Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (27 page)

"Do you need help?" I asked.

"I guess so." He sounded sheepish.

"I can help," I said.

"If you could just help me get my boots off," he said.

"Sure."

I bent to the task for the second time, aware as I did so how silly I must appear. The left boot came free; I set it on the ground and looked up at Blue. He was smiling.

I shook my head at him. "So you like having a valet?"

"I don't mind at all. You make a pretty cute valet."

I smiled. In general, I'm not crazy about being called cute, but somehow when Blue said it, I kind of liked it. I pulled off the right boot, set it on the ground, and straightened up. "So what's the plan?"

"The plan is, I put on some dry clothes and we walk up the canyon with the binoculars and see who, if anyone, is camped at the end of Kerrick Meadow."

"Should we leave the horses here?"

"I think so. They need to eat, and they're hungry enough not to wander. If you want to string a run line and put the mare on it, we can be sure they'll stay put."

"Okay." I agreed with Blue. Tying Little Witch up would safeguard us against losing the horses in the event something startled them. After spending several days together, our four equines considered themselves a herd, and the geldings would certainly be unwilling to leave the mare.

I strung a picket line and put Little Witch on it, making sure she could reach plenty of grass. By the time I was done, Blue had changed into dry clothes. Like me, he wore nylon and rubber sandals suitable for walking or swimming. I smiled again.

"You don't look much like a cowboy in those," I said.

He glanced down at his feet, which were as long and slender as his hands, and pretty much snow-white. "I don't know," he said. "Cowboys all have white feet."

"True enough."

We grinned at each other companionably. Despite the problems ahead, I had a faintly euphoric feeling-perhaps the successful swim, perhaps just this man's presence.

Blue seemed to feel the same. Swinging his binoculars by the strap, he gestured at the canyon.

"Lead on," he said.

I led. We walked up the trail, out of the meadow, through the blackened forest, avoiding smoldering tree skeletons and hot spots. The fire was pretty much out, except for the occasional stump. Soon we were clear of the forest and headed up the canyon. Vegetation diminished.

Blue stopped. "Here's where this fire was set." He pointed to various spots. "Here and here and here and here. It looks to me like whoever it was had a hard time getting it going."

"Whoever it was." I said it softly and Blue looked my way. "Come on," I said. "Let's go."

Reaching down, I touched the butt of my gun. It sat in its holster on my belt and made me feel safer. What good it would actually do me if whoever it was appeared, I didn't know, but it sure was better than nothing.

Blue led me off the trail and up a side canyon. We were scrambling through the rocks now, but I felt better as soon as we got off the main trail. Whoever it was would have no reason to be up here.

Up and up we went. My hands and nose were cold, but in general, the exercise was keeping me warm. Shafts of early sunlight lit the granite here and there. Blue picked our way slowly, trying to protect his arm.

Suddenly and without preamble we stepped into a pocket meadow high on the canyon's side. I could see Benson Lake below us in its thimble-like hollow. Blue stopped, took a deep breath, and raised the binoculars to his eyes.

I looked where he pointed them, on the opposite ridge, where the main canyon topped out. I could see a flat spot and some trees, that was it.

For a moment Blue was quiet, staring, his face as unreadable as ever. He adjusted the binoculars, moved them slightly. A more pronounced stillness seemed to come over his features.

"There he is," he said quietly.

TWENTY-FIVE

Who is it?"

"See for yourself." Blue handed me the binoculars.

I looked where he pointed and saw only a blur. Fiddling with the adjustment blurred things more rather than less. Suddenly pine trees swam into focus. I saw a tent. And then I saw a man.

Dan Jacobi. Engaged in the prosaic task of building a fire.

I lowered the binoculars. "Do you really think he did all this?"

"Who else?" Blue said. "I don't believe it's a coincidence he's camped here."

I picked up the binoculars again and scanned. No sign of Steve or Jim. I could see a couple of horses picketed in the meadow. Dan continued to crouch over the fire.

Once again 1 put the binoculars down. "But why?"

I was trying to put it all together in my mind. The snares along the trail, the shooting, the fire. I could picture blond Steve doing those things. Suddenly it bothered me that I couldn't see Steve.

"Let's get back to the horses," I said.

"All right." Blue seemed as eager as I to see the stock.

We scrambled down the canyon as fast as he could do it, the dogs trotting happily with us. They were glad we'd gone for a walk. Once we were on the main trail, I kept my eyes open while thoughts sailed in and out of my brain like kites.

"Do we have to ride by them to get out?" I asked Blue.

"Yes. Unless you want to head back toward Crazy Horse Creek. But that's more than three days' ride. And Bridgeport's about eight hours away. But we have to go through Kerrick Meadow."

"What's the trail like on the other side?"

"Right as you come out of the meadow there's a tough spot. It's called The Roughs. It's tricky, but it's short. After that it's all easy riding down Buckeye Canyon to town."

"Are there any really dangerous spots in the Roughs?" I asked him.

"There's a place called Dead Horse Corner. It's not that bad if you stay to the inside. But the rock slopes out and down, and it's slickrock. You can see the bones of a horse or two down below."

"That ought to work," I said.

"What do you mean?" Blue stopped in his tracks.

"Come on," I said. "I'll tell you while I'm packing up to go."

We were in the meadow now; despite my racing heart, I took a moment's comfort in the sight of our placidly grazing horses, their backs shiny in the early sunlight. But I kept moving.

I caught horses and began saddling and packing. Blue helped me as much as he could. And while I packed, I talked.

I told Blue about the snares along the trail to Cherry Creek Canyon, told him in detail this time. Particularly about the slicker.

"Could you," I asked him, "rig a horse-spooker like that?"

"Sure. I used to make snares for rabbits when I was a kid. I know how to carve the trigger."

I nodded in satisfaction. "And we've got a raincoat and some twine."

"So, what do you want to do, Gail?" Blue stared at me, holding a bridle in his good hand.

"Trap them with their own trap," I said. "It looks like they're barely awake; their horses are still out in the meadow. They know we have to ride by them to get out, so they figure they're sitting pretty. They're not afraid of us."

"True enough." Blue sounded puzzled.

"So, let's say we go galloping right through their camp, flat out. We'd catch them by surprise, wouldn't you think?"

"Sure."

"So, what do you think they'd do?"

"Saddle the horses and go after us, I guess," Blue said.

"That's what I think, too. But they'll be a ways behind us. And if we can get up into the Roughs and rig a horse-spooker at Dead Horse Comer, we might catch them by surprise again."

Blue took this in and then grinned. “You want to set them up?"

"That's right. Look at it this way; if they're innocent, they won't chase us, and if they do chase us, they're the ones who've been trying to kill us."

Blue's grin grew wider. "How many bullets do you have left?"

"Four," I said.

“
All right."

Neither of us extrapolated on this. The horses were packed and saddled.

"Let's get you on," I told Blue. "We don't have any time to waste. I want to catch them while they're still in the sack."

Once again we went through the ritual of boosting Blue onto Dunny. Then, pack horses and dogs in tow, we headed out of the meadow.

My heart was really thumping now. Like a rope horse about to make a run, I could feel adrenaline surging into my system. Fight or flight-the old message. Live or die.

I knew that I could be killed. They had shot at us once; they could shoot again. There was no knowing. My heart pounded furiously.

I thought of the horses, and the dogs. We would all have to take our chances. I prayed that we'd survive, that we'd all come out unscathed.

We were out of the meadow now, on rock, climbing the trail that led up the canyon. Blue was in the lead; once again I followed Little Witch's flaxen tail.

On and on, up and up. Past the marker that pointed to Benson Lake, back on the main trail, up toward Kerrick Meadow. Not too far now, by my reckoning.

Blue pulled his horse up at a flat spot. I rode alongside him.

"That's Ranchero Creek," he said, indicating a small, clear stream to our right. "When we round the next bend, we'll be in the lower end of Kerrick Meadow. They're camped to the right of the trail, along the creek, where the meadow narrows."

We both stared at the trail ahead. Innocuous in the morning sunlight, it looked pleasant and inviting. Level trail, leading to a meadow. With an enemy guarding it.

"Should we start moving here, or when we round the corner?" I asked Blue.

"Let's kick the horses up to a trot here," he said in even tones, as though he'd been thinking about it. "That way we'll all have some momentum going. As soon as we round that bend we'll see their camp. Beyond that the trail runs on level ground through the meadow for at least a mile. We can cover the whole thing at the lope. Then there's another mile uphill through forest before we hit The Roughs."

"Okay," I said. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready."

Both of us clucked to our horses and leaned forward in our saddles. Gunner picked up the trot easily. I dallied the lead rope around the saddle horn and pulled Plumber out of the walk and into the trot.

"Heel," I told Roey, probably unnecessarily. She was following right in Plumber's wake.

The bend was coming up; I clucked again as I saw Dunny and Little Witch break into a lope. The pine trees rushed by me as Gunner picked up the gait.

Then we were around the turn, the meadow ahead of us. My eyes shot to the right. Tents, still quiet. No sign of humans. I kicked Gunner in the ribs.

Hooves pounded, saddles squeaked. We thundered down the trail past the campsite. A horse neighed out in the meadow and Plumber answered shrilly back. A man's voice, loud and surprised, "What the fuck?" Steve's voice.

Motion around the tents, I thought, but I kept my eyes straight ahead. My body rocked to the rhythm of Gunner's long stride; I could feel Plumber galloping alongside, leading like a well-trained dog on a leash.

We were past their camp. More neighs from horses in the meadow. Yells behind us. Then the sharp crack of a shot. I ducked lower over Gunner's neck, my heart pounding.

Gunner galloped on without a check, as did Plumber. I could see Blue and his horses and dog. I looked back over my shoulder. Roey was there.

There was a man standing in front of the tents. Steve. He pointed a pistol at us and shot again. I ducked and hustled my horse, but I knew we were out of pistol range. Thank God, he didn't have a rifle.

In another minute we would be out of sight of their camp. Kerrick Meadow opened up around us, green and sunny. We raced headlong down the trail, horses and dogs and all.

At a guess, Dan and crew would now be scrambling to catch horses and saddle up. We would have at least ten minutes' head start on them. We needed to use it.

Moving at the high lope, Kerrick Meadow sped by. Sharp, silvery, saw-toothed peaks rose on the skyline; we were on the eastern side of the Sierras now, everything steeper and more abrupt. The meadow was a green plateau in a vertically thrusting rock landscape.

Gunner stretched out eagerly underneath me, trying to stay ahead of Plumber. The competitive instinct seems to be bone-deep; horses don't need to be taught to race.

Even though I knew the hunters were behind us somewhere, my heart lifted at the rhythm of the gait and the wind on my face. To be galloping across a sunny mountain meadow in a charging pack of horses and dogs-some atavistic gene, some ancestral hunting instinct, spoke to me in an exhilarating voice.

On we galloped, the trail following the creek, more or less. Level and sandy, it wound in gentle serpentine curves through the grass, leading us toward a forested ridge.

Gradually the land began to rise. We drew closer to the ridge. Gunner was tiring. I could see the damp sweat on his neck, feel his inclination to slow. I let him drop to the trot.

Plumber fell in behind him. Blue looked back and checked Dunny. "We'll be in the Roughs in about a mile," he yelled.