“This is where we are, along FR 538. The people we saw ran off in this direction, which leads further back into the forest, toward the rim.”
Tim stabbed at a spot on the map with a finger grubby from gasoline and soot. He and Ray had lingered too long near the flames, torn between desire to race off after the strangers, and fear of being trapped between firearms and fire. The result was a pinkish glow, like that of pork on its way to barbecued perfection.
“It looks like 538 links up with 231—whaddya call it … Woody Mountain Road—up ahead.”
“Yes,” Jason answered. “There’s a connecting road several miles down that brings you back to 231.”
“So if we grab those people fast enough, we can get around the fire before it cuts us off?”
“If we drive fast enough—and if the fire doesn’t move too fast.”
“How are we going to fit everybody in the trucks?” Rena asked. “I mean, we can get one or two in easy, but can we really jam several prisoners in with us and still control them?”
Terry looked on with a faint smile on his face, and Jason could guess his colleague’s thoughts. Squat and muscular—the opposite of Terry in almost every way—her bare torso covered in a layer of dirt and soot like an Amazon warrior painted for battle, Rena looked like she could put any two prisoners in a headlock without much difficulty.
But Jason didn’t say a word in response; he just returned his eyes to the map. Even Rena’s friend Bob kept his eyes on his shoes. The Floral Supremacy people were full partners in (Jason whispered the name to himself) the Carthage Option; they should know what was expected.
Rena looked from face to face, awaiting an answer to her question.
Finally, Tim turned and snarled, “We ain’t bringin’ ‘em back.”
Rena mouthed a silent “Oh.”
“So what’s down that way, anyway?” Ray asked. “Where are these people headed?”
Terry, who knew the area best, spoke up. “Way down the road, 538 eventually ends at the Casner Mountain trailhead. That splits off into two trails. One of them heads into Sycamore Canyon; the other leaves off in the middle of nowhere—down dirt road, miles from Highway 89A.
“If they’re smart, though, they’ll duck down 538E.”
“Why’s that,” Ray asked.
“That road leads to Dorsey Spring trail and Kelsey Spring trail, and both of those take you down to Geronimo Spring in Sycamore Canyon.”
“Does Sycamore Canyon get them anywhere?”
“If they follow it all the way down, it takes them to a pretty busy trailhead. From there they could catch a ride to Clarkdale.”
“Fuck. Is there water along there?”
“Some. Especially with the rains at this time of year.”
“Fuck.”
Jason sighed. “All right, folks. Let’s get in the trucks and see if we can’t catch these people before they get into the canyon.”
Five minutes later, with dust and smoke mingling in the air behind the vehicles, they approached the intersection of forest Roads 538 and 538E.
Then the engine in Jason’s truck sputtered and stopped.
Tim pulled his truck along side Jason’s. From the driver’s side he called across his cab, “What in Hell is wrong now?”
Then the second engine sputtered and stopped.
Jason tapped gently on his now-useless steering wheel. He watched the dust settle around the truck. Then he turned to Samantha, sitting in the shotgun seat with a look of concern on her face.
“Out of curiosity, just how much gasoline did you siphon from the truck tanks?”
Chapter 21
Van Kamp wound up as if to pitch his two-way radio across the small motel room, then thought better of it. It was official-issue, after all, even if his possession and use of it was a bit unofficial, and a fastball pitch through the room’s television set would likely take a fair chunk out of his paycheck. Instead, he carefully dropped the gadget onto the bed. That paycheck was likely to grow in the near future, to compensate for a host of eagerly anticipated new responsibilities. How could the administrator of a vast wilderness too flammable for human habitation be expected to survive on the pittance he took home?
But, for now, that pittance was all he had, so onto the bed the radio must go.
His aborted wind-up didn’t go unnoticed.
“Bad news?” the Park Service man asked. He sat by the room’s open window, catching the summer breeze that carried the noises and odors of busy Route 66. With storm clouds moving in, the temperature had dropped enough that nobody in the room felt obligated to demand air conditioning. Still, the room was close and stale-smelling, and fresh air was welcome.
Van Kamp didn’t answer immediately. The pint-sized ranger paced the small room, coming face to shirt button with first Greenfield, then the BLM official. The reminder of small stature put him in an even fouler mood.
“Goddamn yes. That idiot managed to run out of gas. His trucks are stranded in the middle of the forest, which means they’re toast if that fire they set does what it’s supposed to do. That’s three trucks he’s lost. Three!”
Greenfield glared at him from across the room. He wore the same shirt and sports jacket he’d had on earlier. In fact, it was the only clothing Van Kamp had ever seen him in. Which fact went a long way toward explaining the stale air in the room.
“That fire better do what it’s supposed to do. Those trees must die for a cause.” His voice rumbled like thunder. His beard trembled ever so slightly. “I won’t let their deaths be in vain.” He drew out the word “vain,” adding at least one extra syllable.
“Jesus, you’re good at that,” the Park Service man said. “We have to get you on TV again.”
Greenfield blinked, then smiled.
“Anyway,” the BLM official broke in, shooting a skeptical glance at Greenfield. “At least the fire got started. That’s what we wanted. “Once the hotshots are committed to suppressing the fire, I can have my people get started on Fredonia and Kanab. We’ll get the firefighting resources spread a little thin.”
Van Kamp sighed.
“Yes, but that id—” He stopped himself. “Jason is out there chasing witnesses now—witnesses who shot at him. With the hotshots in place, we really can’t send anybody in to help him. We’ll have to count on the team we have in place to get the job done.”
The Park Service man pursed his lips, then looked at Greenfield.
“Are your people up to that? I mean, are they up to a gun fight in the desert?”
Greenfield folded his hands in front of his chest.
“Oh yes. All three of them are tough as nails. And Bob once shot up a landscaper’s office.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s just cruel, you know. Landscapers mutilate our friends. Bob takes great exception to that.”
Chapter 22
“Kelsey Spring it is, then,” Scott said, looking at the rustic trail marker at the end of the rocky, rutted road. “Does anybody know where this trail takes us?”
Lani dropped her pack to the ground, unzipped the lid pocket and fished a dog-eared trail guide from inside. She sat cross-legged on the ground, into which her dust-coated legs seemed to blend.
“Does this take us down into the canyon?” Rollo asked. He hunched down to look at the trail entry. His bulk loomed over that of the small blonde, and she leaned slightly to her left to open the distance between them.
“Which canyon?” Scott asked. He scratched absent-mindedly behind Champ’s ears, while the dog leaned against his knees.
“My canyon,” Rollo answered. “Sycamore. I’ve been stomping through there for years. I even have some stuff cached up on Packard Mesa above the canyon.”
He cocked his head to the side.
“Well, I might. I stashed it there a while ago. I can be forgetful sometimes.”
Lani ran her finger down a page in the book.
“It looks like the trail branches off. We could loop back up the Dorsey trail a
nd maybe get behind them.”
Scott glanced down the road behind them, then at the sky above. It was rapidly filling with smoke, which rose into the sky to blend with an oncoming wall of clouds.
“I don’t think so.”
“Uh uh,” Rollo echoed, following Scott’s gaze.
“Well … yeah, it does also go down into the canyon. There’s water along the way, too.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Scott said. He gave Champ a last pat, then stepped toward the trailhead.
Lani didn’t budge. She sat in place, trail guide in her hand, her eyes focused on nothing in particular.
Scott stopped in place. He took a sip from his drinking tube, cleared his throat, and then scuffed the ground with the toe of his hiking shoe.
“Is that all right with you?”
“No.”
Rollo strolled past the trailhead, and then paused.
“I’ll be …” He pointed vaguely down the trail. Then he followed his finger and disappeared.
“So?”
“This is nuts.” Lani stared up at him. Her legs were uncrossed and splayed wide across the dirt. “I’m a schoolteacher. You’re an unemployed editor who just hates being told what to do. Rollo’s an … I don’t know what the hell he is.”
“A free spirit,” yelled a voice from down the trail. “I’m a free spirit.”
“You’re a bum,” Scott answered. “But I like you anyway.”
“But that’s all we are,” Lani continued. “Who are we to go around out here shooting at pyromaniac forest rangers and then run off into the desert?”
“Oh shit. Is she getting all existential?”
“Shut up, Rollo.”
Scott dropped to one knee and took Lani’s hand in his own. He gently kissed the back of her hand.
“First of all, I’m not much of an editor. I haven’t done much editing in a long time. Mostly, I’m a loafer who likes to hike and shoot and cash paychecks from companies that haven’t yet realized that they no longer need my services.”
Lani smiled and shook her head.
“I hope that makes you feel better.”
“Not really.”
“Well, how’s this. We’re the people on the spot. And if we don’t get moving, I strongly suspect the bad guys will catch up with us. And that would be bad. Work for you?”
Lani sighed.
Scott rose and extended a hand to help his girlfriend to her feet. Then he kissed her.
“I love you. Remember that.”
“I remember. And I love you.”
A rustling came from the direction of the trailhead.
“Well, I don’t love either of you. So can we get going before somebody sets fire to us?”
Scott looked at Lani; he cocked an eyebrow in a silent question. She nodded in response. They strolled silently to the rim of the canyon just yards from the trailhead and took a last look at the gouge in the Earth they hoped would provide refuge. Light played across the rocks and trees below. A slow rumble of thunder echoed from the canyon walls.
“I hope you have some food in that cache of yours,” Lani called out.
The older man answered without turning around.
“I hope I don’t. You have no idea how long it’s been since I put it there.”
Kelsey Trail isn’t a shy trail; it runs hikers through a series of steep switchbacks that has the leader of any trek catching loose pocket change dropped by members of the party behind him.
Forest crowded the trio and the steep trail required attention, so the world closed in to become a circle encompassing three people and one dog. Rocks rolled underfoot, dirt-hard-packed from the tramping of boots and the glare of the sun caused lugged soles to skid and bushes—sharp Arizona bushes with pointy Arizona thorns—reached out to snare fabric and scrape skin.
The circle filled with the sound of wind rustling through branches, heavy breathing from hikers intent on keeping their footing, slurps as Scott and Lani sipped from their drinking tubes and Rollo gulped water from an ancient but still-serviceable soda bottle.
And there was also the happy snuffling and snorting of a dog overjoyed to explore the multitude of smells to be found along the trail—and to make friends with the wildlife.
“Goddamnit, Champ!” Lani yelled. “Leave that rabbit alone!”
Kelsey Spring itself appeared after half-a-mile. On a welcome shelf of flat land, and just a short jog to the right of the trail, water flowed from a pipe into a battered metal trough.
“Anybody need water?” Scott asked.
Nobody answered, so on Scott, Rollo and Champ went — until they realized they were missing a trail companion. They retraced their steps a hundred feet or so to the spring, where Lani squatted, sifting through the contents of her backpack. Her hand reappeared from the pack’s depths, clutching a bright-red parcel emblazoned with a white cross.
“What’re you doing, hon?”
Lani produced a rolled-up sandwich baggy filled with white, powdery crystals.
“Oh, no,” Rollo said. “This ain’t no ‘Bright Lights, Big City’ re-enactment.”
Lani ignored him.
“Baby, aren’t epsom salts a laxative?”
“Yeah.”
Lani gestured at the water tank.
Scott smiled.
“Oh. Hell, why not? Is there anything else we can use?”
Rollo’s mouth opened in a wide O. He dropped his pack to the ground and fished inside a side pocket. He produced a small cardboard box.
Scott looked at the box quizzically.
Rollo shrugged.
“All that jerky I eat can be a little binding, if you know what I mean.”
Scott ripped into the box and handed the contents to Lani, who added it to the soup she’d already made of the Epsom salts in the steel trough. She gave the mess a stir with a stick.
“Looks good to me.”
And off they went again.
They hiked to the Babe’s Hole spring where hills clustered to shelter a plank-covered well from which water flowed into a bubbling pool of water. Sadly out of adulterants to add to the water supply, they passed on by.
Ponderosa pine soon gave way to oak and sycamore trees, and the temperature inched upwards.
At a trail junction, they spurned the left-hand fork that would take them back up to the rim where lurked fire and firebugs, and chose instead the trail to Geronimo Spring at the bottom of Sycamore Canyon.
Time passed. The trail grew harsher and treacherous rocks threatened to send the hikers tumbling downward to their destination faster than planned.
Soon, though, the trail ended at a shady, tree-lined trail intersection where Little LO Canyon opened into Sycamore Canyon. High rock walls towered above. A left-hand turn led to the spring and the big canyon beyond.
Lani was the first of the trio to take advantage of Geronimo Spring, though Champ jumped the line to lap water from the wooden trough. The thin blonde filled her water bladder and extra bottles while Rollo waited his turn and Scott mixed up batches of an oily yellow solution from two small squeeze bottles of chemicals. He dumped the stuff into each water container Lani handed him.
Rollo snorted.
“Ya gotta toughen up your guts so the water cooties leave you alone.”
Scott didn’t look up.
“I have no doubt the parasites have more to fear from you than you have to fear from parasites.”
Light dimmed in the canyon and a spattering of rain polka-dotted the rocks.
Scott lifted his hand, palm upward.
“We’re gonna get wet.”
He turned and looked back the way they’d come.
“D’ya think they’re still behind us?”
Rollo shrugged.
“Probably. I have a strong feeling they’re a little ticked off about the visit we paid them.”
He shrugged.
“I just hope they’re not too much better prepared than we are for this little adventure.”
Chapter 23
“OK. So, does anybody else have a rain jacket?”
Nobody responded, leaving Terry as the only member of the group with his hand in the air. After a quick glance around his ring of teammates, he dropped it to his side.
“I think Tim has a poncho,” Terry finally offered.
Jason just glared in response; the comment didn’t deserve anything else.
“Well, that’s a big help,” Ray barked. “Maybe he can use it to protect himself from the fire. You know, instead of the Nomex coats that somebody left back in the forest.”
Jason flushed. He wasn’t entirely sure that leaving their fire-resistant gear in a neat pile near the spot where they’d encountered the stranger was entirely his fault, but he was in charge. Well, sort of. He was the one taking the blame anyway.
Ray seemed to stare wistfully down the road in the direction Tim had disappeared to meet up with a truck and equipment sent by Van Kamp and Greenfield. Terry, Bob and Rena’s gaze followed. Jason was happy to note that Samantha’s eyes stayed on him.
“Well, what’s done is done. Tim is on his way to the mouth of Sycamore Canyon. He’ll head off the people ahead of us in case we can’t catch up with them.”
After a pause, he added, “I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”
Ray muttered something.
“What’s that?”
“I said we should have given him some barbecue sauce.”
Jason’s lips tightened, but he didn’t bother answering. Instead, he hoisted his daypack to his back and made a show of buckling the sternum strap that kept the shoulder straps from slipping too far apart. The light pack settled into place easily—a testament to the small load he’d packed in anticipation of a casual day of pyromania. Then he lifted his rifle from the ground, feeling a little off-balance from the unaccustomed weight of the M-16 gripped in his right hand.
“All right people. The tracks go in this direction. So let’s get going.” He stepped toward the Kelsey trailhead.
Following his lead, the others donned their own packs and lifted the weapons they’d off-loaded from the trucks before abandoning the vehicles and their empty gas tanks to the advancing fire.
High Desert Barbecue Page 6
