Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (20 page)

Slowly I climbed back up to the trail. Now what? It was the flimsiest of speculations, and yet, I couldn't ignore it. A tree had fallen almost on top of me this morning. The horse-spooking slicker had definitely been a snare. I could not afford to assume this bridge was all right.

I walked back over to the horses. Plumber nickered at me. I patted him, and then Gunner. Gunner turned his head to look at me, and I rubbed his forehead. "You trusted me," I said out loud. "Now I'm gonna trust you."

Dragging my map out of the saddlebag, I studied it. I could still get to Benson Lake, but it was a long damn way around.

I looked back at the bridge. Maybe this was all a bunch of foolishness, but how could I know? The bridge looked solid and respectable in the midday sunshine. My eyes roved the landscape. No one in sight. Just trees and rocks.

Rocks. I laughed out loud. "That's it," I told the horses. "Rocks."

I picked up a handy boulder, lugged it over to the bridge, and pitched it on board. Fifty pounds, more or less. A couple of dozen of these and I'd have twelve hundred pounds on the structure-about what Gunner weighed. If the bridge would hold the rocks, it would hold us.

Carrying rocks was time-consuming and sweaty. I stripped down to my tank top and thought longingly of a swim in Benson Lake. The lake was only a couple of miles away, if I could get across this bridge.

Another rock. The granite was gritty and dusty and abraded my hands and wrists. I lugged another boulder over, and rolled it onto the bridge. I had quite a pile of them out there now. If I was right, the bridge was undermined next to the bank that I stood on; the rocks were on top of the weak place.

Five more and I would reach my target number of twenty-four. I selected a particularly large boulder. Well over fifty pounds. My biceps ached as I toted it to the bridge. I half rolled it, half pitched it forward and started to turn away.

A long, moaning creak, and the rending shriek of wood tearing. I jerked around. As if in slow motion, the bridge began to rip free from its moorings. With a crashing, echoing boom, it twisted and fell, slamming against the opposite bank, wood shards flying.

I stepped to the horses, grabbing their lead ropes. Both were snorting, eyes big. The bridge broke apart, shattering against rocks and bank. Dust rose, wood splintered, noise reverberated off the canyon walls. The whole structure collapsed into the gap it had once spanned.

I gazed disbelievingly at the wreckage. It couldn't be. But it was. The bridge had been booby-trapped.

Implications sank in, one by one. My heart raced at a steady pace as I dug my pistol out of my saddlebag and fastened the holster to my belt. I unsnapped the leather strap that held the hammer down and rested my hand on the butt for a second.

Some crazy lunatic was out here in these mountains. He had to have undermined the bridge from the bank I was on. Therefore if I retraced my route, I was riding right toward him.

There was no other choice. I untied the horses and the dog and mounted Gunner, keeping an eye on the cliff I was about to go back up. The saboteur was out there somewhere. But I had to get back to the ridge.

I clucked to my entourage and started up the trail, planning my new route as I went. I would head back toward the pack station by the shortest possible route. The dangers of the backcountry were one thing, booby-trapped trails were entirely different. I wanted out.

Trouble was, any way I figured it, the pack station was three days' hard ride from here. There weren't any shortcuts.

I scanned the steep walls of Cherry Creek Canyon, wondering who in hell could possibly be booby-trapping the trail, and why. For the first time in my life, I wished earnestly that a forest ranger would appear.

No such luck. The mountains remained ominously silent; the cry of a hawk circling in the blue was the only sound.

This can't be happening. My mind repeated the words uselessly and frantically. I tried to focus my attention in wide-ranging sweeps over the trail and surrounding rocks.

Twenty minutes later, I was most of the way to the ridge when I saw motion up above me on the trail. Gunner saw it, too. He lifted his head, ears straight forward, and neighed.

We both heard the answering neigh. I craned to get a glimpse of the horse and rider, torn between fear and hope.

A brief flash of tawny color behind a rock and then a gray hat and a blue denim shirt were visible. I stared. Blue Winter blocked the trail above me.

"Well, hi, Stormy," he said.

NINETEEN

My hand flew automatically to the butt of my gun. I looked at the man in front of me, saw his eyes follow the motion of my hand, saw them widen slightly. I said nothing. He said nothing.

I kept watching him, waiting for some sign that would indicate whether I was facing a friend or a foe. I could not imagine why Blue Winter would set booby traps for me, but let's face it, I barely knew the man. Dan Jacobi had told me not to trust him. And here he was, blocking my route away from the bridge.

"You look upset," he said at last.

I pondered my reply. "The bridge is out," I said finally.

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not." I waited, not volunteering any information.

"Damn. Now why would it wash out at this time of year?"

I said nothing. If Blue Winter had set the trap, I was better off appearing ignorant. He would then have no reason to consider me a threat.

His eyes rested quietly on me. "It's a long way around."

"I was just figuring that out."

He glanced at the sky. "I'd say it was about three o'clock." Sure enough, he wasn't wearing a wristwatch either. He looked back at me, appearing to consider his next words. After a minute, he said, "Were you going to Benson?"

I said nothing. Once again, my mind was racing around in frantic circles, like a rabbit with a cat on its tail. What should I tell him? Why had he asked that?

Blue Winter shrugged. "You can get by me here, if you like."

"All right." I clucked to Gunner and started up the hill. As he'd said, there was room for the horses to pass each other where he stood.

I rode on until we were face to face. He looked at me; I stared right back at him. I was aware, as I had been before, of a sense of inner stillness. His eyes, steady and gray, stayed on my face without a flicker. I wished I could read his mind.

Carefully, I worked my little pack string by his, watching him meanwhile. He didn't move, merely sat like a statue. His dun horse sniffed noses briefly with Gunner; the freckled dog wagged her tail but remained lying down beside a rock, where he'd told her to stay.

I called Roey to heel as we passed, then looked back over my shoulder. Shit. He was turning his saddle horse around, obviously intending to follow me.

He met my eyes. "Looks like we're going the same way," he said.

Oh, great. Once again my hand went automatically to the gun on my belt, but I jerked it quickly away. It wouldn't do me any good, with this guy dead behind me. I would have to gut this out.

If Blue Winter was the lunatic who had set the traps, I would be safest if I seemed not to suspect him. In the interests of which, I ought to act friendlier. But I was finding it hard to do. Riding up Cherry Canyon with a potential killer on my heels was raising my anxiety level to new highs. Chatting seemed impossible.

He might have nothing to do with it, I reminded myself. He might simply have been riding from Tilden Lake to Benson Lake, a very typical route. Tilden and Benson were two of the biggest lakes in this part of the backcountry.

On the other hand, someone had definitely booby-trapped the bridge. And Blue Winter was the someone who was here. A worst-case scenario that kept intruding into my mind involved the notion that he knew perfectly well how I'd escaped going down with the bridge. He'd been sitting up on the ridge watching me through binoculars while I piled rocks. He'd come along prepared to silence me, and was just taking his time.

Damn, damn, and damn. Visions of violent death and nightmares of rape fled through my head; I tried to push them aside, tried to concentrate on the present moment. This man had never struck me as threatening, and usually, my intuition was good. I tried to believe he might be an innocent bystander.

But with each clink of shod hooves on stone, my fear grew. I wanted to get away from this guy. I felt trapped and scared and desperate with him riding behind me.

Risking a glance back over my shoulder, I saw that he was a polite twenty feet or so behind my pack horse. I could see no sign of a gun on him, but that didn't mean he didn't have one in his saddlebags.

I looked back up the trail. We were nearing the ridge. Not far ahead was Groundhog Meadow, where there was a branch trail. There was also a creek. I would stop in Groundhog Meadow, get off, water my horses, and wait until Blue Winter rode on, then I would take another direction. Any direction but the trail he took.

Blocking my mind to the fear that he wouldn't let me go, I rode toward the grove of cedars on the rim of the canyon. Groundhog Meadow was just beyond.

Gunner's head bobbed gently in front of me with every stride; I could feel gentle tugs through the lead rope as Plumber trooped along behind. Business as usual. It was hard to believe there was some sort of crazed lunatic on my tail.

I was in the cedars now; I could see the light and openness ahead that was Groundhog Meadow. The creek was on the far side-a little trickle with numerous potholes. I would ride to it and stop. If need be, I'd just camp there. I'd run Blue Winter off with the gun, if I had to.

My heart thudded in a steady, frightened tattoo as I envisioned the scene that might be coming. But I was not, I was damned well not, going to keep riding with this man behind me.

We were in the meadow now, the trail dusty beneath Gunner's hooves. Without a word, I veered off the beaten track, headed for the creek. As we neared it, Gunner's ears went forward and he lengthened his stride; he was thirsty.

Roey scampered past me, the little freckled dog running along with her. Both dogs waded into the nearest pothole and paddled around, lapping water as they swam. I wished I could do the same.

I looked over my shoulder. Blue Winter was following me. Well, what did I expect? Maybe he only wanted to water his horses.

I rode Gunner into the creek and stopped. Plumber crowded alongside and I let both horses drink. Blue Winter went a few feet downstream and watered his livestock. Neither of us said a word.

When my horses were finished drinking, I rode them across the creek and over to a small grove of pines near the rocky edge of the meadow. It would be adequate as a campsite if I had to stay. I dismounted and tied the horses up.

Damn, damn, and damn. Blue Winter was following suit, dismounting and tying his stock. What in the hell was going on?

Once again, my hand went automatically to the butt of my gun, but I jerked it away. No use making trouble I didn't need to have. I started walking toward the creek.

Out of the comer of my eye, I could see him walking toward me and I stopped, facing him. Nothing in his body language or demeanor gave me a clue to his thoughts. He looked removed, aloof, and big, very big.

I tipped my chin up in order to meet his eyes as he neared me. Jesus, this guy was tall. Despite my resolution, something of the fear I felt must have shown on my face, because Blue Winter stopped dead. Eyes locked, we stood like statues.

"What's the matter with you?" He said it quietly.

I had no idea what to say. "I just want to be alone." Nothing like the truth.

"Fine, no problem. You'll be alone as soon as I have a drink."

We stood still, staring at each other. He took a step forward and I flinched.

"Jesus." He shook his head. "I'm just going to get a drink out of the creek, okay?"

He took another step and reached a hand toward my shoulder. I jerked sharply sideways, avoiding his grip. Instantaneously, I heard a loud crack.

For a split second nothing made sense. Blue and I stood frozen in place, while echoes bounced off the rocks. That was a shot, my brain chanted.

Crack!

"Shit!" Blue took three running steps and dove into the creek bed, yelling, "Get down, dammit! Somebody's shooting at us."

I scrambled after him, totally confused. Another loud crack as I crouched behind a rock; I could hear the bullet ripping through pine boughs behind me.

"Knock it off, asshole!" Blue roared.

I huddled behind my boulder. Somebody was shooting at the two of us. Did this mean Blue was innocent, and the crazed hiker was out in the woods with a gun? Or was it some kind of elaborate ruse?

I looked over at Blue; he lay prone on the ground. One hand clutched the opposite bicep; I could see the wet red stain growing under his fingers. His eyes met mine briefly.

"They shot you," I said blankly.

"Looks like it. What in the hell is going on?"

"I don't know."

I started to move toward him, and he stopped me with a quick, "Stay put." Another shot rang out. It clipped a rock nearby with a sharp ping; a shard of granite flew in the air.