Apache Country

by Frederick H. Christian

  But now there was a difference.

  Now they began to deliberately leave sign – nothing too obvious, part of a footprint here, a head-high twig snapped there, traces a skilled tracker would surely find. An hour passed, and another. They moved purposefully, careful not to send small slides of loosened earth and gravel skittering downhill to raise dust spirals that would betray their position.

  And then the slope began to level off; they were nearing the summit. Keeping below the hogback, moving as quickly as they could consistent with not being seen, and going to ground every time they heard the mutter of a State Police chopper, they moved eastward along the ridge.

  The views were spectacular. To the north the high plains stretched away into sun-blasted infinity. Below and to the south it was possible to make out the ribbon of the road that ran east through Franklin toward what they used to call La Junta, where the Rio Lindo met the Alto to become the Brio. A marker told them they were at 10, 179 feet.

  Sliding, slipping, thrashing through knotted undergrowth, ignoring the scratches and scrapes and welts and insect bites, enduring it, doing it. It was hostile wilderness all the way, over high crests and down into precipitously narrow canyons, followed by steep uphill scrambles to another crest, but each time moving further down the side of the mountains to a lower elevation. They reached the head of Seven Cabins Canyon, with the stark peak of El Marcial rearing above and behind them, around mid-afternoon. Although they hadn’t covered much more than three miles as the crow flies, it felt like they’d run a marathon.

  Wild ducks fled in quacking alarm as Ironheel called a halt in a clearing by a spring that bubbled up from the rocks and formed a small, moss-lined pool. By now Easton was more than ready to stop. The long painful pulse in his wounded side was now a steady burn. Ironheel sat with his back against a rock, arms around his knees, head down. Not tired, Easton decided, just deep in his own thoughts. He wondered what it took to make the man admit fatigue.

  Ironheel’s silence provided a chance for Easton to give some thought to the helicopter that had come after them the previous night. The fact it had not appeared again in daylight confirmed that the people in it were not law-enforcement. Although he hadn’t gotten much more than a glimpse of the machine, he was prepared to bet it was a Hughes Defender. Which was not good news.

  Powered by a 405shp Allison 250-C20 turbine, fitted with a five-blade main rotor, four blade anti-torque rotor, exhaust silencer and various noise-blanketing devices on the air intakes, the Defender had a range of about 370 miles and a service ceiling of over 14,000 feet. It wasn’t in the same sophisticated class as the equipment the Army were using in Afghanistan and elsewhere, but it could carry a pilot and up to four passengers, which meant once the chopper located its quarry, it could put a hunt team down close in. The thought did not cheer him up.

  “You slowed up back there,” Ironheel observed, breaking in on his thoughts. Probably as close to showing concern as he got, Easton thought. He nodded, deciding against mentioning his throbbing leg muscles or the slow pulse of the wound in his side. Okay, it was what Ironheel had called itisgo, nothing but stupid male pride. But it was his stupid male pride.

  Ironheel stood up, made his signal. Time to go.

  As he filled the water canteen from the spring Ironheel pointed at the pack trail sloping steeply downhill away from where they were sitting. It looked like hard going.

  “That the way down?”

  Ironheel nodded. “It’ll be pretty rough the first mile, drops about one foot every three. Further down it gets a little easier.”

  “Be still my heart,” Easton said.

  “Dá’ándiihi,” Ironheel nodded agreement. “Track leads into Peachtree Canyon and then there’s a track that runs down to the road, with a Lutheran Church camp about halfway. The next canyon but one east leads down to Pine Lodge and there’s a fairly good road from there. My guess is they’ll figure us to take one or the other.”

  “Then let’s not disappoint them,” Easton said and they started on down.

  There really wasn’t any track worth the name, only what might once have been a stream bed or a runoff. At one point Easton lost his footing and slid about ten feet downhill on his backside. Ironheel watched impassively as he got up.

  A raised eyebrow: okay?

  A wordless nod in reply: okay.

  Then on, down again, Easton stoically ignoring the throb of his bruised buttocks. I was right about one thing, anyway, he told himself. It wasn’t any easier going down than it had been coming up.

  Chapter Thirty

  They came down the side of the canyon in the late afternoon, quartering across the pack trail in a continuous zigzag so they were never on it for more than a few yards at any one time. It was cool and silent beneath the trees, the shade a welcome respite from the hard heat higher up. Ironheel’s stride lengthened.

  “Lots of bear up here in the Marcials,” Easton panted. “What do we do if we run into one?”

  Ironheel didn’t even break stride. “Hope he isn’t hungry,” he said.

  Lower down where the canyon widened, the trail became a clearly-defined tire-track road. Still further down they passed by weekend cabins half-hidden in the trees; all of them unoccupied. Ahead, the trail leveled off in a grassy clearing of maybe half an acre, on the far side of which stood another cabin. It looked new: the timber was still yellow, the window sashes and shingles unweathered. Smoke curled from the chimney. A tan Dodge pickup was parked to one side under the trees. The front door stood ajar. The smell of frying bacon made Easton’s mouth water. He looked a question at Ironheel, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

  “No sign of kids,” he said quietly.

  “Want to give it a shot?”

  Ironheel looked dubious. “Ngodzid,” he said. “Risky.”

  “Someone’s got to see us down here.”

  “N’ zhoo,” Ironheel said, letting out his breath in a long exhalation that combined unease and fatalistic agreement.

  They stepped out of concealment and headed across the meadow. As they approached the cabin, a middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway drying her hands on a white cotton towel. She wore a dark blue smock dress with a linen apron over it. Short, plump, rosy-cheeked, she looked like every sweet old granny in a retirement home ad you ever saw. But there was a jittery look in her eyes and Easton wondered why.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said.

  She gave them a pasty smile. “Howdy. Hikin’?”

  “Been out all day,” Easton said. “Pretty rough up there. Ma’am, any chance we could use your phone? Be glad to pay.”

  “Sorry,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “We don’t have one. That’s why we come up here, to get away from all that stuff.”

  “Staying long?” Ironheel asked.

  She tilted her head to one side, like a bad actress: Look, I’m thinking.

  “Few more days, I guess. ’less it starts in raining.”

  “Family with you?”

  Their questions appeared to be making her nervous. She smoothed her apron, ran a hand through her short gray hair, threaded the towel between her hands.

  “Just me and m’husband,” she said breathily. “He’s out in back.”

  As she spoke they heard the brittle snap of a dry stick behind them, and turned around. Facing them was a short, stocky man with silver hair, wearing tan twill pants and a cord vest worn over a red check hunting shirt. In his hand he had an old M1911 Colt .45 automatic that looked big enough to blow a hole in a Baldwin locomotive.

  “Don’t neither you fellers move now!” he shouted, his voice cracking with nervous tension. “Y’hear?”

  It was clear from his blink-rate that the old man was rabbit-shit scared. Ironheel glanced at Easton, who gave him a minimal shake of the head. If either of them so much as took a step toward him, the old man would empty the gun before he even realized he’d pulled the trigger.

  “There’s no need for this, sir,” Easton said, putting inj
ury into his voice. “We’re not here to harm you.”

  “Don’t listen to ’m, Joe!” his wife shrilled. “It’s them all right!”

  “Ah know it,” the old man cackled, showing yellowing teeth. “Ah know it. Heared about you fellers on the TV. They got a ree-ward out on you. Yes sir, one thousand dollars.”

  He pointed the automatic at Ironheel, waggled it up and down. “Now you, Injun, you just lay that there gun down on the ground and move away from it.”

  “Sir, listen, there’s no need for this, mister—” Ironheel said.

  “Shut up!” the man shouted, his voice shrill. “Do whut Ah tell you! Now!”

  Ironheel held up a hand, palm out, and stooped to lay down the gun. He stepped back from it, looked at Easton. What now? his expression said.

  Good question, Easton thought.

  The old man and his wife had seen them coming. Maybe they had field glasses. Look, it’s them two fellers we saw on the TV. The ones there’s a reward for. See, they got no backpacks. It must be them. And the old man had grabbed his cannon, dodged out the back door and circled around behind them, figuring he could take them by surprise, hold them till the cops came, pick up the reward and get his name in the papers.

  He felt sorry for them and angry, too. Just what the hell was this old man doing waving a Colt .45 automatic around, anyway? It was one of the most notoriously inaccurate weapons ever made. It was a shame to burst his bubble.

  “Tell me something, Pop,” he said, making his tone conversational. “Can you use that cannon?”

  The old man looked puzzled. “Use it? Damn right I can.”

  Easton nodded. “Then which of us you going to kill first?”

  The old man’s mouth went slack. “Whuh ... whassat?”

  “Simple enough question, Pop,” Easton said, making his voice abruptly harsh. “Even for someone as stupid as you. We’ve both got guns. You shoot him, I’ll kill you. Shoot me, he’ll do it. Either way, you’re a dead man.”

  Bewilderment filled the old man’s eyes. This wasn’t going the way it was supposed to. They were supposed to do what he said, like on TV. His rheumy eyes flickered and the barrel of the Colt drooped.

  It was finished. The worm was in his brain.

  “Give me the gun, Pop,” Easton said, gently, and stepped confidently forward, hand extended. “Come on, give it to me.”

  The old man’s scrawny throat tightened and his Adam’s apple went up and down a couple of times. He looked deflated, like he had collapsed inside. As Easton took the weapon from his nerveless fingers he sank to his knees on the ground, his whole body shaking, an old man made brutally aware of the fragility of his own existence.

  “Rena,” he called, making a vague movement with his hand. His wife ignored his plea, watching pitilessly as he got unsteadily to his feet.

  “You damn fool,” she hissed. “I told you what to do. I told you. You stupid old fool.”

  “Rena,” he said weakly.

  He stood swaying slightly, his eyes unfocussed. His wife made no move to help him. She didn’t look like the sweet old granny in the ad any more. Her eyes were full of hate. Easton took the magazine clip out of the butt of the automatic and put it in his pocket, then tossed the weapon over arm into the trees. It made small snapping sounds as it bounced off branches and a soft thud as it hit the ground.

  “If you’re smart you’ll leave it out there,” Easton told the old man. “But I don’t guess you will.”

  The old man said nothing. He looked wrecked. Ironheel picked up the Winchester and gestured with it toward the cabin.

  “Inside,” he said sharply.

  The woman glared at him, as if she was considering resistance, then went in. The old man followed her hesitantly, like a truant child who doesn’t know what punishment to expect. They crossed the room like zombies and sat down in matching steel-framed leather sling chairs on each side of the stone fireplace.

  They were in their early seventies, Easton guessed. Maybe the old man had taken early retirement, or been a victim of downsizing, and they’d used his severance pay to buy this mountain hideaway. They’d have a neat little house someplace, nice neighborhood, just your standard everyday ordinary folks. Why would they risk their lives for a thousand dollars they surely didn’t need?

  The sad answer was that behind that Mom and Pop facade lurked the awful canker that has found a home in the American soul, the conviction that no matter how much you have, you deserve more. Not better, not finer. Just … more. He wondered if they realized that if he and Ironheel had really been armed thieves, they would be dead now. Probably not.

  “Watch them,” he said to Ironheel, and went into the kitchen, savoring the bacon smell he had noticed earlier. There were dishes and flatware in a plastic bowl in the sink, a still-warm skillet on the stove. Just missed lunch, he thought.

  Lying on the worktop was a mobile phone. Sticking it into one of the outside pockets of a backpack he found in a closet in the neat bedroom, he went back into the living area, and handed it to Ironheel, who looked a question.

  “Food,” Easton said. “Cheese, bread, anything you can find. And if there’s water in the fridge, fill the canteens.”

  The old man was slumped in his chair. He was still shaking. His breathing sounded bad. His skin was the color of old documents. The woman was sitting bolt upright, her face twisted in suppressed rage.

  “I think it might be a good idea if you got your husband into bed, ma’am” Easton said to her. “He doesn’t look at all well.”

  She turned her head to glare at him, enough hate in her bright blue eyes to start another war in Afghanistan. He was glad she hadn’t been the one with the gun.

  “You just get out of here,” she spat, her anger boiling over. “And take that filth with you.”

  If she could have got the venom in her voice into his bloodstream, Ironheel would have dropped dead on the spot. He had come in from the kitchen as she spoke, and Easton wondered whether he had heard what she said. Nothing showed on his face.

  Ironheel glanced around the living area one more time. There were Native American artifacts everywhere: Navajo rugs, pottery, baskets, rows of kachina dolls. A short bow decorated with feathers and a beaded chamois quiver with four arrows in it hung on the wall. Ironheel went over and lifted them off the pegs.

  “Where did you get this, old man?” he said, his face set hard.

  Easton sensed deep anger and was surprised by it. Now Ironheel crossed the room to a wall montage that consisted of an acoustic guitar, a black Spanish sombrero and a bright red silk rose.

  “You keep your hands off of that stuff!” the woman squalled.

  Ironheel ignored her. He took down the guitar and cut off two of the strings, coiled them up and put them into his shirt pocket

  “So you’re a thief, too,” the woman hissed. “Like all the rest of your kind.”

  Ironheel regarded her coldly for a moment, his eyes as dispassionate as a butcher looking at a carcass. Then he turned away, shrugging the strap of the quiver over his shoulder so that it hung behind him. Carrying the bow in his right hand, he nodded toward the door and they went outside.

  “Glad to be out of there,” Easton said. “What was all that with the bow and arrows?”

  “They don’t belong here,” Ironheel said. “The place stinks of hate.”

  He’d felt it, too, then. “They look like the real thing,” Easton said. “Not just tourist junk.”

  “Ahuh,” Ironheel said.

  Easton waited, but his next words had nothing to do with the bow.

  “When Kuruk gets here, those two will tell him everything,” Ironheel said. “What we did, what we said, which way we went. So we need to lay more false trail down the hill, then double back.”

  “Think it’ll work?”

  Ironheel shrugged. “Kuruk’s hard to fool,” he said tersely.

  They set off downhill and reached a clearing where the twin-track trail widened into a graveled road leading down
to the highway about three miles away. From here there was no tree cover worth the name, which meant they could go no further. Open space was their enemy. If one of the State Police choppers sighted them now, they would be as helpless as frogs in a plastic bucket.

  “Can we get across up there?” Easton asked Ironheel, pointing up at the ridge rising on their right.

  Ironheel looked up and nodded. Over that ridge, as he had pointed out earlier, lay Peachtree Canyon. Beyond it was another ridge, then another, crossing which would take them into Copeland Canyon. By ascending Copeland, they could get back to Pierce Canyon Pass – and around behind Kuruk.

  “Tell me something,” Ironheel said, as they started up the slope. “When you took the gun off the old man – how did you know he wouldn’t start shooting?”

  “I didn’t,” Easton said.

  Shooters came in many sizes, but there were only two main types, the ones who blasted away without any preamble and the ones who waved guns about and made threats. That didn’t mean you couldn’t talk yourself out of trouble with the first kind, or that negotiating with the second kind always worked. There were no rules. You just had to decide what you were dealing with – and hope you got it right.

  “You’re full of surprises, Easton,” Ironheel said.

  “Is that a compliment?”

  The muscles around Ironheel’s mouth moved, which was as near as Easton had ever seen him come to smiling.

  “That’ll be the day,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Mose Kuruk sat on a rock near the yellow cabin in the clearing halfway down Peachtree Canyon listening to the excited speculations of the pilots of the two State Police choppers working their way up toward him. The fugitives had been spotted, one was saying. They were working their way down toward Encierro. With road blocks on all the trails and the highway it was only a matter of time till they were picked up and everyone could go home.

  Kuruk scowled. Dumbass cops were dreaming if they thought they were going to take Easton and Ironheel any time soon. He was becoming more and more convinced this whole scenario – the flight, the “robbery,” all of it – was a smoke screen. All too damned easy. And the last thing in the world Ironheel was going to do was make it easy for him.