Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  Asadi repeated the word and butted his head against his hand like a ram.

  “That’s right.” Garrett made similar tracks to the sheep but with a slight variation. “Deer.” He pointed to the leaping deer emblem on Asadi’s John Deere stocking hat.

  Asadi touched the emblem and repeated the word dare, then raised both hands to his head and spread his fingers out like antlers.

  Garrett was convinced the boy knew what they were hunting, so they remounted and rode for a good twenty minutes following the sheep tracks across the snowy plains until they came to a crag in the earth that ran about fifty or sixty feet deep. The rocky terrain and steep slopes gave the sheep good protection from most predators. But unfortunately for them, a lifetime of hunting both animal and human in the mountains had made Garrett equally at home.

  He grabbed the compound bow from his scabbard and dismounted slow and quiet. Asadi did likewise, seeming to understand the need for silence. Garrett hobbled the horses since there was nothing to tie them to and knelt in the snow. He plucked a little strand of dried grass, let the wind carry it north to south, and sniffed at the air like an animal. After drawing a crude illustration of the canyon in the snow with his finger, he poked several holes at the end. He made two dots to represent himself and Asadi, then drew a line running through the canyon.

  Asadi yanked a piece of grass, moved it to the top of the replica, and let the wind carry it down to where they would be sneaking in from behind. He looked up at Garrett and sniffed. Damned if the boy hadn’t figured out that they were trying to stay downwind.

  With nothing left to do but get moving, Garrett led Asadi down into the draw, moving quickly but quietly. Normally he’d have trod a bit slower, but with the wind blowing hard in their direction, he wasn’t too worried about spooking the wild game on the approach.

  After walking a good fifteen minutes they came upon a set of tracks in the snow. Garrett knelt, pointed to them and asked in a quiet voice, “Aoudad?”

  Asadi shook his head and pointed to the John Deere logo on his stocking hat. “Dare.”

  Boy’s a natural. Garrett rose and kept on the trail, amazed at how quickly Asadi was catching on. They hadn’t hiked another five minutes when they came upon the spike buck who’d made the tracks, nibbling on a tuft of grass in a little grove of cottonwood trees. The aoudad sheep were about forty yards behind him.

  Garrett crouched and eased right, putting a tree between him and the spike to break up his silhouette. He turned to Asadi, whose eyes were saucers. Although the spike was a cool find, it was out of season. They’d have to stick to the sheep. The problem was that the deer was highly attuned to the dangers of its surroundings. One wrong move by either him or Asadi would send the spike running and spook the sheep, rendering the whole morning’s stalking efforts a complete waste of time.

  Garrett squatted, easing to his stomach, and Asadi did the same right beside him. It was cold lying in the snow, but it was their only option. Being downwind was an advantage, but with the wind circling in the canyon there was a good chance the spike would get a whiff of their scent and bolt, sending the sheep on a dead run out of there.

  He turned to Asadi to find the boy shivering, his chin turning red where it rested in the snow. His eyes were steadfast though, watching the buck with a hunter’s gaze, studying its every move. Even his breathing was controlled and silent—just like Butch had taught him.

  A few seconds passed and the spike lifted his head and scampered away on his own. Garrett rose slowly to his feet, took an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Asadi did exactly the same. Garrett was just about to take his first careful step when he spied the mountain lion creeping down the trail about thirty yards to the northeast.

  It was highly unusual to see a cougar out roaming this long after dawn, much less at all. The animal was probably taking a risk because he was hungry. Predators rarely broke their hunting habits, but a few missed meals might’ve made him desperate. Likelier than not, the big cat would turn and run at the sight of them, but animal instincts were unpredictable. A bony kid like Asadi might look less like a threat and more like a snack.

  Garrett looked to Asadi whose eyes were even wider than before, then turned back to find the cat crouched in a pouncing position, ears pinned back, and teeth bared. Then in a lightning flash the cougar sprinted toward them and leapt.

  To Asadi the attack felt no more real than a dream. One moment a deer—the next a goat—the last a lion. Images like these had haunted him since the massacre. His mind switched between the faces of his family and the murderers so quickly at times they changed into one.

  But this was no dream, it was real and there’d be no running like he had back in Nasrin.

  Having already drawn the bow, he aimed at the charging beast with shaking hands and let the arrow fly. He would have kept his eyes open like Butch taught, but it was simply impossible. They clamped shut like a trap and he could not force them open until he heard Garrett’s triumphant voice. “You did it, Outlaw! You did it!”

  Garrett didn’t know where Asadi’s arrow had landed, only that it was nowhere near the cougar. Still though, the vibrating thunk of his released bowstring was enough to spook the cat, which broke left only feet before them and scampered off into the mesquite.

  Although the boy hadn’t technically made his first kill, it was close enough. Asadi was a good tracker, a great stalker, and had managed not to piss his pants at the sight of an attacking mountain lion. It was a job well done by any hunter’s standards.

  None of it would make up for the loss of his home, family, or innocence. But victory over death counted for something. And maybe it would give him confidence in a world out of control. Only one thing was for sure—the kid needed a win and today he got one.

  22

  Lacey pulled the glass door to the Renegade office shut, snapped the dead bolt from inside, and killed the lights. She made a brisk but thorough sweep of the building only to find a couple of mechanics cleaning up in the shop around back. Everyone else had cleared out after lunch.

  Content that it was safe to snoop, Lacey moved to the storage room where she perused row after row of file cabinets, focusing on the mission at hand, which was borrowing the Renegade documents Garrett had requested the night before. And Saturday afternoon was the perfect time to do it. On a weekday, the place bustled with rig hands, pumpers, roustabouts, and truckers. But the weekends were sparse, especially now in the late afternoon.

  It didn’t take long to find the cabinet containing the drivers’ logs and the hotshot files she was looking for, but to her surprise it was locked. It was the only one that was locked.

  If the key wasn’t with Bo Clevenger, then it had to be in his office. Bolting from the file room, Lacey moved down the dark hallway and crept into his small work area. But for his messy desk and a whitetail buck head mount on the wall behind it, the room was empty. Easing around his desk, Lacey opened the top drawer and riffled through the junk.

  No cleaner inside than on top, she found little more than an assortment of pens, pencils, Post-it notes, and half-empty snuff cans. Lacey had nearly given up when she saw the key. She’d just reached inside when the light clicked on and a low growling voice followed.

  “What are you doing?”

  It was hard to imagine that a man that big could move that quietly. But Bo had slipped in like a phantom. For some reason, the truth seemed less suspicious than a made-up excuse.

  “Uh . . . just looking for a key.”

  Bo eased into the door frame, blocking her in, his enormous body filling all but a few square inches. “What key?”

  “File key.” She pointed to the wall where the cabinets were on the other side.

  Bo didn’t look convinced. “Why are you in the dark?”

  Lacey gave him the how stupid of me eye roll. “Just in a hurry.” She giggled the best ditsy girl giggle a nonblonde could muster. “You know. Been a helluva day. Trying to get home and enjoy the weekend.”

 
Bo moved inside and stared her down. “What files you after?”

  “Drivers’ logs.”

  His face warped into either confusion or anger. Maybe both. “What for?”

  With a shrug and a smile, Lacey dug herself a deeper hole. “Not really sure. Corporate office in San Antonio called me at home asking about government mileage rates. Something to do with payroll reimbursements.” She rolled her eyes again. “Said tax laws changed and wanted to make sure everything was how it should be.”

  There was a disbelieving edge to his voice. “How should it be?”

  Her pulse now racing, her hands began to tremble. “I beg your pardon?”

  “How—should—it—be?”

  Lacey didn’t know a lot about mileage rates other than that drivers obsessed over them. “I don’t know.” She faked another girlish giggle, struggling to conjure up an answer that wouldn’t draw more questions. “It has . . . something to do with the IRS, I think.”

  Wrong move.

  Any disbelief on Bo’s face dissipated and anger took hold of him as he moved toward her. “What the hell does the IRS want with our records?”

  He stepped closer, and Lacey shoved the drawer closed as she came around the desk. When Bo didn’t move, she tried to ease past him, but he grabbed her arm and yanked her close. Jamming his thumb into Lacey’s wrist, he forced her hand open. The key flew out and pinged on the floor.

  At nearly the same moment, the air compressor motor in the shop ceased to knock and the machine gave off a shrill whistle of air. If someone was out there, maybe they could hear her scream. Maybe they could help. She was about to cry out when Bo released her.

  “Just go on home now and enjoy your weekend.” Bo’s scowl gave way to a knowing smile. “And I’ll make sure folks at headquarters know exactly what you were looking for.”

  23

  Asadi had just turned on SpongeBob SquarePants and gotten settled on the couch when Garrett slipped out the front door. He hadn’t said much to either Butch or to him, but it felt like something was wrong. It was a look on Garrett’s face that Asadi had come to recognize. It was the same look he had the night they arrived.

  Asadi had started to move over to the window when Butch came clomping over in his boots. It could mean only one thing. The day’s chores weren’t over. Asadi would have normally been ecstatic but after the early morning hunt and nearly being eaten by a lion he was exhausted.

  Butch tossed over the green hat and his blue-and-silver football coat. “Ain’t quitting time yet, Daniel Boone. Your old buddy Mrs. Shanessy just called. Said she was riding the top of the caprock and seen one of our windmills ain’t working.”

  The name Shanessy rang a bell. It was what Butch had called the fiery little woman with the big gun in her truck. Asadi had only understood the curse words, but there was something about her that radiated a mother’s warmth.

  Butch handed Asadi his bow and quiver. “Keep this handy, son. Need you to watch my back. Never know if a condor might swoop down and try to carry me off in its talons.”

  Asadi only understood the word wim-meal, but that was enough to get him moving. The giant iron structures that belched water from beneath the ground fascinated him to no end. He hopped from the sofa, massaged his stiff thighs, then followed Butch out the door.

  After the usual process of letting the truck warm up, Butch put it in drive and maneuvered down a snow-covered road Asadi had never seen. A few minutes later, the big wheel on the structure was jerking so hard in the wind it looked as if it might rip right off and fly away.

  Butch jumped outside, opened up a metal box, and took out a few tools he’d stuffed in his pockets. From there, he hopped onto the giant structure and climbed it like a monkey.

  “Be back shortly.” Butch turned to Asadi, a few rungs up. “Hopefully with good news.” He had just made it to the top when an airplane roared overhead.

  Asadi watched it clear the caprock by no more than a hundred feet. Shortly after, the plane dipped its left wing, passing a set of metal tanks, and dropped something that looked like a suitcase from the window. In the far distance, a truck made its way across the rim of the escarpment to where the object had fallen.

  Asadi looked up to find Butch was already near the bottom of the structure. The old man jumped from the last rung and ran toward the truck. “Get in! Let’s see what these fools are up to.”

  They both hopped in the pickup, Butch started the engine, and threw it into gear. They cut a trail across the pasture to a narrow pathway dug into the caprock. As the truck began the sharp climb upward, it leapt and caught in herky-jerky fits. With its wheels slipping on the steep incline, loose gravel shot into the wheel well with a loud series of pings and thuds. But Butch jammed the accelerator harder and the tires gained traction, sending them onward at a speed too fast for their narrow corridor.

  White-knuckled and tense, he turned only slightly. “Hold on to your hat, pardner.”

  Asadi gripped the armrest below the door handle as his stomach did somersaults. He held on even tighter as the nose of the truck went so high, he could see only the sky above. Half a minute later, it leveled off and they were atop the mesa.

  Butch pointed to the other vehicle, less than half a mile away. “We’ve gotta move. Seems our friends are in a big hurry.”

  He punched the accelerator and a spray of mud and snow kicked up around the truck as it fishtailed into a right turn. They climbed onto a slight hump under the snow that made a winding path to a place with a couple of small buildings and three large silver tanks. A barbed wire fence surrounded it and there was a big sign with a hatchet on the front.

  Butch must have spotted the package also because he popped his knee with his palm and yelled, “Jackpot!”

  He veered the truck right and made a beeline toward the fence post, where the package had skidded in the snow before coming to a stop against a post. It was clear whoever’d dropped it from the plane had been trying to make it onto the caliche pad but had come up short.

  Butch drove to the fence, grabbed it, and dusted the snow off. It was a plain cardboard box about the size of a couch cushion. He placed it on the bench seat between them, pointed to the label, and snarled. “Property of Renegade, my ass.”

  He turned the truck around and drove back to the main road, following his own tracks to the caprock cutaway road. They had nearly made it when the vehicle headed their way pulled out front and cut off their exit.

  Two men jumped out of the cab and approached Butch’s truck in a huff. One man was big and beefy, wearing a scraggly bush of red facial hair that hung below his chin like the beard of a goat. His skin had a red tint, wind-beaten and leathery. The other straggling behind was tall and bony, eyes noticeably bloodshot against his pale skin. He looked around anxiously, moving herky-jerky as a lizard. It was clear he expected trouble.

  Both wore the same logo on their gray coats, with the odd-looking hatchet. It was the same as the one on the package and the sign on the fence.

  Butch rolled the window down. “Can I help you with something?”

  The big one spoke in a mumbling voice, his mouth unseen under the thick matted red beard. “I don’t know. Can you?”

  Butch looked rattled. “You know you’re on private property?”

  “Actually, that over there is a Mescalero well.” The hulking man made a show of surveying the area. “And this right here is an oil field road built and paid for by the company. Per the terms of your surface lease with the company,” he looked to the thin man, as if he’d said something impressive, “we’ve got more a right to be here than you do. You see, we’ve got an easement through your property.” He stressed the word eeehzmett.

  Butch spat out a stream of tobacco juice from his window. “I know exactly what’s in my surface use agreement, given my son is the one drafted it and I’m the one signed it.” He pointed to their vehicle. “And since you know the law so well, tell me what gives you the right to block my path.”

  Goat’s smile
broke loose from behind his ugly red beard. “This here road is for oil field operations, which supersede ranch operations. Didn’t you know that, old-timer?”

  Butch nodded. “And what operations would those be, junior?”

  “We’re checking wells.” Lizard bobbed his head in the direction of the large tanks. “You give us that package you took, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Asadi watched as Butch slid his right hand under a pair of brown coveralls lying on the bench seat between them. He rubbed his chin with his left as he spoke.

  “You boys are out checking wells, huh? Well, I happen to know the pumper, and his name is Reilly Hobbs. But I can’t say I’ve ever seen the likes of you two. Ever.”

  As Butch started to drive away, Goat grabbed the handle and yanked the door open. He lunged inside but not before Butch jerked a silver pistol from under the pair of folded coveralls. Asadi heard the click-click as the big barrel stopped short of the bearded man’s bulbous nose.

  As quickly as Goat had made his move, he fell backward and skidded onto his butt in the snow. He scrambled to his feet, red-faced, and jabbed his finger at Butch. “You just made a big mistake, mister! We’ll call the law on your old ass! Get a restraining order.”

  Butch let the hammer down on the gun but didn’t lower his aim. “Now, you ain’t calling the law and we both know why.” With the gun still pointed at Goat, he grabbed the door and shut it. After putting the truck in drive, he eased around the vehicle blocking their way.

  Butch turned to Asadi and smiled. “You handled yourself pretty well there, sonny. Between you, me, and our friend Mr. Colt here, I believe we can handle about any trouble comes our way.”

  24

  When Garrett walked into the Stumblin’ Goat, he passed the bar and maneuvered around a few empty tables to where Lacey sat alone at the far side of the room. The worry on her face matched the fear in her voice that he’d heard in their phone call. She’d insisted on meeting somewhere public and he couldn’t blame her. Her run-in with Bo would’ve shaken anyone.