Path of the Dead

by Mark Edward Langley

  The cold dampness of fresh blood against her belly sickened her, and she fought back the urge to vomit. Next, the boots. Gloria had changed from her cowboy boots to a pair of Sorels before they left the cottonwood grove. Sharon lifted one leg and then the other, untying and removing them as quickly as she could. She sat on the edge of the Yukon, slipped off her pumps and placed them next to Gloria’s body, then tugged the boots onto her freezing feet. The Sorels were blotched with red. She shifted her feet in the snow, trying to clean them, but succeeded only in smearing them. The fleece inside felt warm, and the boots came up high enough to cover her calves. She stood and gently laid the blanket over Gloria’s body as Leonard Kanesewah released the cylinder of the .38 to check the loads. He slapped it shut and tucked the gun into the front waistband of his pants before pushing past Sharon to the Yukon’s cargo area. Reaching across the body, he pulled one of the duffel bags out and tossed it at her.

  “Get that on,” he said.

  She slipped her arms through the shoulder straps and shrugged the duffel onto her back, then watched Kanesewah grab Gloria’s legs and shove them carelessly into the back of the truck. He hauled out a backpack and put it on.

  Sharon realized that his backpack had been filled with everything he needed for the trek. It even had a tent strapped across its top. Kanesewah had thought this through, even down to the moment of killing Gloria. But had he thought it through enough? He had not counted on Arthur tracking them.

  Kanesewah thumbed the Yukon’s remote and the rear hatch closed with the quiet whir of motors, sealing Sanchez’s body inside. He searched the clearing before tossing the remote into the trees, where it vanished somewhere in the thickening blanket of fresh snow.

  “Let’s go,” he said, nodding toward the third of five trailheads and stepping past her. “This way.”

  “Do you even know where we are?” Sharon asked, pulling up the fur-lined hood of the dead woman’s parka and feeling the flakes of snow melt and trickle down her neck. Her tone was defiant. “I’m not going in there with you!”

  Kanesewah stopped and turned, walked back the few feet to face her. “We’re about ten miles from the Canadian border, in that direction.” He pointed with a gloved hand. “I’m not going to let anyone stop me from getting there. You can either come with me or, again, you can die right here. You choose.”

  Sharon nodded. Kanesewah turned and moved toward the trailhead. She followed, taking care not to mix their footprints. If Arthur tracked them to the clearing, she wanted him to know that she was alive. The shoes she had left behind with Gloria’s corpse would tell him that, and the dead woman’s boots would give him a clear trail to follow. He would also notice that Gloria’s coat was missing and would reason that Sharon had been forced to wear it. Now it was only a matter of time. The connection she had felt from the beginning was still strong between them. And, like her husband, it would never abandon her.

  They walked into the woods, with the crump of their footfalls and the soft creaking of snow-laden branches the only sounds around them. With her hands deep in the pockets, Sharon pulled Gloria’s coat closer to her, trying to retain what body heat she could while they walked. She wished the revolver was still in its pocket. All it would take was one shot to the back of the head—a kill shot, Arthur called it. But without any weapon at hand, she would have to think of some other way.

  As they trudged through this mountain forest, she had seen nothing that would work even as a club. The snow was coming down thicker and faster now as the night wore on, making the slog tougher by the hour. Her lungs began to ache as the cold, thin air began to take its toll. Only the scattered tracks of squirrel and snowshoe hare could be made out crisscrossing in front of her as she shifted her mind away from her search and the exertion of plodding through the snow. Even if she were to locate something she could use, it would be impossible to pick up unless it was close enough to reach out and grab, since the crunch of the snow would betray any sort of lunging movement.

  With nightfall, the temperature had begun its downward slide. Kanesewah paused periodically to look back at his trailing captive, his breath just as labored as hers. Apparently rethinking his security, he ordered her to walk in front of him so he could guide her through the maze of trees and falling snow. On his command, she led them left, then right, then straight, then right again, no doubt following the route that Kanesewah had committed to memory from the map in the car.

  As the two made their way through deepening snow, the muscles of Sharon’s legs throbbed with every step, and the thin mountain air continued to make each freezing breath more difficult than the last, forcing her lungs to work harder to keep her body moving. Sharon began to feel her face tighten from the cold. The snow continued to fall as if in slow motion around them, catching on her eyelashes and causing her to blink constantly. Between blinks, she searched the woods, more out of desperation than from any cognitive process. Arthur surely wouldn’t be lurking anywhere close, waiting patiently for the opportunity to pounce like a cougar stalking a deer. But a predator was indeed what he had become. He was a Shadow Wolf. And outrunning any wolf was not an option. Smaller creatures would try it, but the larger, better-armed prey was apt to stand and fight. Kanesewah, Sharon knew, was not the type to run. He would stand his ground and force the outcome, whatever that might be.

  “Stop,” she heard him mutter behind her. “We’re here.”

  Peering through the wafting flakes, she saw nothing at first. Then, gradually, her eyes discerned a gap in the trees, and a log cabin built long ago. Smoke rose from the stone chimney into the frozen sky. The dwelling had the look of a century-old trapper’s cabin, probably built by someone searching for solitude and freedom on his own terms. The hand-squared logs were weathered gray, with patches of fresh chinking to replace whatever horsehair-and-mud filler had rotted out over the years. Two windows glowed with a warming light from the fireplace within.

  “Right where I knew it would be,” Kanesewah said, pushing her toward the cabin. “Don’t say a word. I’ll do the talking when we get close.” He pulled the .38 from his waistband and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  The whistling bugle of a bull elk floated in the wintry air as they stepped closer to the cabin. Kanesewah grabbed Sharon’s shoulder, and they stopped walking. A shadow had moved across one window.

  “Hello the cabin!” Kanesewah yelled.

  No response.

  “I said, hello the cabin!”

  The cabin door cracked open, and a yellowish slit of angled light crossed the porch and lost itself in the snow. “I heard ya! That’s far enough!” a voice yelled back. “Who are ya and whaddya want?”

  A long gun barrel protruded from the slit of yellow light.

  “We’ve been hiking up here for the last week and got caught in the snow!” Kanesewah yelled. “We saw your cabin and hoped we could maybe warm ourselves. My wife is hurt. She fell a while back and I think she broke her nose!”

  More silence as the rifle barrel continued to point in their direction. The distant elk bugled again. The door moved wider, and a tall man with broad shoulders stood silhouetted in the glow. The long rifle that had been trained on them was now cradled across his chest.

  “Come ahead!” the man said. “But slow, so I can see ya!”

  “Remember,” Kanesewah murmured, “one word out of place, and he’s a dead man.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “You and Annie ever talk about having kids?”

  The question had been rolling around in Arthur’s head ever since he and Abraham Fasthorse left the Three Suns main house. Now it finally spilled from his mouth as he watched the blowing snow swirl in front of the Bronco’s headlights. They had just turned off the slickening blacktop of 89 onto Highway 17 and were rolling past Chief Mountain, toward Canada. Somewhere between the freezing waters of Lee Creek and the Otatso Creek Trail was a member of the Blackfoot Brotherhood
who had spotted Leonard Kanesewah’s Yukon disappearing into the woods.

  “Sure, we talked about it,” Fasthorse said. “And we tried for a solid two years. Ended up taking her to a doctor in Great Falls, and she said it wasn’t Annie.” He was staring out the passenger window at the dark, snow-laden forest. “That left me,” he added with a sigh. “Let us just say my little swimmers are not Michael Phelps.”

  “I’m sorry,” Arthur said. He realized at once how useless those words seemed as a method of trying to give someone solace, but they were all he had to offer.

  “What about you?” Fasthorse said. “You and Sharon ever get the urge?”

  Arthur took a deep breath and explained the all-too-recent past. “We talked about it again the morning she flew to Belen.” He wrung the steering wheel with his hands. “I shouldn’t have even hesitated like I did—shouldn’t have even questioned it.”

  “You had no way of knowing what was to happen,” Fasthorse said. “And you will have all the time in the world to make it right after we get her back.”

  Arthur shot him a sideways glance. “Yeah.”

  “We are going to get her back,” Fasthorse reiterated. “We are Shadow Wolves. And because of this, you are my brother. That is all that needs to be said.” He massaged his legs with both hands and added, “In light of day, in dark of night, no evil shall escape our sight …”

  “For I am the Shadow Wolf,” Arthur finished. He glanced down to Fasthorse’s legs. “They must be bothering you. You sure you’re up for this?”

  “I am fine. Just pain brought on by the cold.” He grinned. “Besides, a warrior never gives in to pain.”

  The highway before them churned with blowing snow. The county plows were doing what they could to keep the highway passable, but the snow seemed to be winning the first round of this bout.

  Ak’is sat patiently in the back seat. He had been dividing his attention equally between the two men as they spoke, all the while keeping an eye on the approaching scene through the windshield. Suddenly, his ears perked up and his eyes fixed on a vehicle parked on the side of the road, its hazard lights flashing through the snow.

  “Is that your caller?” Arthur asked.

  “It is. Samuel Walking Elk and I grew up getting into trouble together. We never could keep our hands in our pockets if we were in the candy aisle. Rez police always brought us home because we were underage.”

  Arthur grinned and moved the Bronco in behind the flashing amber lights of a beat-up Dodge Power Wagon. He turned on his flashers and left the engine running. Both men got out as a man emerged from the idling truck and walked back to greet them.

  Samuel Walking Elk was a man of average height, stocky proportions and middle-age, whose black hair fell from under his dark beaver cowboy hat and ran down over the shoulders of his fluffy red down jacket. The round face beneath the hat offered no smile, but his eyes told Arthur that he had a full grasp of the stakes involved. They met at the rear of the Dodge, then stepped away from the swirl of acrid exhaust.

  “Iiksoka’pii kitsinohsi,” Walking Elk said as he shook Fasthorse’s hand.

  “Niistowa niitoyi,” Fasthorse answered before introducing Arthur. They shook hands as Fasthorse asked, “Where did they go?”

  Walking Elk turned and pointed toward the opening in the tall pines across from them. “They turned in there. I drove past so they wouldn’t think I was following them, and then doubled back. I’ve been sitting here ever since. Only turned the hazards on when the snow got bad—didn’t want someone slamming into the back of me sitting here.” He glanced over at the entrance again, now covered with a good fifteen inches of fresh snow and getting higher. “They haven’t come out.”

  “Where does that lead to?” Arthur asked.

  “There’s a clearing about five miles in,” Walking Elk said. “It’s a favorite place for the adventurous white man to pretend he’s one of us. A lot of hikers use it during the summer.”

  “How many trailheads lead from that clearing?” Fasthorse asked.

  “Four that are marked, I think. The fifth trail, the middle one, leads to a mountain cabin way back in the woods somewhere. Old mountain man named Breckenridge has been living up there for the last sixty years. One of those—what do they call them—grandfathered-in people. Park Service either never wanted to make him leave, or they just figured on letting a sleeping dog lie, if you know what I mean. He’s alone and likes it that way. Story is, he turned recluse after his wife died back in ’81. Only comes down for supplies a few times a year on horseback, if you can believe that, dragging a pack mule just like the old days. Hibernates like a bear in the winter. You won’t see him now until spring.” Walking Elk looked meaningfully at them both. “He’s not someone you’d want to mess with.”

  Arthur and Fasthorse looked at each other. Fasthorse held out his hand, and Walking Elk clasped it firmly. Arthur shook hands as well and thanked him for his help. Walking Elk nodded and walked back to the warmth of his idling truck. Sitting in the Bronco, the pair watched the Power Wagon fishtail slightly as it left the shoulder of the road, and then vanish into the falling snow. Arthur made sure the four-wheel drive was locked in and cranked the wheel hard left. The Bronco sprang across the highway and plunged its front tires deep into the snow.

  The front suspension rebounded as the lugs of the wide tires bit into the terrain beneath the powder, and the Bronco set off down the single track into the woods. The ruts from the Yukon had faded considerably with the continuing snowfall, but Arthur could make out the fading trail in his headlights.

  As the truck lurched and bounced along the rail, its rattling and squeaking had an almost calming effect on Arthur. Fasthorse, by contrast, just kept his eyes straight ahead.

  “Maybe you should slow down, huh?” Fasthorse said.

  “What?” Arthur said. “You can’t be afraid of a little bumpy ride, surely. We’ve been bounced around way worse than this inside an APC.”

  “Yes! But you were not driving it!”

  Almost four miles in, the woods opened up, and the pair could see a clearing with several blowdown tamaracks and pines. At the far end, under a mounting blanket of snow, was the brown GMC Yukon. Arthur kept his foot down and bulled across the opening. Slamming the brake to the floor, he slid the Bronco to a stop just right of the truck. Arthur jumped out with one of the Glocks in his hand. Fasthorse piled out the other side in a crouch, his 1911 Colt .45 out and up in both hands while his eyes scanned for any movement in the surrounding trees. Seeing no one, he moved fast around the Bronco to the rear hatch of the Yukon. Arthur was staring through the smoked rear glass, at the body of Gloria Sanchez.

  “Kanesewah killed her,” Fasthorse said.

  “Probably didn’t need her anymore,” Arthur replied.

  Fasthorse scanned the truck’s cargo area. “Looks like Sharon took her coat and boots.”

  “Or Kanesewah made her put them on.” Arthur pointed through the glass. “Those are her shoes. He’s taken her with him because he knows I’m following him.” “The tracks are still visible,” Fasthorse said, nodding at the series of dips heading uphill in the snow. “It cannot have been long since they went into the woods. We must move now, or the snow will cover them completely and wipe out our chance of finding them.”

  Arthur returned the Glock to his shoulder holster as he walked to the open door of the Bronco. Leaning in, he hit the switch on the dash and dropped the rear glass. Fasthorse opened the tailgate, and Ak’is bounded over the back seat and out into the snow. He turned about and stood looking at them, his hot breath fogging in front of him. Shaking the snow from his head, he put his nose to work in the air. Arthur flung back the machine-made blanket and pulled the .338 Magnum rifle from its sheath. Fasthorse grabbed the two snow suits from a duffel, handed Arthur one, and they zipped in.

  “I also packed these in case we have to separate,” he said and hel
d up two pairs of headsets.

  “Two-ways?” Arthur smiled.

  “Just stick it on your head in case we have to split up to take out this asshole.” Fasthorse slipped the harness on and adjusted it, then pulled the white hood over his head. Arthur followed suit. “Just like back in the day,” Fasthorse told him. “They automatically link up when you turn them on, and we’re good to go. PTT, like always.”

  Arthur hit the push-to-talk button. “Roger that.”

  “Snow’s getting deeper.” Fasthorse was looking up the trail. “It will be deeper the farther in we go. Let’s strap in.”

  Arthur dug the snowshoes from under the remaining duffels. After they strapped them on, he stuffed a box of rifle cartridges into a coat pocket and did the same with a box of Glock rounds. Fasthorse took the compound bow from its case, checked the graphite shafts mounted to its side, and said, “Let’s go.”

  Arthur paused and pointed at the arrows. “Don’t you want to take any more?”

  Fasthorse grinned. “I do not need even this many.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The cabin was filled with the smoky scent of burning tamarack wood, and the warmth spilling from the hearth welcomed them as they entered. The old man stood with his rifle at his side and let them pass. He had a rough salt-and-pepper beard and looked to Sharon to be a lean 250 pounds. With a wave of his hand, the old man offered them seats at the small pine table that stood a safe distance from the fireplace. She took note of the snowshoes that decorated one wall, and the cast-iron pots and skillets hanging from a low log beam. Kanesewah shrugged out of his backpack as Sharon slid the large duffel off her shoulder, and they left both on the floor by the table. Sharon said nothing as she took off Gloria’s parka and draped it over the back of a chair.

  “Damn, young-’un,” the old man said, “you did take a tumble. My name’s Breckenridge. John Henry Breckenridge.” He leaned the rifle against the wall by the potbelly stove. “I’ve got a first-aid kit around here somewheres.”