by Laura Crum
The thought caused a visceral shudder. We would be dead. Or very badly hurt, at the very least.
Don't go there, I urged myself. The problem is what to do now. Deal with it.
Thankfully the wasps had dispersed. Either the falling tree had upset them, too, or we were just far enough away from the nest we'd inadvertently disturbed.
"What I need to do now," I said out loud, "is catch Plumber and get him around this tree."
The sound of my own voice sounding calm and logical was reassuring. I climbed down off Gunner and tethered him to a pine branch, noticing that he had several welts on his shoulders and rump. God, I hoped he didn't start into an allergic reaction.
I walked back toward the tree and my other horse, Roey at my heels.
The pine lay squarely across the trail. It was about two feet in diameter-not an enormous tree, but plenty big enough to do some serious damage. Belatedly it occurred to me that had I not let go of the lead rope during our flight from the yellow jackets, Plumber would probably have been much closer on Gunner's heels. The tree would have landed on him.
And Roey had been saved because she'd developed the habit of tracking along right behind Plumber. Even in the confusion, she'd dutifully followed the pack horse. Thank God.
I stared at the tree, which now presented a fairly major obstacle. The trunk bridged the trail at about chest height on a horse-too high to jump or step over. And the thick tangle of stiff branches looked impenetrable. I walked toward the stump end, and stopped dead.
Someone had chopped this tree down. I could clearly see the marks of the ax. The butt end, rather than being ripped and splintered, as it would be if it had fallen naturally, showed the short, sharp indentations of an ax blade. I could smell fresh pine sap.
"What the hell?" Now why in God's name would someone choose to chop a pine down here and leave it. For firewood? I stared around at the forest. Ridiculous. There were downed branches everywhere, and no fire ring to mark a campsite. No obvious spot to camp, either.
I found a route around the fallen tree, and walked toward Plumber, who was nosing at the branches. Had the tree been partially down, and some traveler decided to cut it all the way down with the notion of making it safer? And if so, why leave it hanging precariously over the trail?
Cursing backpackers in general, perhaps unjustly, I caught my horse, who seemed perfectly fine. Leading him on a convoluted route between tree trunks, I guided us back to the trail and Gunner, staring at the downed pine malevolently the whole time.
It was pissing me off. What a stupid, stupid thing to do. Fear receded, anger pumped through my veins. I wanted to throttle the bastard who had almost killed me and my horses.
With a last glance at the tree, I mounted Gunner and started back down the trail. There was nothing I could do about it now.
I rode, looking around with considerably more attention than I had earlier. The hell with how attractive I was, or wasn't. I just wanted to survive.
Another mile of forest, with the trail ascending gradually, and I rode into a small, scrubby, much-eroded meadow that the map called Groundhog Meadow. I stared at the obscure little elevation lines on the paper. Just ahead was Cherry Creek Canyon, which looked big and steep. And after that, the cutoff trail to Benson.
I clucked to the horses and rode on, hoping the trail would be okay through Cherry Creek Canyon.
It wasn't bad. I emerged from a small stand of cedars out into rock with the full panorama of the canyon spread out in front of me.
Wow. Like a softer, more silvery version of the Grand Canyon, Cherry Creek Canyon cut a mile-wide swath through rocky country-a great, deep gorge. I could see glimpses of Cherry Creek itself down in the bottom.
The view was incredible-also the exposure. But the trail seemed well made, blasted right into the rock in the tricky spots. Gunner and Plumber picked their way along, old hands at clambering down granite slopes. I tried to enjoy the scenery.
Wind blew along the slopes of the canyon, fingering the pine boughs with long sighs. The sky was a bright and cloudless blue. A vast emptiness seemed to radiate outward from a gray granite center.
On we went, one switchback at a time. The slope grew steeper. Looking straight down, I could see Cherry Creek, many distant feet away, immediately under my right stirrup. I could also see what looked like a bridge down there.
God, the exposure was severe. If my horse slipped here, he'd be dead for sure. And me, too, if I stayed with him. I took my feet out of the stirrups. If I had to jump off, I would.
We approached another hairpin turn, with a cliff beyond. The wind whistled in the rocks. Gunner moved carefully, one step at a time, seeming aware of the danger. I tried to keep my focus on the trail, not the drop.
Wind moved in a grove of pine saplings as we started into the turn. Gunner stepped down over a rock. With a whoosh, something yellow blew into his face. A slicker, for God sake.
For one heart-stopping moment I felt his body tense to spring and thought he would jump. I yelled, "Whoa!"
He trembled; a sapling waved wildly; the slicker landed on the ground at his feet. Gunner stared at it-ears pointed forward, eyes big. He snorted; I could feel his heart thumping. Mine, too.
A bright yellow slicker. Where the hell had it come from? I looked at the drop under my right foot, and said another silent prayer of thanks. Gunner had had enough faith in me to listen to my "whoa" in the face of this new danger. And/or enough sense not to jump when a jump would have killed us all.
The slicker lay next to his left foreleg. Gently I urged him past it, watching to see that Plumber followed. Two switchbacks down, the trail leveled out into a grove of pines. Finding a spot, I tied both horses and walked back up the hill to the slicker.
This isn't right. The words echoed in my mind as I approached the yellow object. A very ordinary rubber rain jacket. I picked it up. Yes, that was what I thought I'd seen. White string. The slicker had a piece of string attached to it. And the string ran up to the tip of one of the pine saplings and was tied there.
Bending down, I investigated further and found two small pieces of wood that looked like they'd been carved with a pocketknife. The trigger. This was, in fact, a snare.
A little more searching revealed the string that had been drawn across the trail. I stared down at it. Someone had rigged the slicker to be a horse-spooker. He had tied it to the sapling, bent the sapling back, and attached it to the carved hook of the trigger. The other string had also been attached to the trigger and then pulled tight across the trail. When Gunner broke it, the trigger flew loose, releasing the pine, which had flung the slicker in our direction.
I looked down at the drop. Someone had rigged this horse-spooking trap on perhaps the most dangerous corner on the entire descent. Someone had meant business.
But against whom? Anyone who passed along this trail was a possible victim. I wasn't necessarily the target.
Could it be some sort of bizarre joke? Or maybe ... I froze. The fallen tree. I hadn't looked, hadn't considered. The same sort of trigger might have existed. When I brushed through the branches, I had set off a deadfall trap.
In that second I was sure of it. There was no other reason for that freshly chopped pine to be suspended so precariously across the trail. And now this.
These traps were both geared to horses. Oh my God. A crazed backpacker out here with an ecological bee in his bonnet. Rid the mountains of horses ... now. And I had met the guy back at Wilma Lake. Was it possible?
Slowly I retraced my steps back to the horses, Roey trotting at my heels. If these traps were not the work of an irrational horse hater, then why?
I untied Gunner and climbed back on him, feeling confused, frightened, and undirected. The one thing I did not want to do was run into the author of these traps. But I had no idea if he, she, or they were ahead of me or behind me. Or if more booby traps were waiting.
Keeping my eyes on the trail, I rode on, scanning for string or twine, anything that looked unnatur
al. Periodically, I ran my eyes over the rocks, looking for color, listening for voices. Was someone out here, hunting me? And if so, why?
The whole thing was beyond belief. Like a bad dream, full of odd and frightening events with no reasonable explanation.
Gunner was walking down the trail, nearing the bottom of Cherry Creek Canyon, and I was looking for snipers. The chatter of the creek grew louder; I could see the white water flashing in the sun. And there was the bridge.
Not as high or long as the one near the pack station, it was still a scary proposition. Particularly in the mind-set I was in. I felt totally exposed and vulnerable as Gunner approached the landing.
He snorted, stopped, bowed his neck. I kicked him in the ribs. "Come on, get on with it." Gunner lowered his head until his muzzle touched the wooden planks. He snorted again. I kicked harder. "Come on." I could feel his body tense up. The harder I kicked, the firmer he felt. I thumped him a good one, and he took a step. Backward.
There he stood, planted rigidly. Nothing I could do, including whacking him with the end of the lead rope, budged him at all. Gunner, obedient throughout the trip, flatly refused to cross this bridge. Something was wrong.
EIGHTEEN
I wouldn't normally take a horse's refusal to cross an obstacle as anything other than disobedience arising out of natural fear. But I was spooked. I'd run into two booby traps this morning. What if this bridge were another?
Rather than slapping Gunner again with the rope, I sat frozen in the saddle, staring at the bridge with eyes as big as his. What if? What if something were wrong? Gunner had crossed bridges before, including the much scarier bridge over Deadman Creek. Of course, he'd never seen this particular bridge; he might be balking because of the novelty factor. But still.
I didn't hit him again. Instead, I rode him over to some trees by the side of the trail, and tied him and Plumber up. Taking a length of twine out of my saddlebag, I tied Roey nearby. I didn't want her following where I was going. Then I set out to explore the bridge.
Walking onto it was not an option. If something were really wrong, I couldn't take the chance. Gingerly, I worked my way down the bank, trying to see underneath the structure. The bank was no sheer cliff, but it was pretty damn steep. As soon as I lowered myself five or six feet down it, I regretted my choice.
I'm no rock climber. I have no innate ability to cling limpetlike to granite faces, teasing out delicate holds with my fingertips. The whole idea gave me vertigo. Scrambling down this bank, with a fifty-foot drop to the noisy creek below, was scaring me big-time.
Trying to keep my mind on the task at hand, I got a stable foothold on a large flat shelf, and clung with both hands to a couple of bombproof holds. Then I leaned out, peering up at the underside of the bridge structure.
Nothing. Beams and boards, arranged in an orderly fashion, just as one would expect. No loose ends dangling, no fresh saw marks. I stared at the bridge. It looked fine.
Maybe Gunner was full of shit. Maybe he just didn't like the look of this particular bridge. I gave the planks one more cursory evaluation, and started to haul myself up the rocks. I would get back on my horse and we would go across this damn bridge.
I was about to climb up onto the trail when something caught my eye. A different color. Right under my hand. A little patch of golden-pink dust.
I stared; I picked up a pinch of the stuff and smelled the unmistakable tang of fresh sawdust.
My eyes shot back to the bridge. Slowly, I lowered myself back down the bank where I could see beneath the structure. Still nothing obvious. But there was some mud on the two main supporting beams, near where they connected to the landing. Mud that looked fairly fresh.
How in the hell did that mud get there? Had someone sawed through those beams, filled the notches with mud so they wouldn't show, and climbed back up the bank, carrying some sawdust on their clothes or shoes? It was impossible for me to work my way over to the bridge without a rope; the bank was too steep. If someone had undermined the beams, they must have had a support rope to hang from.
Slowly I climbed back up to the trail. Now what? It was the flimsiest of speculations, and yet, I couldn't ignore it. A tree had fallen almost on top of me this morning. The horse-spooking slicker had definitely been a snare. I could not afford to assume this bridge was all right.
I walked back over to the horses. Plumber nickered at me. I patted him, and then Gunner. Gunner turned his head to look at me, and I rubbed his forehead. "You trusted me," I said out loud. "Now I'm gonna trust you."
Dragging my map out of the saddlebag, I studied it. I could still get to Benson Lake, but it was a long damn way around.
I looked back at the bridge. Maybe this was all a bunch of foolishness, but how could I know? The bridge looked solid and respectable in the midday sunshine. My eyes roved the landscape. No one in sight. Just trees and rocks.
Rocks. I laughed out loud. "That's it," I told the horses. "Rocks."
I picked up a handy boulder, lugged it over to the bridge, and pitched it on board. Fifty pounds, more or less. A couple of dozen of these and I'd have twelve hundred pounds on the structure-about what Gunner weighed. If the bridge would hold the rocks, it would hold us.
Carrying rocks was time-consuming and sweaty. I stripped down to my tank top and thought longingly of a swim in Benson Lake. The lake was only a couple of miles away, if I could get across this bridge.
Another rock. The granite was gritty and dusty and abraded my hands and wrists. I lugged another boulder over, and rolled it onto the bridge. I had quite a pile of them out there now. If I was right, the bridge was undermined next to the bank that I stood on; the rocks were on top of the weak place.
Five more and I would reach my target number of twenty-four. I selected a particularly large boulder. Well over fifty pounds. My biceps ached as I toted it to the bridge. I half rolled it, half pitched it forward and started to turn away.
A long, moaning creak, and the rending shriek of wood tearing. I jerked around. As if in slow motion, the bridge began to rip free from its moorings. With a crashing, echoing boom, it twisted and fell, slamming against the opposite bank, wood shards flying.
I stepped to the horses, grabbing their lead ropes. Both were snorting, eyes big. The bridge broke apart, shattering against rocks and bank. Dust rose, wood splintered, noise reverberated off the canyon walls. The whole structure collapsed into the gap it had once spanned.
I gazed disbelievingly at the wreckage. It couldn't be. But it was. The bridge had been booby-trapped.
Implications sank in, one by one. My heart raced at a steady pace as I dug my pistol out of my saddlebag and fastened the holster to my belt. I unsnapped the leather strap that held the hammer down and rested my hand on the butt for a second.
Some crazy lunatic was out here in these mountains. He had to have undermined the bridge from the bank I was on. Therefore if I retraced my route, I was riding right toward him.
There was no other choice. I untied the horses and the dog and mounted Gunner, keeping an eye on the cliff I was about to go back up. The saboteur was out there somewhere. But I had to get back to the ridge.
I clucked to my entourage and started up the trail, planning my new route as I went. I would head back toward the pack station by the shortest possible route. The dangers of the backcountry were one thing, booby-trapped trails were entirely different. I wanted out.
Trouble was, any way I figured it, the pack station was three days' hard ride from here. There weren't any shortcuts.
I scanned the steep walls of Cherry Creek Canyon, wondering who in hell could possibly be booby-trapping the trail, and why. For the first time in my life, I wished earnestly that a forest ranger would appear.
No such luck. The mountains remained ominously silent; the cry of a hawk circling in the blue was the only sound.
This can't be happening. My mind repeated the words uselessly and frantically. I tried to focus my attention in wide-ranging sweeps over the trail and surro
unding rocks.
Twenty minutes later, I was most of the way to the ridge when I saw motion up above me on the trail. Gunner saw it, too. He lifted his head, ears straight forward, and neighed.
We both heard the answering neigh. I craned to get a glimpse of the horse and rider, torn between fear and hope.
A brief flash of tawny color behind a rock and then a gray hat and a blue denim shirt were visible. I stared. Blue Winter blocked the trail above me.
"Well, hi, Stormy," he said.
NINETEEN
My hand flew automatically to the butt of my gun. I looked at the man in front of me, saw his eyes follow the motion of my hand, saw them widen slightly. I said nothing. He said nothing.
I kept watching him, waiting for some sign that would indicate whether I was facing a friend or a foe. I could not imagine why Blue Winter would set booby traps for me, but let's face it, I barely knew the man. Dan Jacobi had told me not to trust him. And here he was, blocking my route away from the bridge.
"You look upset," he said at last.
I pondered my reply. "The bridge is out," I said finally.
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not." I waited, not volunteering any information.
"Damn. Now why would it wash out at this time of year?"
I said nothing. If Blue Winter had set the trap, I was better off appearing ignorant. He would then have no reason to consider me a threat.
His eyes rested quietly on me. "It's a long way around."
"I was just figuring that out."
He glanced at the sky. "I'd say it was about three o'clock." Sure enough, he wasn't wearing a wristwatch either. He looked back at me, appearing to consider his next words. After a minute, he said, "Were you going to Benson?"
