The Signal: A Novel Part 11

"Sounds like a plan. You want a gun?" Clay pointed to the two holstered pistols hanging from the pan rack.

"No, I'd hurt myself. But my light is dead."

Clay retrieved his strapped headlamp and showed him how to turn it on. "Brand-new batteries," he said.

"Perfect. I'm golden." Mack stood and shouldered his daypack and adjusted the lamp on his forehead. "See you in a minute."

"I'll be here," Clay said. "Be careful."

The temperature in the great night had fallen another ten degrees, and when Mack looked up, his headlight beam was swallowed by the void. There was nothing between him and the four trillion stars except the unending waves of dark chill dropping steadily onto the mountain meadow. The headlight lit the trail perfectly in a three-foot oval and he stepped carefully up the path and across the stepping-stones in Cold Creek. He went up the hill into the forest again and he wanted to see Vonnie coming down or find her sitting on a log taking a break. Every stride matches hers coming down, he thought. We'll meet very soon. He thought about whether she might already be below, starting her car, wheeling around for the drive down. He didn't think so, but if she were, he was making a long walk in the dark for nothing. No, she would have stopped and seen Clay.

It took him two hours to reach the summit rim and descend into the high mountain valley. Badgers were working darkness all along the way; they'd look at the light and waddle into the rocks. He turned his light off in the willow meadow and could almost see the trail; it was open there, but when he entered the forest, he had to turn it on. "Hi Vonnie," he said aloud, walking and talking. "Just where have you been? Well, h.e.l.lo Vonnie. It's dark and Clay's got the soup on. Vonnie, that I was impossible to live with does not alter the fact that I love you and would like to try again. No, I mean, Vonnie, I'm happy you've found a responsible and resourceful partner and I hope he is kind to you for the rest of your days. Me, I'm just a broken townie. No, I know I burned my bridges, but didn't you know I'd swim back across."

Then he was up and over the little hill that led down to the Wind River. He could hear it in the night. He didn't want to run into the moose now, but he never got the chance. Suddenly there were a lot of tracks on the trail, a parade of big feet. He backtracked them to the little trail's turning. He hadn't seen this tiny trail the day they'd gone in.

And then he saw her rod, at least the tip of it. There on the trail was the broken foot-long end piece of her precious bamboo fly rod. She had broken it off right here and stepped on it. He squatted and turned off his lamp. Hi Vonnie. Where are you? Who are you with? In his concentration, he imagined the picture of her held or struggling with Canby and his sidekick. He wanted now to run, to yell, and so he sat still. He took off the headlamp and held it in his hand as he followed the little trail out along the mountainside toward the poachers' camp. He didn't want it on his head anymore. This way, when they shot, it wouldn't be between his eyes. There was no hurry now and he tried not to hurry. The trail was printed heavily with boots and hardened in the few hours since they'd been created. He followed it up to the landslide and stopped, breathing quietly, and then he decided to climb over for the prospect. If they had a fire, he could see it from on top. He turned off the lamp and started, but as soon as he crawled onto the rocks, he dislodged one, and it rolled and then another moved, and there was no way to get over this without a big fanfare. They'd think a car was coming. He slid down and stood. Was he panicked? He checked his watch. Five minutes after midnight. He sat down and turned on the lamp and checked his hands. Muddy but okay. He wasn't nicked up. He wasn't panicked. His heart now was in his jawbone, but he wasn't panicked. Too much. Okay, then. He rea.s.sumed the path and walked down around the rock spill and the crazy trees, light off, carefully. On the other side he could see nothing. It was dark in the woods, and where he could see through to the mountain, it was darker. Two hundred yards, and he got on his hands and knees and felt the boot prints still. He was close. He could hear nothing except the omnipresent air as the earth turned and the throbbing felt concussion of his heart. He was G.o.dd.a.m.ned close. He was too close and he sat down and thought, tried to think.

Then he crawled forward on his hands and knees. He knew he was in trouble because he couldn't tell how much time had pa.s.sed. This was no good. He made a step and then another. The trail had widened and he made another step. He put his hand on a tree and stepped to the next, put his hand there. Tree by tree, he moved until he put his hand on the head of a tenpenny nail. He froze and opened his eyes as wide as they would work, trying to make out forms on the ground, the old tent, anything. Again he was aware he didn't know how long he had been there. He was standing in the butchers' camp; he knew it without any further evidence. He could smell blood. Somehow suddenly he lifted the headlamp and turned it on. And off. The three shapes had stunned him and he lighted the s.p.a.ce again. The three gutted elk hung from the bar, but the camp was empty. A dozen cans littered the cold fire ring and there were strips of red cord around the area and bright wood chips and dirty rags. He studied the perimeter, the old log that had been a bench, behind which were cigarette b.u.t.ts and Vienna sausage tins, the ten trees, every one with a nail or two. The ribs of the elk in their open chests were bright in the light. She would have left something here, somehow. He turned off the lamp and stood in the center of the abandoned camp. They came in here this afternoon. She sat there. Where. Not on the log. In front of it. Who else is here? She had her daypack. Would they tie her hands? She'd sit on the ground. He got on his hands and knees in front of the bare log and shined the lamp underneath. The shiny thing pressed into a seam in the wood was her ring. Mack put his forehead against the smooth old deadfall and closed his eyes. Her beautiful ring. He put it in his pocket.

He quit the camp and crossed the trail, dropping down the hillside a hundred yards where it became a steep declivity under a thick stand of pines that had dropped their billions of needles for three hundred years. There were pockets of mulch here two feet deep. Mack found a shelf and kicked a duff bed. There'd be no fire. He was no longer cold, but it would be serious tonight, freezing. He pulled his boots off and slipped into the bivy sack on the soft deck of needles. He pulled cakes of the stuffing in fistfuls up over his bed. He sat up and drank some water. When he lay down his ears sizzled with the lake water again. A day. Vonnie was wearing shorts, but she had her fleece and her vest. She was strong. She would be strong.

Day Six An eight-point buck was stepping through the deep dawn, each step a muted crash in the thick tinder. He pa.s.sed twenty feet from Mack, who watched him unmoving. The light was the same as it had been at the bottom of the lake, magnified and undisturbed, a grotto. The deer was in no hurry and disappeared seamlessly into the fifty shades of gray at this hour. Mack sat up and listened. Frost lay in paisley patterns throughout the wood, wherever it could set unimpeded by the branch cover. He couldn't hear a thing and his ears burned sharply now with the lake water. He couldn't tap it out but tried. "I'm right here," he said to the world, and he drank from his canteen and started for the trail. It was five-ten A.M. and maybe twenty-five degrees. He had no plan.

The elk hung unmoving in the abandoned camp and he went through, glad to be leaving no tracks in the frozen dirt. He walked the narrow trail along the treeline, a gentle up and down ringing the mountain. A mile later it dropped and crossed a game park clogged with tall willows. At the bottom it crossed the Dubois trailhead path and there was a new Forest Service sign with an arrow that said eight miles. His own trail departed that and narrowed and almost disappeared except for yesterday's boot tracks in the leaves. Frost was general. Mack scanned the sky and there were no markings. The sun had not yet clipped the far peaks. Now the path was only a deer trail and the thick cover offered no forward view, bush to bush. Mack pushed through as it led across the valley and into a canyon he hadn't perceived. He stood and took it in, another mystery in his mountains. Even at the narrow mouth the cliff sides were steep, some fissure in the ancient topography, a shift when the continent settled. The corridor was about as wide as a two-lane road and choked with scrubby pinon and aspen protected from the open world. A rill he could step over ran down the center of this place and he could see, as he ascended, where the party had crossed and recrossed the pretty waterway. He liked lost places like this, private surprises not seen by a dozen pioneers; there were thousands of secluded recesses in the wild and they filled him with hope, always. Until now. The canyon narrows and the tiered rocky walls grew taller, the slice of pale blue morning sky closing to a slash above him.

They'd encountered plenty of campers on their trips, a group or two every year. Two political science professors from UCLA last year, on sabbatical they said, camped at Vernon Lake. They'd all had coffee of an afternoon, and the guys went on and on about their recipes for trout. They had bags of pinon nuts and almonds and the like along with beautiful heavy cookware, the kind you don't see unless it's a horse trip. The one guy showed off his little handheld battery-operated device that slivered almonds. Vonnie kept trying to talk flies and they didn't care about the fishing, just steaming the fish and olive oil. She told them truly about hanging all their comestibles in a bear bag, and the men looked annoyed. They didn't want to put everything away every night; this was a two-week trip. But it was astonishing coffee, and they were better outdoorsmen than most. When they left, Vonnie said, "When the bear walks into that camp, he's going to think he died and went to heaven."

Vonnie and Mack also came across the various outfitters they knew, Richard Medina from Cody, who'd take on a late trip for a bonus, some family from Paris who wanted to ride horses in and see the big mountains, grande region sauvage de montagne! Mack knew all ten of Medina's horses by name from half a mile, and they greeted Medina himself sauvage de montagne happily every time their paths crossed. They also ran into the Eds, Ed Carey and Ed Wooten, from Jackson, who always laughed about seeing them because they'd given them two cans of beer the first time. Outfitters always had a beer horse, and the Eds accused Vonnie of following them to get her allotment of Budweiser. "One taste and she's a groupie," they'd laughed.

One year, the third or fourth September, they met three kids coming down in the open scree and one had broken his radius in a fall. They'd been weekending from school in Salt Lake, a three-day weekend and the boy had slipped at the summit. The boy was walking shock, and Vonnie sat him down. The other boys were jolly and giving their friend a bit of a ride. They wanted to get to the truck and go to Starbucks. The kid himself was gray and cold. Mack could see the bone under the skin, but it hadn't broken through. When he had said give me your phone, they'd all three fished out cells, even the wounded boy. They called the Crowheart store and arranged for EMTs to be at the trailhead.

"It will take them two hours to get there and be waiting," Vonnie said, "which is perfect for you. It's two miles to your car, and then a ten-mile drive down the dirt road to the highway. Keep this guy between you." She turned to the injured boy. "How do you feel?"

"Sick," he said.

"Let's have some water and take a rest." She pointed at Mack and said, "My partner has a cure-all we should drink." Mack had walked down and filled his liter bottle from the stream and shook up the powdered lime drink.

"It's good for broken arms," the boy said.

"Any bone," Mack had said, "especially the skull. But your head looks okay." The boy drank from the bottle greedily and again and then he lay back and they covered his legs.

"Is it bad?" his friend said.

"Everyone is going to be okay, but you're going to lose your fishing net to the cause." She cut out the netting and made an arm sling. In half an hour the kid had finished the bug juice and had a little pink in his cheeks. She told him, "All you have to do is walk this trail for an hour. There's no climbing." She looked up at the two other boys. "And take your time. When you get to the meadow, sit down again for ten minutes before you get in the car. It's hard not to hurry, but don't hurry."

"You want us to go with them?" Mack asked her.

"He's okay," she said. "You play baseball?" she asked the boy.

"No."

"Too bad," she told him. "You're going to have an amazing right arm in ten weeks."

And one year they had pulled into the trailhead and surprised a couple making love in the afternoon. The two had scrambled up for their clothes, and after a funny long-distance discussion across the s.p.a.ce, they came over and ended up having some of the pasta with Mack and Vonnie as the night fell.

But they'd never met madmen. Some folks had handguns and said so, for bears they were always quick to say, and the outfitters had their scabbard rifles, but just for show.

Mack stopped and saw that he had lost the trail. He went side to side in the narrows and it was right there but untracked. "s.h.i.t," he said. "Just s.h.i.t." He scanned 360 degrees, the light was new ribbons everywhere in the gray and the green, a puzzle. He started back down. At fifty yards he came to the hidden turning. The branches were broken, and the leaves tracked clearly. Hard to miss; he was quite the woodsman. There was a fork here, a broken alley in the cliffside that was apparent from above. Go slow, he said. He walked through the golden aspen grove around the corner into the gloomy side canyon. Here the shade was actually purple, and the aspens twisted upward through three seasons: green leaves at the bottom, yellow in the middle, and their top branches already bare. It was step by step now and slow, until at the second corner, and the new room opened wider and Mack saw an optical illusion or thought he did. The tangled gray deadfall timber that was everywhere resolved itself into a shed, a shack. He stepped back and crouched, wishing he had Vonnie's field gla.s.ses now.

It was a log hovel, one small marred gla.s.s window in front. The gray plank door, he determined, opened inward. No smoke from the crude rock chimney. Who knew? he thought. This had been here seventy years at least, built by some ardent misanthrope. As he sat, he heard something coming from the place, from behind it, like digging and he heard the unmistakable lip blow of a horse. Horses. Keeping his eye on the door, he edged around the far side of the shelter against the canyon wall, forty feet away. He stayed low and the melted frost on the brush soaked him. The old logs had settled hard in the structure and there were no windows except that in the door. There were three horses, and he was surprised that they were good horses, groomed and well fed. They appeared to be horses he might know, but they weren't. He didn't approach. All the tack was slung over two huge bare logs. The animals regarded him calmly, and he noted the raw horse trail leading up the draw behind. They must have come in from below Dubois. Behind them in a tree hung another gutted elk. There was a haystack of antlers to one side, hundreds. These guys were going after it. He was out of sight south of the coa.r.s.e homestead and it was almost eight o'clock, but he knew absolutely not what to do. He crouched and then sat and waited. His legs went to sleep and then he shifted and waited.

Chester Hance had learned to be a pilot, and he had been a careful guy, not a roughneck, and he had flown Yarnell's new planes. That wing had been a screen of some kind. The body had been there over a week. Mack closed his eyes and folded himself tight. Yarnell had left him there over a week.

At the hour of nine the door screamed and opened and the heavyset man came out wearing brown field coveralls with the straps folded down. He went back in and came out struggling into his canvas jacket. He had a bucket and walked out of sight toward the main canyon. Mack was hidden but he thought about it now, being between the two men, trapped. He should get up and get out and call the police. He was trapped in a stupid place. A minute later the man came back spilling the bucket as he walked. He went in and Mack heard the door crash shut. It probably still had the leather hinges.

He needed a SWAT team; this was stupid. A day out and a day back, even with horses. He thought it all over, and then he made his decision. He would wait. He considered calling to the camp, just walking up and trying to talk it all off. No, it was past talking. Trouble was another language and he'd glimpsed it on the dark road of last year with the drugs and no measure of reason or grace. He'd been hit in the head twice by people who didn't even bother to swear. There had been no reason either time except that he was in arm's reach. The crudeness was breathtaking. One had been a woman and he still had the mark beneath his cheekbone where her ring had struck. These people didn't talk. No, now he would wait. He'd never been good at it, but now it was his only choice. If there was a scream, he'd go in.

An hour later the same man came out and went around to the horses. He was working there a long time and then he led the red horse, now saddled, to the side and tied the reins to a sapling. Then he disappeared for another forty minutes and saddled the brown horse and brought it over. This horse work was new to him, evidently. "Wes," he called to the cabin. "Wes!" The door squealed again and the younger man, Wes Canby, came out dressed right out of the Gap in a green jacket and clean khakis. He wore new two-tone hiking boots, almost dress boots. He'd shaved, though not well. These guys had drugs in their faces if you knew where to look. The hollow line beneath the cheekbone, a withered draw that sometimes showed the contours of the teeth; their narrow faces were suffering. Wes Canby was carrying two rifles and he stood on the edge of the step and waited for his partner to negotiate mounting the brown horse. When he was up, the young man handed him the guns and checked the cinch, setting it a notch tighter. He adjusted the other saddle. Mack was watching the open doorway. He wanted now to call, but it was no good. He could do a goose, that was his best, but there were no geese up here. They were too smart to fly this high. He could do a horse, but not from here. Besides, everybody in Jackson had a whinny on their cell-phones now and the horse was about ruined. He could do a pika; she'd know that, the chirp. He readied and then chickened out. He didn't know if she was even in there.

The young man said something to the other man, and he walked over and pulled the door to, again with a clap, and now he ran a piece of thick outfitters rope through the iron handle and out around the old aspen in front of the door and he doubled it and tied a hitch, snugging it plenty. He mounted the red horse and led the two of them around the cabin and up the draw.

You wait, Mack whispered to himself. You just wait. He looked at his watch and said: twenty minutes more. Just sit. He could feel the tops of his legs aching from all that downhill when he was running from the helicopter. Would Yarnell have shot me? He shook his head. When he stood, he heard the clear concussions of a horse stepping down the trail, and he crouched again and listened to the approach, the red horse suddenly coming around the front of the wooden house. The young man's hair was blown back and he was smiling. He stepped the horse around the front of the place back and forth and he leaned and checked the rope, and then he turned and heeled the horse again up the trail. Mack stood and went to the corner of the shack and watched the man disappear, and then he followed, walking up the trail carefully but with some speed, three hundred yards to where it switched back for the ridge. The men were gone.

Back at the cabin, he went to the door and said, "Vonnie."

"Mack," she said. He heard her say it again. "Be careful." He untied the knots and looped the rope through. He had to kick the door to get it to open into the small dark s.p.a.ce. "Here," she said, and he went to her on the floor in a twisted blanket pile, horse blankets he could smell, and then the other girl cried out.

"It's okay," Vonnie said. "He's ours." They were both tied knees and elbows, pretty effectively for two poachers, he thought, but they would have mastered knots. Vonnie was crying now, softly.

"Did they hurt you?"

Vonnie shook her head, but her eyes were funny.

"Yes," the girl said.

"Where are your friends?"

"They ran down yesterday about noon," Vonnie told him. "They got away. This is Amy." The girl was crying, and she started at every sound.

"They hurt me," she said. "I want to wash. Oh G.o.d."

"We're going to go," Mack told her. "You're fine now. When are they coming back?" he asked Vonnie.

"They said they weren't; that we were going to die here."

"They're coming back," he said. "They left a horse."

"I need to wash," Amy said. "I can't go. G.o.d G.o.d G.o.d."

"Were they high?" Mack said.

"The big guy," Vonnie said. "He was nuts. Nuts." She was crying. That was the difference between them; she could cry and cope, but when he cried, he couldn't cope. He held her chin for a second and looked in her face: "Are you okay?"

"Yes, good." If she hadn't added the good, he would have believed the lie, but there would be no discussion now. "Where'd you go?"

"I'm sorry I let you go alone. Come on," he said.

"No," the young woman said. Amy would not let Mack help her. Amy would not get up from the floor until Vonnie helped her. Mack slipped out into punishing daylight and went around to the horse. He saw something and looked up where the men had ridden. Nothing. He was tired and run with fatigue, and his eyes were popping, but he hurried anyway. Would that guy come back and check twice? There was a bridle and a horse pack but no saddle.

"What's your name, fella?" he asked the horse. He walked the animal around to the front of the hovel. When the women emerged, the fact of two of them made him know how much trouble they had. There'd been a crime and another and it seemed he was in the middle of some way of avoiding another. He'd come upon stark accidents and tried to a.s.semble the best pieces, but this was all migrating under his feet, and Mack worked to move slowly, and measure it all with care. He gave the women some water and he ran the rope back to the door and tied the knots again cinching them hard. He put Amy in front of Vonnie on the packhorse, and he led the black horse down to the pretty little rivulet and along the heartbreaking autumn canyon. They proceeded without talking along the mountain trail, good time, the horse steady and unperturbed. They'd left quite a trail, but he knew that time was on their side. This was the lightest load this horse had had in years. The day was clear and cold, but the sun helped and the walking was easy. When they came out of the trees and into the Wind River meadow, Mack said to Vonnie, "I got your ring."

At the summit he led the horse down and handed Vonnie the reins. "Give me your binocks," he said. She pulled the field gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.sing 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 b.u.t.t 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 a.r.s.enal 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 c.o.c.ks 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 c.o.c.ked the rifle open and chambered the sh.e.l.l, 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. G.o.d, 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 c.o.c.k 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.s 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 c.o.c.ked the rifle and the sh.e.l.l flew out; it was already c.o.c.ked. 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 f.u.c.k," Canby said. He pointed at Mack and a smile creased his face. "It's time you gave me the trigger. All the s.h.i.t 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 f.u.c.k 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 gra.s.s outside the tent. Clay pointed. "Just the leg," he said.

"Twice," Vonnie said.

"Did you radio?" Mack asked.

"Vonnie did."

Mack pulled the pantleg free and sliced it into two strips. He used his kerchief to wipe Clay's leg and noted that the wounded man did not recoil. The two wounds were welling, the one above the knee more than the other in the calf. They were angry red and dark and not really bleeding very much. Vonnie had taken the girl into the tent.