RUNAWAY TWINS (Runaway Twins series #1)
Page 10
“Finish your food and get ready,” the Prophet said. “We’re going after them, and we won’t have an argument about it. I’ve wasted enough time with you men already.”
The tall Missoula man, who seemed to be speaking for the others said, “Listen, Flack, we don’t see any sense in going up those mountains looking for dead kids. Give us our money and we’ll head on back.”
The Prophet, snowshoes and all, planted himself squarely in front of the bigger, taller man. “Your money!” he said. “Do you really think I’d pay you for walking out on me?”
The fat Missoula man, with the swastika tattooed on his neck, said, “We won’t walk out on you, but we think those kids are buzzard’s bait.”
20
Capture
Hiking in improvised evergreen snowshoes proved to be more complicated than the three young adventurers had anticipated. The fronts of the boughs tended to curl under, and the backs tended to jerk upward, causing a rocking motion that led to tripping and stumbling. Justin tried to solve the problem by trimming the snowshoes, but it didn’t help and the instability continued. Still, it was better than sinking deep into the slush with each step.
The sky was a brighter blue than any sky the young people had ever seen, and the snow a whiter white—too white, for they found themselves squinting constantly to prevent snow blindness. But the squinting wasn’t working, and Rachel especially was finding it difficult to continue moving forward. “All I can see is white,” she said, “even when I close my eyes.”
“How about you, Janie?” Justin asked.
“Maybe not as bad as Rachel, but I sure am seeing a lot of white, and I’m starting to get a headache.”
“Me, too,” Justin said, “but I’ve got an idea.” He led them to a nearby birch tree and peeled off a section of bark that was already sticking out and looked as if it would soon fall to the ground. “Dry, but not too dry,” he said. Next, he carved the bark into three masked-sized pieces and poked two holes in the sides of each piece.
The twins watched in fascination. “If those are supposed to cover our faces, our eyes aren’t that far apart,” said Janie. “We’re not hens.”
Justin laughed. “You’re right—they’re masks to cover our faces, but the holes aren’t for your eyes. I’m making the eye slits now.” And with the point of the hunting knife, he sliced two thin slits into each mask, just wide enough to allow a miniscule amount of light to reach the wearer. Then he went around to the opposite side of the birch tree and peeled off three long strips of green bark, each about a quarter of an inch wide. These he pushed through the holes he’d drilled in the sides of the masks, running the green strips across the fronts.
“I get it!” exclaimed Janie. “Here, Rachel, I’ll tie yours around your head.”
When all three had secured their masks, Rachel stumbled around on her snowshoes, looking at the sky, the birch tree, her hand, her friends, and everything else around her. “Amazing,” she said, “I can see through these little slits, and most of the whiteness is blocked out.”
“Snow masks,” said Justin triumphantly. “We might look like aliens, but at least we can see.”
Janie said, “You don’t look like an alien, Justin, you look like the Lone Ranger.”
At the Prophet’s direction, the ex-convicts had separated from the other four men and were headed due west in pursuit of the runaways. They were marching in a column, and they were making good time because of the efficiency of their metal-rimmed snowshoes.
“A fool’s errand,” said the fat man, who was gasping for air with each step. No way they lived through that storm.”
“Fool’s errand or not,” said the tall man, “we’ve got to go through the motions.”
The man at the rear of the column, who seldom contributed to discussions or decisions, said, “Why do we have to go through the motions?” He asked the question without insistence, as if he were merely curious and knew his input would not be considered. He was a wiry man in his late thirties, who had spent half his life in the Montana State Prison system. He had no conscience, no scruples, and very little personality.
The tall man halted the column and said, “Because Flack is a powerful man. We don’t want to make him an enemy. He knows the brotherhood. He pays them, sends them money in max custody. Remember, that’s how he reached us when we first started doing jobs for him—through the brotherhood. The last thing we need is them on our backs.”
The fourth member of the group was a stolid, blonde boy from Alabama, who did most of the heavy lifting, and whose primary preoccupation in life was women. All of his lengthy prison time had been as a result of offences against women and young girls; and he had agreed to come along on the trek because he liked the idea of chasing twelve-year-old female twins through the mountains. “Maybe they’re still alive,” he said. “Maybe we’ll find them.”
“Not likely,” said the tall leader.
Janie sat crying, her back propped up against a large rock. She was holding her ankle and lamenting her clumsiness in stepping into a hole and making it impossible for the trio to continue. Justin slipped the silver tarp underneath her to help keep her dry, and then felt her ankle to see if he could determine whether or not it was broken. “It feels more like a sprain,” he said. “Of course, there’s no way we can tell for sure. Can you walk at all?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll try. It’s really sore.”
Rachel knelt beside her sister and said, “It wasn’t your fault. With our snow masks and snowshoes, it’s a wonder we all didn’t step in holes.”
“I’m the one who did,” said Janie, in a fury of self-condemnation. “I hope I haven’t ruined everything.”
Justin held up his hand toward the sun, which was declining in the western sky. “Each palm width between the sun and the horizon means about an hour of daylight left, and there’s about three and a half palm widths now. It’s not too early to start planning for tonight. I don’t think we’re under any pressure—at least for today. There’s plenty of wood around here and filler of all kinds. I’m sure we can make a wigwam if we put our minds to it.”
Janie tried to get to her feet to test her ankle, but the stabbing pain was too great and she fell back on the tarp. “I can’t do it,” she said. “It hurts when I put any weight on it.”
“Just stay where you are then,” said Justin. “I’ll build us a fire right here close to the rock, and Rachel and I can build a wigwam next to the fire. And tomorrow, if you still can’t walk, I’ll build a sled and we’ll take turns pulling you. We’ll be okay.”
When the fire was blazing and the wigwam complete, Janie once again tested her ankle. This time she was able to stand, though not to walk, and she called out, “Hey, look at me, I’m getting better! It must be a sprain. Maybe by tomorrow, with a little help, I can hike out of here….But I admit I was looking forward to you guys pulling me on a sled.”
Rachel and Justin rushed to Janie’s side to express their delight in her improvement. The three pre-teens then threw their arms around each other in a group hug, grinning with the optimism of youth.
No one mentioned the absence of food. To do so would be an unnecessary negative, and they all seemed to sense that what was needed now was positive energy. Rachel took the lead. “How about some pine-needle tea? I’m actually getting to like the stuff.”
“Good idea,” said Justin, “and pine needles have some nourishment, too—not much, but a little.”
When they were sitting by the fire, passing around the turtle shell filled with pine-needle tea, Justin again positioned his hand between the sun and the horizon. “Still a lot of daylight left,” he said. “I think I’ll go out and set some traps, see if I can catch some breakfast.”
“Traps?” said Janie.
“Snares, flat-rock traps—for rabbits, squirrels, rats. I’ve seen tracks.”
At the mention of rats, both girls made faces, but neither spoke; it was no time for niceties.
“Sure, no problem. The fire’s warm, plenty of wood. I can take care of myself for a while. If my ankle’s better tomorrow, I’ll help check the traps.”
Rachel and Justin assured Janie they wouldn’t be long and she could indeed help them in the morning if her ankle improved. They then tramped off on their evergreen snowshoes to find a promising area to trap rabbits and other small creatures.
The blonde Alabama boy was the first to smell the smoke. At first he didn’t say anything to the other Missoula men because he wasn’t certain. It might not be smoke at all, just the natural smells of the forest. He didn’t want to look foolish by making a comment that would reveal he didn’t know a thing about the wilderness; so he held his peace and savored the thought of two cute young girls sitting by the fire, waiting for him to come to their rescue. After about ten minutes he noticed that the other men were raising their heads and sniffing the air, and he realized that they, too, had picked up the smell. “Smoke,” he said tentatively.
“Without a doubt,” said the tall man.
Rachel was a quick study, and in less than an hour Justin was able to teach her how to set several types of traps and to bait them with seeds he’d recovered from the intestines of the rabbits he’d gutted. Then he and Rachel separated for the next thirty minutes, and when they came back together, she said, “I did fine. I’ll bet my traps catch more than yours do.”
“That’s a bet I wouldn’t mind losing,” he said. “I just hope one of us catches something.”
Finally, the two trappers, satisfied with their late afternoon’s work, headed back to the campsite and to Janie. They hiked playfully, lightheartedly, kicking snow on each other with their awkward snowshoes. They teased and laughed as if they hadn’t a care in the world and as if they weren’t high in the Bitterroot Mountains with no food, no supplies, no equipment, and no real hope.
The first indication they had that something was awry was the sound of soft voices coming from behind the wigwam. Justin immediately halted and put his finger to his lips. “Be very quiet,” he whispered. “This isn’t right. Janie doesn’t have anyone to talk with, and I know she’s not talking to the animals.” They crept closer until the voices became distinct, and from the cover of the trees they could clearly make out what was going on. Two men were hiding behind the empty wigwam, obviously waiting for Rachel and Justin to return. “They’re laying for us,” Justin said. He spoke so softly she could scarcely hear him. “Back out. Don’t step on any branches.”
When they were safely out of earshot, Rachel’s bottle-green eyes filled with tears and in a voice quaking with fear and dismay, she asked, “Where’s Janie?”
“Gone,” said Justin.
21
Decision
The tall man assigned himself and the Alabama boy the task of getting Janie into the hands of J.J. Flack. The Alabama boy said that since the girl was as light as a feather, he would have no problem carrying her down the mountain and that he could perform the task by himself with no relief.
When the two ex-convicts were certain there were no potential landslides to threaten them, the tall man took out his pistol and fired two signal shots into the air; and he then indicated they should head south to see if they could intercept the path of Flack and his party.
For a time, Janie screamed and kicked and pounded on the Alabama boy’s back to protest her capture, but it soon became apparent her efforts were useless; and she felt like flea trying to damage a horse. “At least stop carrying me like a sack of potatoes!” she cried. “This is hurting.”
He took her off his shoulder and cradled her in his arms. “Of course, little darlin’. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. Sorry if you were uncomfortable.” He examined her hair, which was now inches from his face. “Have you noticed your hair and mine are the same color blonde? We could be brother and sister. Do you have any kinfolk in Alabama?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said.
“Be nice to me, little sister. I’m the only friend you’ve got on this mountain.”
J.J. Flack stopped abruptly when he heard the two gunshots, raising his arm to halt his companions.
“Two shots,” said one of the guards. “The kids are alive.”
“Maybe not all of them,” said another guard.
Flack pointed toward the northeast. “That way. Let’s double our pace.”
Rachel and Justin were devastated. Rachel was still sobbing intermittently, and Justin was shaking his head in disgust at himself for leaving Janie alone. “I should have known,” he said. “Of course, they traveled faster than us on our pitiful snowshoes. They must’ve tripled our speed. It’s all my fault. I’m supposed to know—my father and uncle trained me to know. They’d be ashamed of me for not using my head.” He knew he was speaking disjointedly, but he didn’t care; and he continued to ramble for several more minutes.
Finally, Rachel said, “I left her, too, Justin. I was more interested in going out to play than I was in Janie’s welfare. I’m a rotten sister. I deserted her, and now she’s in their clutches.”
They were standing on a bluff overlooking the campsite where the two men had lain in wait. The men were still there, one fat and one thin; but they were no longer hiding behind the wigwam, and they seemed to be making no effort whatever to conceal their presence. “They must think we’ve deserted Janie,” said Justin.
The sun had now disappeared below the horizon, but there was still enough mountain twilight left for Rachel and Justin to see precisely what was occurring below. And there was no danger of their being seen by their pursuers, for they were protected by the branches of a great oak tree. The fat man and the thin man were scurrying around making preparations for the night. They had added wood to Justin’s fire and had set up their tent, ignoring the wigwam. “Guess they don’t like our shelter,” said Justin.
“Picky,” said Rachel. “Think we could sneak into the wigwam and spend the night?”
He laughed. “A little chancy, but I do have an idea, a way to slow them down, do them some damage.”
“What’s your plan?”
And he explained.
Janie watched the tall man and the Alabama boy build a fire; and she was irritated at how much easier it was for them, using matches, then it had been for Justin, using his bow and drill. But when the fire was blazing and she was staring through the flames at her captors, she remembered how much warmer and protected she had felt beside Justin’s fire than she felt now.
The tall man was now drinking heavily from an oversized metal flask he had removed from his supply pack. His eyes were already glazed, and he was beginning to slur his words. The Alabama boy was pretending to match his companion drink for drink, grinning and holding out his cup for refills; but in reality he was drinking very little and was dumping his drinks in the snow when the tall man looked away. It was clear the younger man wished to stay sober, alert, ready to spring into action when his leader fell into his customary drunken stupor.
Janie stared at the scene in horror. She knew what the young ex-convict had in mind, and she had no intention of allowing him to implement his plan. She fingered the short, pointed stick she had secreted under her hip. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but she would see how the creepy southerner functioned with one eye.
The fire was flickering out and needed more wood, but the tall man was incapable of walking, never mind fetching wood. His chin had now fallen to his chest, and the smoke from the dying fire was blowing directly into his face; but he was unaware, oblivious. He sat with his silver flask grasped protectively in both hands.
The Alabama boy was so intent on watching the tall man and on watching Janie, he had lost all interest in the fire.
Though the fire was nearly out, the glow from the burning embers provided enough light for Janie to see that her antagonist had risen to his
feet and was moving slowly toward her. He had a grin on his face, and as he approached, she could hear him humming a tune. She wrapped her fingers around the pointed stick that she hoped would at least allow her to wound the thug before he completed his unthinkable mission. With the weapon in hand, she jumped to her feet, wincing at the pain in her ankle, and steeled herself for battle.
He came on with a rush, sweeping the stick away with a simple backhand and widening his grin as he grabbed her fiercely by the shoulders. She screamed and fought him with her fists; and he laughed, telling her he liked his girls with grit. She closed her eyes in despair and felt an overwhelming desire to die, knowing that such a death wish was contrary to everything she believed, but not caring. Anything was preferable to—
A shot rang out, catching the Alabama boy squarely between the shoulder blades and causing him to fall limp in Janie’s arms. She was stunned, unable to focus on what had occurred. She had experienced too much in too short a period of time to organize and categorize the information. She pushed away her attacker’s heavy body and fell to her knees, desperately attempting to figure out where she was, who she was, and what was happening.
Into the tableau stepped J.J. Flack, a smoking revolver in his hand, his hatchet face twisted with rage. He was trailed by the three Sheba Hill guards, one of whom Flack directed to check on the fallen southerner.
After bending to his task, the guard looked up. “Dead, sir.”
Flack then directed another guard to see to the tall man who was beginning to stir on the opposite side of the fire.
“Drunk, sir.”
Shaking with hatred and contempt, Flack ordered, “Take them into the woods, dig deep…bury them!”
The guard beside the tall, intoxicated leader said, “This man’s still alive, sir.”
“Bury them!”
When the guards had disappeared into the woods, Flack turned to Janie, “How are you, dear?”