The Complete Bragg Thriller Box Set

by Jack Lynch

  Fairbanks had some walkie-talkies. He left one with a slight fellow he picked to stay at the campground to man a larger portable radio unit that could reach police communications in Barracks Cove.

  “Something else we should think about,” one grizzled old guy told Fairbanks. “If there are survivors, one of them might be trying to make their way down from the top. Could have gotten below us here, even. There’s all them old, beat-up logging roads that used to come out a couple miles back down the highway. Maybe someone should go back in there and do some honkin’ and yellin’.”

  “A good idea,” Fairbanks agreed, looking over the crowd.

  I left them to their scratching and planning and found a water tap where I could fill my plastic canteen. There was another five minutes or so of discussion before they began to move out.

  “Any of you men who might be out of shape,” said Fairbanks, “don’t push yourself so hard we have to come and get you out as well.” He smiled briefly in my direction. “From the looks of your outfit, mister, you might have done a little tramping through the country.”

  “A little.”

  “Fine. Then you go with the Hawkes group across the river. It’s a little rugged. How many of the rest of you feel up to that side?”

  Several men raised their hands. I was cheered to see that Homer’s cop brother wasn’t one of them.

  “That’s enough,” said Fairbanks. “The rest will go up this side with me. Now try to keep in touch with the radios. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Okay. It’s apt to be a long, hard day. Somebody’s arranging to get some grub up here for us by late this afternoon, so there is at least that to look forward to. Let’s get going. Oh, and Hawkes, let’s leave any town troubles back in town, huh?”

  The cop grunted and I sighed. That’s why he hadn’t raised his hand to join the cross-river party. He’d be leading it.

  ELEVEN

  Going up the initial part of the trail there wasn’t much chatter. Everybody was huffing and puffing and trying to get their bodies into some sort of trail rhythm. When we reached the foot bridge, Fairbanks and Hawkes conferred for a minute before we split up. The bridge was a sturdy log and plank affair about twenty feet long that spanned the Stannis where it was pinched into a narrow channel by granite outcroppings. Hawkes was leading the column, so I hung back toward the rear with a fellow named Kennedy. He was a man of about thirty who turned out to be the chief of the volunteer fire department back in Barracks Cove.

  “You must be familiar with the country up here,” I told him.

  “Should be. My old man began dragging me up here to hunt when I was twelve years old.”

  “Does the river narrow in many places like back at the bridge?”

  “Not that I know of. There’s some places high up, where a bunch of springs start to feed her, where you can get across pretty easy.”

  “How is it down below?”

  “Tough,” Kennedy told me. “It drops pretty fast, and the channel’s deep. Water comes up to a man’s ass most places. I wouldn’t try fording it myself, ’less there was a goddamn bear after me or something.”

  We kept climbing. The sun was starting to break through the morning mist. I was beginning to appreciate why Fairbanks wanted more experienced climbers on this side. The trail got steeper. It crossed a rocky slope and led us north of the river. There was considerable sweating and grunting on all sides. When we reached a wooded plateau Hawkes called a break. He tried to raise Fairbanks on one of the walkie-talkies. I took off my jacket and stuffed it into the pack. When Hawkes finished his conversation he came over to where Kennedy and I shared a log.

  “Okay, Will, I think we’d better split up some more here. You take half the men and one of the radios and continue up this general route toward the top. I’ll take the others farther north. Whenever you reach a timber area be sure to send some people through it for a look. But don’t spend too long. If there’s a plane up here it’s probably near the top. No sense thinking we won’t have to go all the way up.”

  “Right,” said Kennedy, getting to his feet.

  “Take Panter, he’s got one of the radios.”

  I rose and started to follow Kennedy.

  “You,” said Hawkes. “What’s your name?”

  “Bragg.”

  “Yeah, Bragg. You come with me. I forgot to bring binoculars.” He turned and began calling out the names of the others who were to follow him. We climbed north, through a stand of redwoods, then climbed some more. The terrain alternated between bare granite shelves and stands of redwood, pine and oak, but it was all of it an upward haul. Radio transmissions were spotty. We couldn’t reach Fairbanks on the south side of the river, and by around eleven o’clock we could barely reach Kennedy.

  We continued to climb and slip and mutter. I was beginning to wonder if I’d been smart to haul along all the stuff I had in the pack. It was weight I would have been happy to shed. Each time we came to a wooded area we spread out and thrashed through it. A little before noon Hawkes called another break. He tried to make contact with Kennedy without success, then he borrowed my binoculars and scanned the slopes both below us and to the north. After a couple of minutes he handed them back without a word and led us off again, up another steep stretch. It became grueling.

  When we finally reached another more level slope it was more than two-thirds of the way to the top from the campground. Hawkes spread us out some more now. He sent the radio man and another guy on a southerly course to see if they could regain contact with the other parties. He told me and a man named Smith to circle farther north, around a wooded stand above us, while he and the others searched through the timber itself. I had to admire him for taking part in the toughest work. There was no trail above us, just tangled scrub oak and fern to slap your face, and poison oak and slippery footing to slow you down.

  Smith and I hustled along. We still were on a rudimentary path of sorts, more likely a game trail, but we had a roundabout way to travel before we would join up with the others above the timber. We came to another nearly vertical granite outcropping. There was no way to get across the face of it, so we had to drop down to where we could make our way across, then climb back up beyond it. We finally came to the northernmost shoulder of Piler’s Peak, where it dipped down to join with a ridge off a lower mountain to our north. We paused and I searched the nearby slopes through the binoculars. I didn’t see anything special and gave the glasses to Smith.

  He didn’t have any better luck, but said, “I think we should try again. Up a little higher.”

  We started up again. The ground here was more like grazing land. We were able to climb quickly. Halfway up the flank of the thicket that Hawkes and his men were combing we stopped again. I sat to brace myself and searched the area below and across from us. For the first time I saw something to make me grunt.

  “What is it?” Smith asked.

  I handed him the binoculars. “Take a look at that little bald spot on the far ridge, about four hundred yards north.”

  Smith did as I told him. “Those rocks?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Think they mean something?”

  “Maybe.”

  There was a sharp whistle above us. Hawkes stood in the open above the thicket, motioning us up. I pointed north, then gestured for him to join us. He shouted to somebody in his party then came down the slope at a trot.

  “What’s up?”

  I gave him the binoculars. “Take a look at the bald patch on the far ridge.”

  Hawkes studied it. “I see a couple of rocks.”

  “Right. They’re close enough so somebody might have left them as a marker. If there were a third one stacked on top of one of them we’d know for sure. Was it windy the night of the storm?”

  “Sure was,” said Smith.

  “Maybe another rock was knocked off by a falling branch from one of those nearby pine trees. Or maybe they were disturbed by an animal. I think Smith and I shoul
d go on over for a closeup look. If it seems they were put there as a marker we could go on downhill to see if we can find anybody.”

  Hawkes stared at the far slope with his lips pinched, then turned and looked back up at the top of Piler’s Peak. “Can’t do it,” he said. “Don’t have enough men now to cover where we should as soon as we should.” He turned back to me. “You go if you want. It’s worth that. I’d like for you to leave your binoculars with me, though.”

  “Sure. What’s the land like down below there?”

  “I’ve never been into it,” Hawkes said.

  “I was down there once,” said Smith. “It’s not easy country, in places. Pretty thick, and there aren’t any roads this side of the river. There’s supposed to be another stream on over north somewhere. I tried getting to it once to check out the fishing, but I finally gave it up.”

  “How did you go in?”

  “From the campground, across the footbridge. I think it would be difficult crossing the river anywhere else.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can find.”

  “We’ll wait on up above here,” Hawkes said. “After you’ve had a look at those rocks give me some kind of signal to let me know if you’re going on down or coming back.”

  “Right. I have a revolver in my pack. If I do go on down and find anybody and they need help, I’ll fire a couple of rounds.”

  Hawkes nodded and he and Smith started up the slope. I trotted on down the ridge, then climbed up the far one. I got to the patch of ground and looked around. There weren’t any fallen branches nearby, but there was a third rock by a nearby tuft of field grass, along with some deep V clefts that had been made by deer. The ground beneath the two stones seemed to have the same texture as surrounding earth. I wasn’t enough of an outdoorsman to say for sure that the rocks had been placed that way since the storm of Thursday night, but my instincts told me they had.

  I stood and waved across to Hawkes, then turned and gestured west, down the slope. Hawkes gave a brief wave of acknowledgment and turned back to resume his search. I started on down with the assumption that if somebody had indeed put the stones down as a marker, they weren’t familiar with the country any more than I was. On that basis I figured they’d always head for the clearest looking areas, assuming it would be easier country to travel through, and hoping to cut a road or trail. It wasn’t difficult to pick my own way using those assumptions. The route of least resistance was in a generally northwest direction, unfortunately, leading a person farther from Piler’s Peak and the main highway.

  From open slopes I entered a timbered stretch that ended abruptly at a cliff face dropping a hundred feet or more. It seemed less steep farther north. I went that way and scanned the country below. A piece of yellow color on a tree branch below caught my attention. I made my way down to it. It was a strip of nylon material that somebody had tied onto the branch. I continued on in the same general northwesterly direction. Two hundred feet farther I found another strip of the yellow nylon. Whoever had tied them was unwittingly traveling in a direction that put another spur of the ridge between himself and the river canyon road. I paused long enough to dig the revolver out of my pack and attach its holster to my belt. I fired off a round and called out. A light breeze fluttered the tall grass on the spur to my left and the birds quit singing, but there was no replying shout. I continued on down at a trot. I could see where the wayward traveler would be going, below and still farther to the north. It was the way the land led you to the thinnest part of the next wooded area crossing the entire breadth of the slope below. At the edge of the woods I paused to catch my breath and study the area ahead. The land dipped sharply to my right and climbed on the left. I went into the woods searching for more colored markers, but there were none. It was getting thicker, but now I heard running water, up north. It must have been the stream Smith said he’d searched for one time. The crash survivor, if that was whose trail I was on, probably would have made for the stream, figuring it would lead him down off the mountain.

  When I reached the water, the land below, on my side of the stream, appeared nearly impenetrable. It looked to be easier going on the far side, so I rolled up my pants and splashed on across, not bothering to take off my boots. It was cold enough to make your blood back up. On the other side I just kept going down, trotting where the land allowed it. The stream entered a defile and dropped abruptly for thirty feet. I kept on north to where the land was gradual enough so I could scramble down to a clearing below. I stepped and slid my way down, and once I reached level ground I stood to brush off the seat of my pants and the bottom of the knapsack, then started back toward the stream. That’s when I saw that the first part of the day’s work was done. On the ground near the splashing water was what looked like a huddled midget.

  When I called out the figure sat up with a start and turned in my direction. It was a freckle-skinned youngster of about twelve with tufted red hair, bruised face and suspicious eyes. I went over to him and dropped my pack.

  “How you doing, pal?”

  “Geeez, guy, you scared me.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to.” He only had one shoe on. He’d removed the one from his right foot, and the foot was tucked at a curious angle. “Something wrong with that ankle?”

  “Sure is. I think it’s busted. I twisted it pretty bad when my dad’s plane came down the other night. Up above. Then when I was coming down that cliff over there I lost my footing and fell wrong on it. Was all I could do to drag myself over to the dumb stream here. Hurt like the dickens. Then last night I tried to move when I thought I heard a bear shuffling around out there. I found out fast I wasn’t going to move any.”

  “What did you do about the bear?”

  “I growled at it, what else could I do? After a while it went away.”

  “How are you otherwise? Do you hurt inside any?”

  “Nope. Got a lot of bruises. And I banged my head when we hit down. Other than that I’m okay.”

  “That’s good. What’s your name?”

  “Roland Xavier Dempsey. But everyone calls me Tuffy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  The kid shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Okay, Tuffy. My name’s Pete. There are other men up above looking for your dad’s plane. You crashed three nights ago?”

  “Yeah. He told me to stay near the plane all day Friday. He said somebody might fly over and see us. But it didn’t work out. So yesterday I just decided I was going to get down off this mountain.”

  “What sort of shape is your dad in?”

  “He’s hurtin’ some. Pinned in the wreckage. We hit some trees that folded the wings back alongside us. Dad said it was a good thing, that they helped cushion us from the rest of the banging around we did. He keeps passing out. But I found water up there, and the plane’s first aid kit had some pain pills. He’s doing all right, or he was when I left him. Of course, since I fell and hurt myself yesterday I’ve spent some time wondering what was going to come of us. Him up there and me down here and both of us out of action. Where’d you come from?”

  “I was with a search party looking for the plane. I spotted some rocks I guess you left as a marker way up above.”

  He nodded. “Dad gave me a couple tips before I left the plane. Did you see the yellow streamers too?”

  “I sure did. Where did you get them?”

  “Dad carries some on the plane. He says you never know. He’s pretty cautious, my dad is.”

  “Good thing. And apparently one of you shot off a flare last night that was seen by an airliner.”

  “That must have been Dad. I guess he’s still okay, then.”

  “You hungry, Tuffy?”

  “Yeah, sort of. I had a sandwich I brought along, but I ate that last night. You got something?”

  “It just so happens.” I got out and opened the tin of Spam and left it with him along with my knife while I took a small, lightweight axe I carry and prowled the area until I found an old branch about four inches i
n diameter. From that I fashioned a crude pair of paddles to serve as splints to keep the boy’s ankle from moving sideways. I trussed him up the best I could. Whenever I hurt him he let me know about it.

  “Was anybody on the plane besides you and your dad?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where you from?”

  “We were on our way down from Seattle.”

  “Hey, no kidding? That’s where I grew up.”

  “Yeah? When was that?”

  “Oh, I left there before they built the Space Needle.”

  “Wow. You are an old timer.”

  “Sometimes I feel it more than others.” I got him to his feet and helped him hobble across to a nearby log. In addition to the broken right ankle it turned out he had a bad left knee. I told him to try exercising the knee while I hunted around the area until I found a notched limb I could hack into a crutch for him.

  “Where were you headed for, Tuffy?”

  “Mendocino, originally, but there was too much weather around there, so we made a dogleg east and planned to land at Willits. We were trying to make our way up a valley but it was a mess. There was rain and fog and all of a sudden this big old ridge loomed up ahead of us. Dad tried to get over it but we stalled out. And the next thing you know we were knocking through the trees.”

  “Sounds to me as if you were pretty lucky.”

  “That’s what Dad said. When he became conscious.”

  “Did your dad have the plane’s transponder on?”

  “Yeah, but he figured we were too low for the signal to be picked up.”

  “Where is the plane from where you put the rock marker up above?”

  “North.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yup. Quite a ways. Four or five miles, at least. Dad said to hike south, but to try staying in the open so I could try to signal any planes going over. So I just stayed near the top of the ridge. There wasn’t much timber along the crest. But then I finally decided, shoot, there weren’t any planes looking for us, and I started on down. I put up the rocks after I’d come quite a ways from the plane.”