sun blazed down and glared off the rocks and in their eyes. The blue sky overhead featured a few puffy, postcard-ready clouds that carried too little moisture to so much as settle the rising dust.

M
onsoon season was like that—drowning you one moment and baking you the next.

T
he group had made remarkably little progress in the past few hours—nobody but the silver-diapered park ranger seemed enthusiastic about rushing ahead. Terry and Bob, in particular, favored frequent rest stops and a slow pace.

B
ut they all realized that only a severe case of sunburn camouflaged the red flush of Ray’s rage. Nobody revived the earlier conversation about turning back.

“
Take it easy, Ray,” Jason cautioned. He did his best to inject confidence into his voice so he’d sound like he was in charge.

“
Why?”

“
So you don’t get yourself ambushed.”

T
he man responded with a growl.

“
If I go any slower, we’ll be going backwards.”

“
Well … be careful.”

R
ay snorted.

“
If you’re worried about me, let somebody else take point.”

“
Uh … sure. How about—”

R
ay whirled around.

“
I know. How about Bob?” He cupped his free hand to his mouth. “Hey, Bob, you courageous cow killer. Get your ass up here!”

A
faint voice drifted from the end of the column.

“
Ummm … What do you need me for?”

“
To take the lead. Jason wants you to test for traps and such.”

J
ason’s eyes widened.

“
Hey, that’s not what I—”

“
Get up here, Bob!”

T
he dejected-looking activist stepped slowly to the front, his rifle dragging from his hand. The skin of his chest and shoulders was filmed with sweat and dirt. His wispy beard was caked with a rime of salt from dried perspiration.

“
Jason, I don’t know that I want to do this.”

J
ason placed his hand on the environmentalist’s shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

“
It’s all right. We’ll all take turns.”

R
ay chuckled.

“
No worries. Bob’s a seasoned combat veteran. He’ll do just fine.” He stepped closer to Bob. “If anybody shoots at you, just think of him as a mammalian menace.”

B
ob seemed to slump in his skin.

“
OK.”

T
he column got underway once again.

“
Don’t worry, Bob. I’m sure—”

T
he unhappy activist’s rifle flew forward, out of his hand, as he fell backward. Red spurted from his shoulder.

N
ewly developed reflexes sent the rest of the team diving for cover before they were consciously aware of the gunshots echoing from the canyon walls.

Chapter 43

S
cott heard the bickering long before he spotted any targets.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Not again.”

H
e glanced up the face of the cliff, looking for a sign that his friend was returning. He got a double eyeful of nothing for his trouble. The rocks and shrubs hung as still as photographs, revealing no motion.

T
he rains of the previous day were a forgotten memory, and each breath was molten.

“
Shit.”

H
is face was wet with perspiration, which oozed past the sweatband of his cap. Individual drops of sweat crawled across his scalp with a sensation like tiny bugs marching in column. Pulled low over his eyes, what remained of the bullet-damaged brim of the cap cut the glare and gave him a clear view of the canyon floor.

R
eflected by the high walls of dirt and stone, disembodied voices tramped through the canyon like an expedition of dyspeptic phantoms—perhaps the ghosts of ill-tempered cowboys past.

T
hough Scott would have liked to believe that real-life cowboys wouldn’t sound so much like a married couple counting the days to a nasty divorce.

L
agging behind the flapping of lips, a lone figure came into view around a bend in the canyon. A moment later, his—or her—companions followed.

R
emembering how his earlier mercy had been repaid, Scott didn’t hesitate to bring his borrowed .22 rifle to bear on the leader. Sprawled prone on his rock ledge, he rested the barrel on his balled-up left fist. He peered through the peephole rear sight, focusing on the front sight resting against the blurry image of his target, and slowly squeezed the trigger.