As if on cue, a few pieces of the camo started flaming and floating like space debris, and I was just as glad to have on my cowboy hat, which provided me with a little more protection than the ball caps everyone else was wearing.
One of the riflemen was dragging himself to his feet and rubbing his eyes, the autoloading rifle hanging from his chest in a military harness. I reached over and disconnected the harness as his hands fumbled over mine. I gave him a quick elbow to the bridge of his nose and watched as he collapsed at my boots.
I moved a little unsteadily, grabbing all the remaining automatic rifles and tossing them indiscriminately into the creek.
One of the mercenaries started to argue and clutched his weapon, but I introduced him to the butt end of his stock and then propelled it after its brethren.
Rockwell was still lying on the ground and was attempting to crawl—but both Lockhart and Bidarte were gone.
I looked in the direction of the rig, where men were running everywhere, some of them attempting to protect the flammables, others trying to set up a pumping unit and hoses to put out the flaming tanker.
I finally caught a glimpse of Bidarte’s leather jacket as he pushed through the men on the rig to continue toward the pinched end at the rear of the canyon. He paused for only an instant to stare me down. I wasn’t sure if he was saying good-bye or memorizing my face with those dead man’s eyes. We both froze like that for a moment, but I was sure he understood what my look to him meant.
My attention was drawn back to Rockwell as he raised a hand and touched my leg; when I looked back, Tomás Bidarte was gone.
Crouching beside Tisdale, I lifted his head toward me and lowered my face to his, amazed that he still had the energy to move. “Hang on, we’ll get you out of here.”
His bloody hand came up again and fell against my arm. “My daughter.”
I nodded. “I’ll find her, Orrin, I’ll find her. You just hang on. . . .”
He shook his head sadly, air escaping from his lungs in bubbles like pink gum. “No.” He smiled, just slightly, the missing tooth looking like a keyhole in his face. “Dale . . . My name is Dale.”
His eyes remained the same, but his head relaxed to the side and I knew he was no longer there. I thought about a man who had been forgotten, forgotten by his wife, his child, and his country. I thought about a man who had been so many men that he no longer knew the man he was. Maybe he’d rediscovered himself here at the end. Somehow, in a pool of blood, Dale Tisdale had risen to the top like cream to reclaim himself; at least that’s what I wanted to think.
The weight in my chest was enough to pull me over, so I lowered him to the ground and crouched there, thinking about Bidarte, and the look on his face as he’d seen me see him.
I continued to look around for Lockhart, but he was nowhere.
My eyes were drawn past the rig and the crowds of men racing back and forth toward the darkness at the back of the canyon.
• • •
The rock walls pinched together, towering overhead to a height of a hundred feet where the drainage of Sulphur Creek had chiseled through the rising bedrock of the Bighorn Mountains. It was dark in the constricted throat of the canyon, with only starlight peeking from underneath the backside of the canopy they had constructed.
The stars held the black sky in the arch of the Hanging Road, the thickest part of the Milky Way that the Northern Cheyenne and Crow said was the trail map to the Camp of the Dead. It was possible that the Old Ones were with me as the stars reflected from the murky water—starlight up, starlight down.
There was an abbreviated ledge to the right, but it petered out to a pile of rubble that slid into the dark creek.
Studying the ripples carefully in the reflection of the universe, I gently stepped into the cold and felt for the bottom as the water rose to midthigh.
I breathed a quick gasp, thankful that the level was no higher, and pulled the .45 from my holster, holding it high enough so that if I hit a deep spot I wouldn’t submerge my one and only sidearm.
The bottom was sandy, and the current, though slow, was steady. I leaned forward and made progress as the channel grew narrower, the rock cliffs becoming sheerer. There was a break in the wall to my right, providing a wonderful spot that you might want to use if you wanted to cut someone’s throat as they approached.
I slowed and countered by slipping to the left and keeping the Colt pointed at the darkness of the alcove. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom and could almost see the outline of somebody there. I waited a second and then realized it must’ve been a shadow before redirecting the possibility of my fire toward the oncoming creek.
It was then that he charged from the rock and slammed into me with the additional force of having launched from above. It felt like someone was trying to beat me to death with a rock, hammering the side of my head and shoulder. I took the first two hits and then bull-rushed the man against the canyon wall as pieces of debris fell down on us from the triangular slabs that projected upward like miniature pyramids.
I felt the air go out of him and decided that short of just blowing his brains out, slamming him against the other side of the canyon wall might be an option, so I did.
Whatever air was left in his lungs from the first impact most certainly left his body in the next, but with a lucky swing the rock made better contact and I felt my neck muscles give way along with my knees as I fell forward.
Expecting the knife to begin carving at my guts any minute, I pushed off and up, swinging the .45 but missing him as he ducked. I fell backward, and he continued to pummel me with the rock as I rolled to the side, trying to protect my head and bring up my sidearm.
I felt the big Colt 1911, a mechanical device that had stood the test of time by remaining cutting edge for more than a hundred years, fly from my hand as the most primitive weapon from the eons slammed against my arm. I drove my hand after the thing, but the rock grazed the side of my face, and I decided I’d better deal with first things first.
As he lifted the rock for one last skull-crushing blow, I drew my waterlogged legs underneath me and thought about a high school line coach who had said, “I don’t care how big they are, boys; they can’t do anything if you get ’em up off the ground.” I pushed across the tiny channel and carried him out of the water against the rocks with as much force as I could muster, feeling not only the air go out from him but also the structural integrity of his rib cage give way.
I heard the softball-sized rock drop into the water as I held him and stood there, the weight of the two of us driving my boots into the deep sand at the edge of the creek. Breathing heavily, I wiped some of the blood from my face, pushed back, and looked at him still hanging slightly above me.
Lockhart.
He was breathing in sync with the popping sounds in his chest and the soft gurgle of his exhale.
I sank a little deeper and wasn’t sure what to do with him before we both disappeared underneath the cloudy water. I reached behind him and unrolled the tucked hood of his tactical jacket, reversed the thing, and hung it over the top of the rock, effectively hanging him up like a side of beef.
I snapped the buttons on the front of the jacket so that he wouldn’t slip out and drown in the three feet of water. “This time”—I gasped, trying to catch at least part of my breath—“you don’t walk.”
I started pulling one of my legs from the muck, lost my balance, and reached across to the other side with one hand, at least giving myself a fighting chance of working the boot free. Turned as I was, I could feel my left foot coming loose with a sickening vacuum. I eased it back down in order to attempt to lift the boot with my toe. I figured that if Bidarte got out of the other side of the canyon he would be on foot—a trail I would only be able to follow if I had shoes.
The boot came loose slowly, and I lifted it clear and took a step further down the creek to where my .45 had fallen into the water. Careful to not overstep, I searched the bottom with my hands, running
them along the smooth surface of the sand, but feeling nothing. I worked my way forward, my face only inches from the surface of the water as my teeth began to chatter. I bit down hard in response, figuring I still had a ways to go and that the nearest weapon, other than the rock, was my own.
My hand brushed against something, and I pulled it out of the mud.
Lockhart’s tactical boot.
At least I wasn’t the only one.
I tossed it behind me, took another step forward, and became aware that there was more light on the surface of the water in front of me. Raising my head and wiping some more of the blood away, I could see that the canyon had opened into a small, rectangular pool.
And someone was standing in that pool of water and light.
Backlit as he was, I could see the outline of his hat and the drape of his leather jacket as his lean body turned slightly to the side, like a snake, relaxed but ready to strike; his left arm dropped down along his side, curved like a long fang.
The water reflected like some alternative universe, and I watched as he planted a leg forward, maybe twenty feet away: perfect throwing distance. “Sheriff.”
With my chin only a few inches from the surface, I watched the water drip from the brim of my hat. I tried to think of a more compromising position but couldn’t come up with one.
He didn’t move. “You are looking for something?”
I lied, since it was the only option open to me. “I think I might’ve found it.”
He adjusted his head, and I was sure he was looking at Lockhart, still hanging from the rock but now making a few noises. “I heard the sound of the fight and thought I would come back to see who had won.”
“Pick off the winner?”
“Señor Lockhart is in possession of some information that I might not like to be made public.”
I continued to breathe heavily. “Like Dale Tisdale?”
He waited a moment and then moved his leg to indicate the water, the eddies of his movement rippling across the surface and lapping against me. “As I recall, your weapon is one of those old .45s.”
Trying not to move my hands but desperate to feel steel somewhere, I stretched my fingers out underneath the surface. “Yep.”
“My experience with ancient firearms is limited, but I think they still fire, even if submerged.”
I stretched my fingers a little more and thought I felt something at the farthest reach of the third finger of my right hand. “I’ve heard that, too.”
“But it also might blow up in your face.”
I nudged my fingers a little and could feel the trigger guard as I carefully pulled it toward me. “It might.”
“Or you could miss.”
Gently turning it, I could feel the grip in my fingers. “I could.”
“It will most certainly jam, so you will only get one chance.” He gestured ever so slightly with his back arm, and I could hear the lethal click of the foot-long stiletto opening. “Whereas I am armed and ready.”
Lifting gently, I slipped my finger in the trigger of the cocked and locked weapon. “I figured.”
“Sometimes the knife is better.”
“Maybe.” I thumbed the safety on the submerged Colt. “But you could miss.”
He laughed softly. “I could, and you would not be the first to bet his life on that.” He still didn’t move and, except for the voice, he might’ve just melted like the reflections and disappeared into the night. “I don’t want to kill you, Sheriff, but I will not return to prison.”
“Ours are a lot nicer than yours.”
He laughed again.
“Color TV and Ping-Pong tables; with your hand-eye coordination, you could be a champion in no time.”
“As appealing as that might be, I think I will pass.”
I had the Colt in my hand now, safety off and ready for fire—but would it? When I brought the thing up, it would still be filled with water or plugged up with mud and would most likely blow up in my face, not shoot his. My choices were to fire it and take what happened, or throw the thing at him in hopes that it might upset his aim. I was battered and bloody, but I still liked my chances in hand-to-hand, especially if he’d already thrown the knife.
Eyes. Throat. With the weight of my horsehide jacket, I figured his targets were limited, but . . .
As if reading my mind, he spoke. “Why take the chance, Sheriff?”
I stiffened my muscles, ignoring the body-numbing cold of the water but allowing the coolness to come into my face and the steadiness into my hands, thinking about a young man lying in the backyard of a rented house in Powder Junction. “Frymire.”
He nodded, and his black hat reflected in the water with the movement. “That was his name?”
“It was.”
“Unfortunate.” He remained maddeningly calm. “I didn’t really want to kill him, but Señor Lockhart said it would slow you down.”
“It did.”
“But not enough.”
“No.”
“A shame. I appreciate the care you took of my mother; I will always be indebted to you for that. I have already retrieved her from your town and made arrangements for her transportation and comfort.” He shook his head, the hat again dancing on the water. “This will all disappear, we will all disappear—you will disappear.”
“I don’t suppose, in the spirit of fair play, you’d let me stand, disassemble, blow the water out of my gun, and let me reassemble and reload it?”
“No.”
I took a deep breath, just like I always did before exhaling into the steadiness of a shot. “I didn’t think so.”
I moved forward and aimed the Colt and about ten gallons of water to boot. I watched his arm extend toward me, anticipating the bite of the stiletto somewhere in the explosion of water, but the effort drove me to the side as I fired, the shot detonating out of the sidearm in my hand, my adrenaline so pumped that I couldn’t even feel the thing firing.
At least in that split second, that’s what I thought was happening.
The blast of the extended fire was faster than my .45 could cycle, and as I stumbled against the rocks I heard the knife go by me like a deadly hummingbird. I fell forward as Bidarte was lifted up and backward, the numerous rounds entering his body, jerking his arms and legs like some frightening, akimbo tango dancer.
I watched as he splashed into the pool like a depth charge and then floated there in the silence.
I stared at the slide mechanism of the Colt, lodged back and jammed, just as I’d thought it would be as I pushed off the rocks. I started to turn to see who was behind me when another round shattered the silence of the canyon by bouncing off the rock walls and striking the surface of the water with a vicious spak.
I ducked as another round followed that one, shooting by and skipping across the water, and then another.
She was standing in the creek in a two-handed shooting stance, the barrel of her Glock still extended toward Bidarte’s floating body. Her voice was labored and rough. “Die, fucker.” I watched as she lowered the semiautomatic, her arm bumping into something as she stopped and looked down to where the six-inch handle of the knife stuck out from her abdomen, slightly below the ribcage on her left side. “Oh, shit. . . .”
I got to her before she fell, took the Glock, and stuffed it in my jacket pocket. I leaned her back, careful to avoid the gleaming black handle protruding from her body, and supported her head with my shoulder.
Her eyes wobbled a little but found mine. “Is he dead?”
I didn’t even bother to glance back. “Seven times over as near as I can count, and maybe three more for good measure.”
“The fucker is Dracula; he’s lucky I didn’t run a stake through his heart.”
I studied the knife in her and winced as the blood began spreading onto her uniform shirt. “Speaking of, how do you feel?”
“That is the Academy Award of stupid questions; I feel like I’ve been stabbed, you dumb ass. . . .” Her head rolled up on my sh
oulder, and she looked at the handle, rising and falling with her breath. “Is that close to the same spot where I got shot back in Philly?”
“A little to the center.”
Her head relaxed against my chest. “Fuck me; he couldn’t have stuck me in the boob or something?”
“I don’t know how he missed.”
She snickered and then let out a slow, liquid exhale. “At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I’m cold.”
I could feel the surge of concern blooming into full-blown panic as I looked at the switchblade sticking from her like a pump handle. “I don’t think I better take it out; I’m not sure what organs he got, and I’m afraid you’ll bleed more.”
Her eyes widened just a little. “Don’t touch it.”
Henry appeared from the shadows of the canyon, the sudden silence of the area disturbed by his movements. “Okay, but we need to get you out of here.”
The Bear leaned forward, placing two fingers under her jaw. “Shock?”
“I think.”
Her eyes flashed between the two of us, but her words were slow. “She’s fine and stop talking about me like I’m already dead.”
Henry left his fingers at her throat and then raised his eyes to look at mine.
I started lifting her.
Her head moved. “Wait.”
“We’ve got to get moving.”
The Bear watched silently as the panic I was feeling progressed geometrically as Vic swallowed with difficulty and then had a little trouble catching her breath. “Just a second.” Her hand came up and grazed the knife handle as she reached for my face. She grimaced and then smiled with half her mouth—that little upturn of the corner that drove me crazy. “I want to look at you.”
“You can look at me as we’re getting you to the hospital.” Her hand stayed on my face and her fingers were cold, and all I could hope was that it was the water causing the coolness in her extremities, the water, just the water.
“You think about my offer?”
I focused my eyes on hers, willing her to be there with me now, disregarding every other thing in the world from my mind and hers in an attempt to hold on. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about, and it almost got me killed.”
A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery Page 29
