At the summit he led the horse down and handed Vonnie the reins. “Give me your binocks,” he said. She pulled the field glasses from her pack. “This horse’s name is now Buddy. Take him on down and I’ll catch you. Just stay on the trail. I want to have a look-see.”
He was grateful to be over the crest, over the sight line. He watched the two women on the horse moving down the slope; from here they’d be easy to see for a long time. He crawled back into the rocks, keeping his head in the crenellated notches between boulders and scanned the vast noontime valley. This was the world he loved, and he checked with himself.
Something very bad has happened, boy. How do you feel about the place now?
In the magnified field of the powerful glasses the ridges jumped out, and he could see entire valleys he’d never fished. I still love it. They were terrific lenses and they gathered everything. He scanned down to where they’d come, tracing slowly the trail, and as he was glassing the far meadow, he saw the two men come out of the trees on their horses. They weren’t running, but they were moving along. The young guy could ride, though part of it was carelessness, but the other guy was awkward and overworking the horse. He could see their faces vividly and the young guy was a picture of stark determination, studying the trail, and Mack could see the mask pressed over: drugs. The guy had a meth grin, stiff and pasty. They both had sidearms and there was a scabbard and a rifle butt protruding from the far side of Wes Canby’s horse. It was the first time in his life that Mack knew that if he had a gun, he would simply wait hidden and shoot them both at close range.
Okay, he had to go.
Buddy was doing just fine through the rocks, following the struck path, and running again, Mack caught them and led the horse in a quick step down across the granite moonscape onto the forest switchbacks. He wanted to be in the trees. Amy was still crying in Vonnie’s arms, leaning back, her red hair on Vonnie’s shoulder. Through the forest the horse kept a pace up the hills and down, three hills and then the long one down into the meadow. The horse didn’t stop to drink from Cold Creek but splashed through behind Mack and into the open meadow above Clay’s tent. Halfway down Mack called to the lodge.
Clay came out and waved. “A horse,” he said when they came up. “And two women.” Amy had stopped crying now and Vonnie helped her off the horse.
“I brought you some trouble, Clay.”
“Okay.”
“Get these women something to eat, if you can. What working rifles have you got out here?”
“Just the Winchester. We’ll have an arsenal tomorrow when the crew arrives.”
“Have you got bullets?”
Clay pulled the rifle off the pegs where it hung on the tent’s crossbeam and opened it. “It’s a one-shot antique,” he said. “But good as gold.” He opened the ammo can and Mack picked out the bullets, ten of them. “It cocks like this and you’re loaded,” Clay showed him. Vonnie sat the girl at the table and put the teakettle on the stove. When she looked at the men and the open rifle, Mack took the gun and led Clay outside.
“Do you know what you’re doing, Mack?” Clay asked him.
“Show me again.” Mack asked his friend. Clay cocked the rifle open and chambered the shell, and then opened the breech again.
“Like so.”
“Got it.” Mack set the rifle against the tree and went into the tent. He sat by Vonnie at the big table and said, “You okay?” She couldn’t hold his gaze, dropping her eyes. “They hurt you.”
“They did. They both tried.”
He took her hand. He couldn’t feel anything; it was like when he’d been drugging. Everything was off, over there. He watched his hand let go of her. “Thanks for saying.” He stood up. “I know what I need to know,” he said to Clay.
Outside he hefted the rifle. “Good enough, and you’ve got your pistols.”
“I do; just let me know.”
“There’s two guys,” Mack said, “and I’m going to ride up and talk to them right now.”
“Want me to come?”
“Just stay and keep an eye out. What did the sheriff say?”
“He said he’s got a man going in from Dubois and to let him know what we see.”
“Well, radio and tell him they’re here. I shall return.” He ducked inside the roomy tent another moment and kissed Vonnie on the cheek before coming out into the last daylight.
“Oh, Buddy,” he said, swinging aboard the horse and grabbing the reins. “Let’s go see those other horses.” He hadn’t barebacked since a boy and so he rode slowly up the meadow, the rifle across his lap. He felt like a boy, a feeling he’d had too often in the last two years, but his heart now was just a fire. He was doing something stupid again, but he would do it all the way. They’d hurt Vonnie and there was nothing for it. He rode the horse up through the open woodland in the weak sunlight. He could feel the fall, a season that he loved. God, it was a beautiful day in the world. He rode to the upper edge of the meadow and waited at the edge of the trees looking up into the pathway which was striped dramatically with tree shade in a laddered column. His heart was on, jolting him, and he could feel the concussion in his jaw as he tried to be still. He opened his mouth.
Above, the trail was a flickering print of light and shadow, a teeming display of what seemed people coming at every second, now and now. He could not ride into the trees, and he shook his head in sad wonder at this limit, this vigilance and fear. He thought he might ride in and hide and destroy these men, but now he was making his stand. Just wait, he said finally. They’ll be along.
Finally the cascade of shadows stuttered and a form appeared at the top of the lane, a man and a horse, the larger man, two hands on the pommel, turning his chestnut horse down toward Mack, continuing. Mack watched behind the man, but no other figure appeared. Something was off about this.
“What is it,” Mack said aloud to himself.
The man on the horse looked then and saw Mack below, eighty yards, and he arched in the saddle to get his hand on his sidearm. Mack watched him, and the man did not turn to see if his partner were coming, and then Mack knew the younger man, Canby, had gone the other way. Mack swiveled and looked back down the meadow, but the white tent was obscured by the trees, almost half a mile below. Now the man before him was twisting in his saddle to extract his pistol which was binding in the untethered holster. Mack couldn’t move.
When he gets that gun out, he’s going to cock it and walk his horse down here and shoot me.
The thought was just a thought, and Mack watched the horse come forward happily to see his old friend Buddy.
At twenty yards the man jerked his pistol free and almost threw it with the effort, but he was new to guns and had to pull it before his face with both hands the way a person studies a cell-phone, and then evidently he mastered it and set it forward in the air, aiming the revolver, a long-barreled Colt, Mack could now see, at Mack. The gun was waving, but the man was getting closer and it would be hard to miss very soon. Mack heard something on the wind then, a cry, a sharp short cry, which sounded like Vonnie screaming the word
no,
and it was enough to cause Mack to swing his own rifle up in an arc and catch the barrel stock in his left palm and then as he started moving it all became natural, his lifting the gun up around toward the oncoming rider who was stepping with his pistol through the splintered sunlight, and then Mack heard two shots and then a third shot from below, two different guns, and then he heard his own rifle explode as he pulled the trigger and the big man jumped back in his saddle, his head following his bloody shoulder in a terrific fall to the ground. Mack had seen men fall from horses, and he always hated it. It was never a stunt. This was a big man to fall so far, wheeling off the horse’s rump, and he struck his head and shoulder on the rocky trail and lay there unmoving.
Mack was surprised at how calm the horses were, stepping sharply with the report and then standing to wait. They’d been around guns. He pulled Buddy around and leaned on it and nudged the black horse into a gallop through the sage, four, five great leaping strides, and then he thought better of it and held the horse back. He could go down two ways: through the meadow openly or behind on the ridge trail, which was how Canby had gone. He had to make a decision now and considered walking down the edgeof the meadow out of sight which would take longer but would ensure surprise. Then he heard one more shot and a scream and another scream, Vonnie this time, and another scream. He sat up and then bent again into the neck of the black horse and kicked him up into a gallop. There was care and then there was this. It didn’t matter which way. He had to go. It didn’t matter if he came off the horse, thrown; and because it no longer mattered, he knew he would not fall.
Before he came in sight of the tent, riding easily the black horse that ran fluidly and without fuss, Mack heard another shot, and he started to ease up, straightening from where he’d been against the horse’s neck, the rifle clipped under his leg against the horse. Now he realized he had heard the bullet pass over his head, a whispering snap, a sound he’d never heard, and he noted it: That’s how it is. It either hits you or misses you. He now could see the tent and out from it a ways the rider Canby reset his rifle for another shot. The man’s beautiful red horse seemed confounded stepping in circles and Canby was focused on his efforts to square the rifle and shoot Mack who was riding still right into it. Mack had closed to thirty yards. Mack’s mind went out. Everything jumped to two dimensions and lost order; was this wrong? Each second opened like the page of a crazy book. Behind the rider he could see the two women bent in the shadow of the tent, and Mack knew that Clay was down. Mack hauled Buddy up sharp with the reins and dropped a leg off the back of the horse and stood on the ground, swatting the horse away from the trail to be free from harm. Go go. As he landed, Mack felt his rifle bite into the dirt, the barrel; he felt it like doom. But it was good to be aground. Here he was. Now the page turned: the approaching horse in a half run at him; the horse was reluctant to run at a man, and there was something openly insane in these minutes, that phrase came through his head and he nearly said it. Canby’s horse was odd, the reins dangled, and the man still had not righted his rifle. He was so close Mack could smell the horse. Canby kicked Mack in the chest as he went by and Mack went down hard in the dry sage and he could smell and feel it hard, and he woke and he knew he was stupid again.
Mack stood and knocked his rifle barrel against the side of his boot while he turned and looked up the meadow where Canby wheeled around on the red horse.
Your barrel is fouled, big boy. You’re naked in the wind.
Mack knocked it again and then lifted and cocked the rifle and the shell flew out; it was already cocked. He wanted to take a minute to blow in the breech, but an explosion in the dirt at his feet stopped him and he fumbled a bullet from his pocket, lodged it in the chamber and closed the trigger guard. He stood in the trail and the horse saw him and came walking down.
“You dumb fuck,” Canby said. He pointed at Mack and a smile creased his face. “It’s time you gave me the trigger. All the shit you took from the plane.” Without choice Mack took a knee. His vision rolled, and he felt his heart rinse. He stood up immediately and felt the blood pound his neck.
Mack heard the chamber of Canby’s rifle snick charged. It would be a repeater of some kind. He hated rifles. “But,” the young man said, “you stole a horse.” He laughed and the laugh was all wrong, forced and hurting. “And you’re a mile into the Wyoming wilderness. State land. Starts. A mile below.” He raised an arm to point the way, and he almost fell off the horse. “You dumb fuck climbed around for Yarnell and then stole a horse in Wyoming—which is bad news. You’re mine.”
Mack felt the rock of his stomach, sick with fear, but he’d been sick a long time today about how all this kept growing, how he hadn’t been in the right place, not even once, how he’d let it all happen.
The young rider, walking his horse toward Mack, brought his rifle up to his shoulder.
Mack had planned to say his name, issue some kind of threat, but his mind was white. The old rifle felt perfect now but as he swung it, he knew it might still be clogged and blow up in his face, but regardless he aimed for exactly one second and pulled the trigger. The shot was a flat crack as loud as anything a person gets to hear, and Canby went back off his horse as if he’d been hit with a shovel. Mack closed his eyes tight and when he opened them, the pages were gone, the rush of scattered light. His horse stood the ground, unmoving. These horses, Mack thought. Stand still in trouble.
Mack’s horse walked out through the tall sage and joined the red bay, touching faces. Mack knelt and picked up the bullet he’d dropped and put it in his pocket. He knelt and laid the rifle across his knees and vomited. Twice. Breathing deeply and blowing hard, he strode up to where the man lay on his back in the fall flora. The bullet had hit his sternum dead center and ruined his body completely and he was dead. There was another bullet wound up under his right arm that had bled heavily through his shirt and into his pants. Mack didn’t touch him. He mounted Buddy bareback rather than get in the other saddle and he led the red horse slowly down the meadow.
“Mack,” he heard Vonnie call his name before he saw her. She and the girl were cutting the leg off Clay’s pants. He was gray, his face a grimace, and he lay in the grass outside the tent. Clay pointed. “Just the leg,” he said.