A third man laughed. “Well, tough guy, we ran into some hikers who told us we should have gone left instead of right where Little Goose hit Solitude. Where you met up with your friends.”
The first man cut in. “Speaking of which, where are Eddie, Elvin, and Bruce?” He raised his voice. “Yoo-hoo, guys. Come out, come out, wherever you are?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play stupid with me. You’re sneaking them down the mountain. Did they offer you more than I did?” He paused, then raised his voice. “If you come out now, everything will be okay. I’ll pretend you weren’t trying to steal my money.”
Trish was so confused. Eddie was trying to steal this man’s money? She knew her dad didn’t like Eddie, but no one had said anything about him being a thief.
Up the trail, she heard a voice scream, “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.” John’s voice. Branches snapped and feet pounded.
“No!” George shouted.
There was a deafening crack, quickly followed by another.
Gunshots.
Chapter Thirty: Charge
Middle Little Goose Trail, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 5:20 p.m.
Ben
The unmistakable thunder of gunfire erupted. Then an unworldly scream raised the hair on the back of Ben’s neck. Ahead of him on the Little Goose Trail, Henry stopped Spot and held up his fist. His head whipped back and forth, searching for the source of the sounds.
Everything inside Ben wanted to gallop his horse at full speed up the trail. Trish was out there somewhere. What if it was her screaming? What if she’d been shot? But he followed Henry’s instruction, waiting with him, while his guts turned inside out.
“I don’t hear anything now,” Henry whispered.
Ben cocked his head. He did. And it was getting louder. Tumbling, rumbling. Henry’s eyes widened, and Ben knew he heard it now, too.
“Rockslide?” Ben suggested. “Mudslide?”
Henry leaned toward the noise, then he shook his head. “Hooves. Horses. Coming fast. Quick. Get off the trail and behind something. They’ll trample us.”
Ben reined his horse into the trees behind Henry. Less than a minute later, Trish’s horse Goldie came tearing down the trail, fully out of control and leading several other equally panicked animals.
“Trish,” Ben said, his voice caught in his throat. “That’s her horse.”
Henry turned on him. “You’ve got to keep it together, Ben. What did you see?”
“Goldie. No rider.”
“And?” Henry prodded.
“Other horses.”
Henry nodded. “Perry’s horse, and two more. A sorrel the other boy was riding. And a buckskin. But what I didn’t see is what has my attention. Patrick’s Percheron.”
“The other boy?” Ben asked.
“Perry’s friend John.”
“What does it mean?”
Henry drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know. But the Flints and I weren’t the only people out on the trail with horses today. I saw George Nichols near here when I was on my way down. That buckskin is his. He had some clients with him, and he was guiding them up to Highland Park. They had some pack horses, too.”
“For what?”
“They were hunting for some missing people. I have a bad feeling Patrick might have found who or what they were looking for.”
Ben didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was finding Trish and making sure she was all right. “So, what do we do?”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes, sir.” Ben patted the rifle in the scabbard on his saddle, then the Smith & Wesson revolver in his holster. Henry had given him both of them for him to use on the ranch, despite the restrictions upon his release from juvie. “Can’t turn you out without protection,” he’d said. Riding out to check the Piney Bottoms herds could be dangerous. Mountain lions. Coyotes. Bears. Rattlesnakes. Rabid animals. Even cattle rustlers. The first thing he’d learned on the ranch was to always be prepared for the worst.
“We ride up the trail, then. Fast and quiet. Keep your safety on, but be ready, and watch your six. When we’re close, we’ll stash the horses some place safe and approach on foot.”
Ben swallowed, and it felt like something big and dry was stuck in his throat. He struggled to get it down, finally winning the battle. He was all but coming out of his skin. He wanted to race up the trail screaming like a banshee, shooting first and asking questions later. If it was Trish who’d been shot, he’d kill whoever had done it, and he wouldn’t be sorry.
He wasn’t a killer like his dad or his uncle. He was nothing like them. Nothing. He would never kill without a good reason. But if someone hurt Trish, he expected that was reason enough.
He gritted his teeth and nodded at Henry. “Got it.”
“And, Ben?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Think before you pull that trigger. It could change your life forever.” Henry reined Spot back onto the trail and urged him forward with a slap of his reins on the horse’s neck.
Chapter Thirty-one: Shot
Middle Little Goose Trail, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 5:25 p.m.
Trish
A scream ripped through the air. The horses echoed it and exploded down the trail, past Trish’s hiding place. She looked down in time to see a flash of multi-colored Paint, golden Palomino, red sorrel, and buckskin race by in a blur of colors. Goldie. Goldie was all right. Run, Goldie. Run.
Trish clapped her hand over her mouth. She smelled gun powder, she’d heard three shots, and that had been a human scream. Was it George? Was it John? It couldn’t be Perry, could it? He was still behind her, down the trail. Oh, God. Oh, please God, let Perry still be hiding.
“Stay down everyone.” George’s voice, deep and commanding. But he wasn’t in the same place. He sounded closer to her. Up the trailside slope. There was a scrambling noise level with her. Then pebbles sliding and brush rustling higher than she was.
The boss guy spoke. “Don’t be stupid, Mr. Nichols. That was only the semi-auto. Juice has himself a MAC-11. Don’t ask me how he got it, because certain laws might have been ignored. It’s not a civilian weapon. Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to see him firing it. How many rounds per minute, Juice?”
One of the other guys said, “One thousand one hundred forty-five.” He sounded pleased about it, too.
Trish tried to comprehend a gun that shot that many bullets in a minute. And the fact that someone on the trail had a weapon like that and might fire it at them.
George said, “We don’t mean you any harm, Mr. Cardinale. Just ride on by. Take my truck. I left the keys on the wheel. I’ll forget I ever met you. That this whole thing ever happened.”
“You say that, Mr. Nichols, but that boy on the ground isn’t the one I was looking for, and that’s a problem for both of us. I need you to send out the men I’m looking for or I’m going to have to let Juice have some target practice.”
The boy on the ground? John or Perry? One of them was down. Shot? Trish heard a soft gasp behind her from Perry. Thank you, God. That meant it was John down, and that Perry knew it. Still, he had to keep quiet. She knew he was sad. She was sad. John was out there. Something had happened to him. But they’d all die if Perry lost it and those men started firing up the hill toward him. She wanted to go to her brother, to help him through this. To get him out of here. But if she did, she’d put them both in danger.
Her dad said that sometimes discretion is the better part of valor. She finally understood what he meant. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying out.
Chapter Thirty-two: Examine
Base of Black Tooth Mountain, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 5:25 p.m.
Patrick
Patrick crawled through the hole where the passenger doo
r used to be, batting his way through a curtain of flies. He’d been able to hear Elvin call for help, but he couldn’t see him. The interior was dark and rank with the coppery smell of blood, human feces, and fuel. There were a myriad of sharp edges. Metal. Glass. God knew what. With each was the attendant risk of infection. So, Patrick moved slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light inside.
Using what he thought of as his doctor’s voice, he said, “Elvin, I’m Dr. Patrick Flint. I’m going to help you.”
“Thank you.” The man’s voice was weak, but he’d survived a plane crash and being left to die. He had to be made of stern stuff. “Hey, I know you.”
Patrick nodded, assuming Elvin could see him better than Patrick could see Elvin. “Yes, we’ve met.”
Elvin’s body and face started coming into focus. Patrick tried to keep a neutral look on his face while he did a visual assessment. Horror was definitely not the emotion he wanted to convey to his patient. Neither was panic. Or futility. None of the real feelings coursing through him. So, he focused on conveying nothing, while his mind raced.
Elvin’s head and neck looked good. Some cuts and bloody spots, but his carriage was erect, and his head was moving and eyes tracking Patrick. His torso also looked fine, and he hadn’t even sustained an injury from the handgun holstered to his chest and visible through his ripped shirt. He was trapped by a lap belt, but he was sitting up on his own. From there, things for Elvin went downhill. The lower right arm was definitely broken—no x-ray required—and his right ankle looked like it was on sideways. Broken, possibly crushed. The injury to this leg, to be followed by a long trip down a mountain, was devastating. Hypotensive shock, blood loss, and pain alone might kill the man. Goal number one would be to keep him alive. Make sure the bleeding had stopped, deal with the shock, and manage the pain. Then his mind went to stabilization. He hoped not just to keep him alive, but to avoid future amputation, which would probably be necessary, but which he wouldn’t attempt on the mountain. He’d amputated Barbara Lamkin’s hand in the field when she was trapped in a burning truck, and he’d sworn off field amputations for life. Elvin had to be hungry, exhausted, and dehydrated, in addition to everything else, but, overall, he looked like he was holding up, which gave Patrick hope that he hadn’t suffered any severe internal damage.
He nodded at the man, trying to convey confidence and optimism. He would have preferred to work on Elvin outside the high-risk environment of the plane. But there was no way he could move him until he’d stabilized that arm and ankle, and then only after he’d dismantled the side panel. One small problem—he hadn’t brought a blow torch on this little camping trip. No Boy Scout merit badge for me.
“Poker, right?” Elvin gave a weak grin. “You’re a friend of Constance.”
Not exactly on either count. He had met Elvin at a poker game on the T-ton Ranch, but only because he had been trying to help Constance shut it down. At the time, he’d been friends with the woman. But ever since she’d made her passes at him, he’d have to slot Constance firmly into the colleague category. But who was he to split hairs at a time like this? “Yes.”
“You don’t like me.”
Patrick looked him in the eye. “I don’t. But I’m going to save your life anyway.”
Elvin nodded. “Good man. I gave you reason, but after this I’m a changed man. All you have to do is get me out of here so I can show you.”
“One thing at a time. You’ll have to stay strapped in while I work on you.”
“I’m in no position to argue.”
“Once we’ve got your arm and leg taken care of, Eddie and I will figure out how to get you out.”
“Eddie?” He cursed, coughed, then spat on the floor. “He’s still alive?”
“Yes. He ran into my party on the mountain when he was, um, going for help.”
“Going for help. Leaving me to die is more like it.”
“Well, he did bring me back here.” It was a lie, but he needed Eddie and Elvin to cooperate with each other, not be out for each other’s blood.”
Elvin snorted. “He wants all the money for himself.”
Patrick fought not to show any reaction. He wants all the money for himself? Now we’re getting closer to the truth. He dragged his saddle bag through the door. As he did, he examined the ripped fuselage with his newly adjusted eyes. Again, he had to struggle to control the emotions that threatened to play across his face. Someone had installed a temporary skin inside the plane. Between it and the exterior, he saw bills. As in money. As in the plane was a flying piggy bank. The source of the twenties I saw earlier.
Patrick tore his eyes away. He handed Elvin the full canteen and a handful of pills—antibiotics and painkillers. Elvin drained the water, swallowed the pills, and handed back the empty canteen.
“If Eddie wants the money, he’s got competition for it.” Patrick kept his voice mild as he got out scissors, cleaning supplies, antibacterial ointment, and bandages. He didn’t have an over-abundance of anything. If he ignored all the minor injuries, he should have enough for the major ones. “Now, after I give your vital parts a quick examination, I’m going to work on your arm.” The arm would be easy compared to the ankle. “Tell me if any of this hurts.”
Slowly and methodically, Patrick began palpating Elvin’s abdomen, careful not to jar the right arm or ruined ankle. He wished he could examine his spine and back, but with pinpoint placement, he could check the kidneys from the front.
Elvin didn’t register any complaints. “It’s my arm and leg that hurt. Everything else is okay. Although I guess I got knocked out, so I must have hit my head.”
Passed out from the pain, more likely. “Good. Let me take a closer look at your head and neck.” He rotated Elvin’s head gently, prodded and poked it, and ran his probing fingertips down the man’s neck, then on down the collarbone and shoulders. Everything was intact.
Patrick settled back on his haunches. “All right. Let’s get going on this arm. I’ll clean it up, set it if I can, splint it, and sling it.” The ulna fracture wasn’t compound. If he couldn’t get the bone completely into place, all he needed to do was immobilize it through the joints on either end, then sling it and secure it to his chest.
“Is it going to hurt?”
“Yep. But I’ll warn you before I do anything crazy.”
As Patrick cleaned the arm, Elvin changed the subject back to the money. “What do you mean about Eddie having competition for the money?”
“You know a guy named Cardinale?”
Again, Elvin swore. “What about him?”
“We ran into him on his way up here.”
Elvin’s reaction was lightning fast. He struggled against his seat belt. “I knew Bruce shouldn’t have radioed in. He’ll kill us.”
Patrick put a hand on his chest and eased him back. “He has to find you first. A friend of ours sent him on a wild goose chase in the wrong direction. I’m hoping to have you out of here before that happens.”
“Then hurry, doc. Please.”
“I’ll do my best.” He pulled his hand away. “Now, this might smart a little.”
“I’m ready.”
“That’s what they all say.” Patrick straightened Elvin’s arm, pulled his sleeve all the way to his wrist, and sandwiched his lower arm between two sticks, each extending past his wrist and his elbow. Then he secured the sticks with medical tape, to Elvin’s shirt and each other, and taped two more in place. It would have to do as a splint. Leaning into the front passenger seat, he salvaged Bruce’s windbreaker, silently apologizing to his friend. But Bruce had no use for it anymore, and Patrick knew he would have approved. He tied the garment by the arms around Elvin’s neck, with the broken and splinted lower arm resting in the inside of the back. Not a bad sling, if he did say so himself. Lastly, he took off his own belt and strapped the injured arm snug to Elvin’s belly.
When he’d finished, Elvin grunted. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Patrick chuckled. “The easy
part is over. Now I’ve got to work on your leg. I hope those painkillers have kicked in.”
“Do your worst.”
Patrick was afraid that was exactly what it would be. Moving with care, he cut the denim away from Elvin’s leg, from his ankle up to his knee, to free up plenty of space to work. Luckily, the man wore a loose-fitting pair of jeans, so Patrick was able to get his scissors underneath the fabric without pressure or contact to the worst of the injury.
When he’d cleared the area, he laid the fabric open like he was gutting a fish. The ankle was a bloody, gooey mess. Broken wasn’t the right word for it, although he could see bits and pieces of bone in the open wound. Smashed, crushed, pulverized, twisted, and ruptured would be a more apt description. Like a tube of toothpaste that had been squeezed in the middle until it split, and the innards had leaked out under pressure. If he’d had a chain saw he might have gone back on his vow against field amputations, but he didn’t have anything strong enough to do the job. What was most amazing to him wasn’t the injury, though. It was that Elvin had survived it and was doing relatively well. Elvin was a tough son of a buzzard bait. It was going to serve him well in the next few minutes, and during the many hours it would take to get him down the mountain.
“Brace yourself, Elvin. I’m going to start cleaning this up now.” Patrick poured a small amount of hydrogen peroxide into the last canteen of clean water, the half-full one he and Eddie had shared.
Elvin nodded.
Patrick tipped the canteen and let a stream of water flow into the open wound. It trickled around the bone, bubbling slightly. Using tweezers he sterilized with more of the peroxide and water solution, Patrick picked metal shavings, dirt, and what looked like insect wings out of the exposed tissue. Then he flushed the site again.
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