Patrick banged on the side. “Stop that or you’re dog food.”
“Dad, she can’t help it. She’s nervous.” Perry reached in and stroked Cindy’s neck.
“More like she’s impatient.” He smiled at his son.
“You won’t really sell her for dog food, will you?”
“Probably not.”
“Dad! Promise.”
Patrick scrubbed Perry’s crew cut. “I promise. Even though she’s annoying, I won’t sell her for dog food.”
Cindy kept kicking until the back doors were open. Getting the horses ready took longer than it had on Red Grade. Cindy wore a packsaddle with the archery equipment attached to it, plus she and the other horses carried saddlebags stuffed full of gear, grub, and garments. But not all the garments. Patrick made Trish leave half of hers in the back floorboard of the truck.
Perry watched as his dad checked his .357 Magnum and sheath knife, then loaded them in their holster and scabbard on his hip. “If we’re bowhunting, how come you’re bringing all the other weapons?”
“The revolver is for self-defense. But the sheath knife isn’t to use as a weapon. It’s for field dressing our elk.” Patrick withdrew his Sawbones pocketknife from his pocket. “And this is my utility knife.”
Perry reached for the pocketknife and examined it while his dad loaded the ammo into one of Cindy’s saddlebags. The .38 Special ammo, because it was cheaper than .357 caliber. His dad liked things cheap. “Can I carry it?”
Patrick rubbed Perry’s head. “This one’s man-sized. Maybe Santa will bring you one for Christmas.”
“There is no Santa, Dad.”
“I wouldn’t say that out loud. He might hear you.” Patrick winked. He walked over and locked the truck, then reached up to zip the keys into an outer pocket on one of Reno’s bags.
Reno looked mean, but he was really nice. His dad loved that horse. His friend Henry gave him grief about riding a draft horse in fast-footed cow pony country, so his dad had taken Reno in for cutting lessons. Now he bragged that he had the slowest cutting horse in the West.
“Everyone ready?” Patrick said, sounding jolly.
“To go home,” Trish said. “So’s Goldie. You put too much on her.” But Trish mounted up.
“Not nearly as much as she’d be carrying if I’d let you bring all that junk in your bag.”
Perry said, “I’m ready, Dad.”
Patrick stood beside Duke and put a hand out. Perry used it as a step to get on Duke. Then Patrick hefted himself onto Reno’s back and took Cindy’s line. He led the way. Perry followed, and Trish brought up the rear. They passed other trucks and trailers parked along the road and even some people camped in tents. People were loading and unloading, stringing bows, and cooking out. Everyone waved.
The horses waddled more than walked with their bulky loads. It was nearly an hour before Patrick told Perry to start scouting for the perfect campsite. Perry was sick of riding, but he took his time.
After rejecting a few spots—too rocky, too small, no fire ring—he stopped Duke by a generous clearing in the trees, set back from the trail, with good grass and a well-established fire ring. “How about this one, Dad?”
Trish rode Goldie to the fire ring. “It’s still smoldering. Looks like someone was burning trash.”
Patrick shook his head. His face was grim and disgusted. “Good way to start a forest fire, and this is exactly the wrong time of year for that. The whole mountain is dry as kindling.”
“There’s good grass left. And a highline to tie the horses.”
Perry saw tips of branches littering the edges of the clearing. “Why are all the tree pieces on the ground?”
Patrick said, “Most likely squirrels. They bite off the new growth then feed off the buds from the comfort of the forest floor.” He swung his leg high to clear the saddlebags. He kicked one anyway. Reno sidestepped. Patrick levered himself off and to the ground. “This is our spot, then. Good pick, Perry.”
Perry sighed. He slithered off Duke, suddenly tired, like he’d just played forward both halves of a soccer game.
“Look alive, kids. Daylight’s wasting and there’s a camp to be set up.”
Perry sighed again, this time louder.
“I’ll take care of the horses.” Trish was already unsaddling Goldie. The mare looked back at her, and Trish stroked her muzzle.
“It’s you and me on the tent, then.” Patrick ruffled Perry’s hair.
Perry ducked out from under his hand. He wished his dad would stop doing that.
Trish smirked. “Sucks to be you, squirt.”
He gave Trish the middle finger behind his dad’s back, and she puckered her lips and smacked her hand on her butt.
Half an hour later, the horses were watered from a nearby stream and turned out in hobbles to graze. The tent was secure and sleeping bags unrolled inside, on a patch of mostly flat ground without too many rocks. The mountains were blocking most of the sun, even though it was still high in the sky.
Patrick hoisted the saddlebags holding the food high into a tree on the far edge of the campsite. “If we eat a late dinner, we have time to get the lay of the land for our hunt tomorrow.”
His dad’s words electrified Perry. Tiredness was just a memory. His first year to be old enough to hunt legally. He’d shot plenty of varmints with his pellet gun, and his dad had lined up and let him pull the rifle trigger on deer hunts, but this was different. He’d be choosing his own animals and shots, operating the compound bow by himself, and claiming his own trophy—if he got an elk, that is. He’d been practicing with the bow all summer and had gotten to be a really good shot, but his dad always reminded him that a moving animal was different than a target.
His thoughts were cut short by a bullwhip voice from the trail.
“This is our camp.” The voice belonged to a tall, burly man with sunken cheeks above a wispy beard. His hair was sort of black and sort of grayish-white. He was dressed in camo overalls with a black T-shirt under them, the same color as his horse.
Perry hadn’t even heard him ride up, and he felt sorry for the horse, having to carry someone that heavy. Belatedly, Goldie, Duke, Cindy, and Reno started whinnying and snorting. Perry guessed that was why there was no such thing as a watch horse. He wished they’d brought Ferdinand. He barked at everything, but that’s exactly why his dad had said no dogs on a hunting trip.
But this was his campsite. He’d picked it out.
He puffed out his chest. “It’s ours.”
Patrick held a hand toward Perry, pushing his palm down, telling him to be quiet. “Good afternoon. Is there a problem?”
Perry and Trish shared a look. Her eyes said, “What the heck?” and he knew his did, too.
Two more horses and riders came around the bend in the trail. These riders were enough like the first guy to be family. Swarthy. Tall. One old like him but thin and with completely white hair, another one who looked young enough to be in high school. The old guy picked his teeth and grinned. The young guy had his face down and turned away from the campsite.
The first guy repeated himself. “This is our camp. Always has been. All season long.”
Patrick shook his head. “There was nothing here when we found it. Did you reserve it?”
The two older riders guffawed. The young one didn’t react.
First Guy said, “That’s funny. A reservation for backcountry dispersed camping. You’re a comedian?”
“No, I’m a doctor.”
The teenage boy shifted in his saddle.
“Maybe he could look at Blue’s leg.” The guy with the white hair was on a blue roan with a big cut gaping on its back leg.
Patrick smiled. “Well, I did see a horse with a broken leg last night at the hospital, but I warn you, I’m no vet.”
“No.” The bullwhip voice of First Guy again. He stared at Patrick, the look in his eyes weird.
Perry didn’t know what to make of that look. Most people act pretty impressed that his
dad is a doctor. They line up to talk to him at church, holding out disgusting, rashy arms and bare feet with ingrown nails. This guy didn’t seem impressed at all.
First Guy said, “All we need from you is our campsite.”
“Are you serious?” Patrick asked. This time, his voice rose.
Perry and Trish moved closer to their dad. Reno started tossing his head and pawing the ground.
“I am.”
“There’s a really good spot just up the trail,” Trish said. “Better than this one. I saw it when we were watering the horses. Nearer the stream. Bigger.”
The man grunted. “Then, you can take it.”
Perry saw his dad glance at the tent. The bow was propped against a tree beside it, and his revolver was in its holster belt, hanging over a limb on the tree.
“We won’t be moving,” Patrick said quietly. “Best you move along.”
His tone raised the hair on Perry’s arms. His dad always gets quieter when he’s mad. The men shifted in their saddles and White Hair watched their leader, First Guy, who spit a stream of brown tobacco juice. It splattered where it hit the hard-packed ground on the trail.
Motorbike engines tore into the uncomfortable silence as the machines careened around the bend in the trail. Not the roaring street bikes, like the Harleys Perry had seen earlier, but dirt bikes. Cool bikes—one red, one yellow—that looked pretty new. Two men with shaved heads rode up, their faces almost covered by goggles. They didn’t have on helmets—like the Harley guys, Perry realized. His dad said this had something to do with the law of natural selection and Darwin somebody-or-other. The dirt-bike riders let off their throttles as they passed the horses.
They must have realized something wasn’t right, because the one in front stopped and cut his engine. The other rode past him and stopped, too. “Hey, man, is everything good?”
First Guy said, “Peachy.”
Perry’s stomach hurt all of a sudden, and he moved another step closer to his dad.
The dirt-bike guys nodded. They started their bikes, kicking down with their right legs, and took off.
“I hope this campsite is worth it,” First Guy said to his dad.
“Worth what?” Patrick put his hands on his hips.
First Guy clucked to his horse, and the glossy animal tossed its head, then swayed forward under the heavy load. The other two fell in behind them and trotted to keep up.
Perry didn’t know what First Guy meant, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t good.
Chapter Eight: Float
Buffalo, Wyoming
September 18, 1976, 5:00 p.m.
Susanne
Susanne laid her head back in the scented bubbles. Magnolia. It reminded her of home, and she breathed it in. The water in the tub was perfect—near-scalding. Patrick had adjusted the hot water heater when they moved in. He had to turn the faucets halfway to cold when he showered, just to be able to stand the temperature, but he said he didn’t mind.
That was the way it was with everything between them. She liked spicy Mexican food; he wanted his salsa mild and couldn’t tolerate jalapenos. Steaming baths were one of her favorite things; he took cool showers. She loved hot, humid Texas summers; he preferred the brisk Wyoming fall. Opposites attract, and in their case, opposites thrived. Because they had. Thrived. She was a blessed woman, she knew.
She reached for her glass on the lip of the mustard-colored tub and took a tiny sip of her white zinfandel. The water sloshed, jostling the white crests of foam. “Crocodile Rock” came on the radio and she smiled. Just last week Patrick had danced her around the living room to this song. It was a happy memory. Even Trish had laughed and danced with her little brother. How could Susanne have ever dreamed that the boy she’d had a crush on as little more than a girl would turn out to be kind, strong, and loyal? A good father. A wonderful provider. Her life the envy of other women. When they eloped to Mexico while she was still in high school, they’d kept their marriage secret until she’d gotten pregnant. So much for condoms—they should put pictures of babies on the packaging, as reliable as it had been at preventing pregnancy.
Her parents had feared the worst. Patrick’s wild streak back then, his temper. Alcohol. His smart mouth. Fighting. They’d wanted better for her, but in the end, he’d won them all over with the man he’d become. If she could change only one thing, it would be his yearning for the mountains. If she could change a second, it would be that he always had to have things his way.
But she’d settle for changing one.
“Crocodile Rock” ended on the radio, and the weather report came on. The DJ—she couldn’t remember his name, but his son was in Perry’s class at the elementary school—did all the announcements. She listened, her head lolled back, her eyes vacantly on the popcorn ceiling.
“At lower elevations, we’re still enjoying the warm, clear days and cool nights of the fall season. Tomorrow’s high is expected to be ninety-one in Buffalo, eighty-nine in Story, and ninety-two in Sheridan. However, above seven thousand feet, the weather is changing. Thunderstorms and even some hail are expected starting tonight and for the next few days. Hunters, take cover.” His voice was deep and gravelly, as if Wolfman Jack was doing their local radio. “In other news, law enforcement officers continue their search for Billy Kemecke, who escaped in a Big Horn County vehicle while being transported to the state penitentiary in Rawlins, killing deputy Robert Hayes in the process. Deputy Hayes is survived by his wife and son. Kemecke was convicted earlier this year of murdering Game and Fish warden Gill Hendrickson. Kemecke is considered armed and dangerous. Kemecke is a white man, forty-two years of age, five feet ten inches tall, one hundred sixty-five pounds, with black hair going gray and dark eyes. He was last seen wearing orange prison coveralls and is believed to be driving a white truck that says BIG HORN COUNTY SHERIFF on the side. Kemecke has family in the Buffalo area. If you see Kemecke, contact law enforcement immediately. He is considered armed and dangerous.”
Seconds later, “Spiders and Snakes” came on. Susanne twisted the dial to OFF. They hadn’t found the fugitive. She wondered who his family was in the area. The unease she’d felt earlier returned in full force. She’d locked the doors before she got in the tub, but she hadn’t checked the locks on the windows. Her wineglass had a few sips left in it, so she tipped it back and drained it. The water was still hot and the bubbles still high in the tub, but she pulled the stopper out anyway. Her velour robe was hanging on a hook on the back of the door. She snatched it and wrapped it around her tight and fast, then made the rounds of all the windows.
She did the ground level last. Everything was secure until she tried the window in Trish’s room. It opened silently and easily when she tested it. When that girl got home, she was in big trouble. Maybe she’d only left it that way after opening it to let in cool air. Their house didn’t have air-conditioning. Or maybe she was sneaking out at night. Either way, leaving her window unlocked was not acceptable.
She went upstairs and opened the back door. “Ferdie?” The huge silver dog liked the higher elevation of their backyard and usually could be found there, nose to the wind, unless Trish was home. Then he curled up outside her window. It took a few seconds, but Susanne spotted him, his shaggy ears flapping as he ran toward her, his long tail curled up and behind him like the string to an invisible kite. “Good boy.”
Ferdinand woofed as he slid to a stop at the back door. Burs clung to his wiry hair as did the distinctive odor of horse manure to his breath.
“Yuck.” She pushed him away as he tried to lick her foot. “How about a snack, Ferdie?”
She held the door for him, and the dog shot her a questioning look, as if to say, “Don’t you always tell me that big, dirty dogs aren’t allowed in the house?” She usually tied him up outside and took a brush to his hair several times a day. She did. Not Patrick or the kids. He was “their dog,” yet somehow she was the one who fed him, brushed him, and cleaned up after him.
“It’s okay, boy, come on
in.” Rules are made to be broken, especially when killers are on the loose.
Ferdie stepped tentatively over the threshold, testing her offer, then when she opened the refrigerator and came back unwrapping a bowl of stew, he threw caution to the wind. He lifted his nose, sniffing as he trotted over. Susanne put the bowl on the floor, and Ferdie skidded to it and dove in. She locked the back door.
Out the picture window, she saw storms gathering over the mountains. It wasn’t a great night for cooking over a roaring campfire. Had she made sure Patrick had enough ready-to-eat food packed? Honestly, she’d been too wrapped up in her own need to not ride, hike, camp, and hunt. Well, they weren’t that far away. She could be at their Hunter Corral campsite in half an hour, house door to tent flap. A tingling started deep inside her, the kind she got when she was happy.
She’d told Patrick she wouldn’t go on the trip, but she hadn’t said she wouldn’t visit.
Moving quickly, she packed up. Summer sausage. Cheese. Crackers. Apples. The rest of her bottle of white zinfandel and some plastic glasses. The kids had conned her into buying Halloween candy already, so she added a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. She donned the clothes she’d shed onto the bathroom floor and grabbed a rain slicker along with her brown paper bag of picnic items.
Ferdinand followed her to the front door downstairs.
“No. You stay here.” She wanted to know she was alone when she came back in the house, except for this big dog.
She flicked on the outside lights. During the short walk from her bronze station wagon to the house door, she pictured herself returning after dark, exposed to the night and anyone who might be out there as she unlocked it. But that was silly. The house was on the high prairie. There was nowhere to hide except one meager Russian olive tree thirty feet away, unless you counted the sagebrush that started growing twenty feet from the side of the house. Not exactly great cover for a bad guy. And if she left Ferdinand out and a deer or a fox ran by, the fickle dog would go off hunting and the house would be left unguarded, inside and out.
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