by Siena West
“We’ll be okay. Despite the fact that he hit me, I don’t suppose he wants to kill us.”
“You better be right, cowboy.”
“At least there’s an upside to this.”
She raised her eyebrows up and down like a bad actor in a bad comic play. “And that would be?”
“Sweet little dummy, we’ve found our pot hunter.”
* * *
After the last volley, almost an hour passed without gunfire. Across the canyon, the cliff face sank into shadow. The afternoon was sliding away, and with it their chances of returning to the trailer and truck in daylight.
“We’ve got to chance it, Maggie. Or else we’ll never get back to the truck before dark.” Cole said. “You up for it?”
“Yup. Can you ride?”
He nodded. Maggie helped him to his feet and to her horse. Cole’s arm was sore and throbbing. He struggled to mount because it was awkward to grab the saddle horn with his uninjured arm. As they left, Maggie could feel eyes on her back. The shooter was watching them, perhaps taking aim again. Soon, they trudged back down the canyon, safe from the crazy pot hunter and the hail of bullets.
* * *
It was slow going through the sand, but now they only had to dodge rocks rather than bullets. Near the canyon juncture, they found Cole’s horse placidly cropping grass. They shared the last of the water in the saddlebags. Maggie worried that Cole might be dehydrated. Although she couldn’t estimate know how much blood he had lost, it certainly seemed like a lot.
With both riding, they moved faster. The last half-mile was a nightmare. The horses picked their way around the boulders like clumsy ballet dancers. They reached the trailer and truck at dusk. Had it taken them any longer, they would have been riding in the dark. Maggie loaded the horses. The door clanged on their butts, and she slid behind the wheel.
Maggie checked the improvised bandage on Cole’s arm, glad to find it seeped only a little, and then started up. As she drove, the truck’s headlights transmogrified the trees alongside the road into menacing humanoid figures, further darkening her mood. Exhausted, Cole fell asleep, and Maggie drove with nothing but her thoughts for company. Would Cole be okay? Was it really a pot hunter up there in the canyon? Worst of all, she knew Elena was going to be madder than hell.
Chapter 23
Hospital
It was two o’clock in the morning, and the polished corridors of the Mountain Regional Hospital were quiet. A bandaged Cole rested in the emergency room with painkillers, antibiotics, and a tetanus shot on board. Outside the room, Maggie and Elena conferred with the ER doctor.
“I’ve seen a lot of gunshot wounds, and I’d guess this was a .30-caliber rifle. The bullet must have been nearly spent or glanced off something, however, because it’s just a graze. Mr. Merrick will be fine.”
“He better be,” Elena said. “Cole is an archaeologist. He needs both arms. Ever tried to shovel with just one?”
The doctor grunted. “If the bullet hit the brachial artery, Mr. Merrick might be a dead archaeologist. In the canyon without help, he might have bled out.” They had explained the circumstances around Cole’s injury. “But he’s dehydrated, and that’s the worst. He’s lucky.”
When Maggie and Cole didn’t return by dinner time, Elena had been certain her fears for them had come to pass. A search party was imperative. She corralled Tim, Mel, and one of the burliest male students. The director knew where Maggie had planned to survey. They should be able to find the truck and trailer.
As they drove through the darkening evening, Elena imagined dire possibilities. Perhaps one or the other was lying hurt with a broken arm or leg. How could they find them in the dark and the jumble of rocks in the canyon? How could they get them out if one or the other was hurt? The best-case scenario was that the truck had broken down or run out of gas.
But on the main road close to the turnoff to the ranch, headlights shone through the dust that hung in the windless air. When they stopped, Mel nearly fell out of the vehicle in her haste to get to Maggie.
Cole, Maggie, and Elena had argued. Cole did not want to go to the Show Low hospital. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “It’s just a scrape. All I need is rest.”
“No, you are definitely not fine,” Maggie said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You didn’t see all the crap in the wound. We can’t clean it up in camp. You’d get an infection.” Elena echoed her concerns. Mel wanted to go to Show Low with them, but Elena said they couldn’t let a student drive the rig. So Mel and the student reluctantly drove the truck and trailer back to camp. The others set out for Show Low.
In the emergency room, a nurse removed Cole’s blood-soaked shirt, cut off Maggie’s improvised bandage, got an IV started, and took Cole’s vital signs. A precautionary CT scan showed no broken bones. The ER doctor frowned when he saw the filthy wound. Under a local anesthetic, he cleaned the furrow in Cole’s arm and bandaged it. The wound needed no stitches.
Maggie sat next to Cole while he was being treated. She grinned at him when the doctor had finished. She started to sing a Talking Heads verse, but Cole hushed her.
“Thanks for trying to cheer me up, Mags, but I’m not in the mood right now.”
“Oh, pooh.” Maggie sniffed and sat back in her chair, grumbling. The county sheriff’s deputies arrived soon after, and they asked lots of questions. In the harsh, fluorescent hospital light, the shooting now seemed surreal, like a bad nightmare just before dawn. It had seemed real enough when they were crouching behind the boulders, listening to bullets whine and zing off rocks and to the retorts echoing from the canyon walls.
As they told the story, everything dropped into place. The angry snake disturbed from its hiding place, the horse tracks and fresh droppings, the unusual quiet—this evidence suggested the shooter rode up the canyon that morning sometime before they did. He had disturbed and dislodged the wild residents. Maggie and Cole told the deputies their theory: there was a ruin in the canyon, and the shooter was hell-bent on looting it. Hell-bent enough to shoot at them to scare them away and chance hurting—or killing—them.
“I’m not surprised,” the taller of the deputies said, looking up from his notes. “Lots of these old-timers loot ruins for pots, and they think they’ve got the right to shoot people they view as trespassers.”
“Trespassers?” Elena said, exhaustion fading and anger rising. “Cole and Maggie were on public land! Not to mention that pot hunting is a federal offense.”
“Tell that to those old boys who’ve been here for generations. Strangers aren’t welcome. Archaeologists, especially.” Then, embarrassed, the deputy mumbled an apology.
“I don’t suppose either of you picked up any spent bullets or casings?” the other deputy asked, looking from Maggie to Cole. They shook their heads.
“The bullets are buried in the sand, and the shell casings would be where the shooter was hiding,” Cole said.
“And neither of you saw the shooter?” Again, the slow, negative shakes. Cole’s eyes began to glaze. He wouldn’t be awake much longer.
“I suppose that means we can’t find out who did this,” Elena said.
“Probably not, Ma’am. A lot of ranchers carry Winchesters. Mostly use them to hunt. They’ll put big holes in a deer.”
“And just as easily in my graduate students! You’ve got to do something. That puto pendejo could have killed Cole or Maggie!” The deputies exchanged glances. The pretty lady with the dark hair was madder than a hornet.
“We’ll try, Ma’am, but with no evidence, it’ll be tough. We don’t have the gun, and we don’t have any bullets for forensics. Your students can’t identify the shooter. I’m afraid I can’t be optimistic.”
Elena muttered in Spanish.
“We’ll be in touch,” the shorter deputy said, handing Elena a form with numbers—the case, his name, badge, and phone. “We’ll do what we can.” The officers’ shoes tapped smartly on the floor, and the equipment on their belts jingled
and clanged as they left, loud in the quiet hospital.
The ER doctor seemed to notice Maggie for the first time. She looked less than glamorous in her filthy jeans and the ragged shirt she had cut up for a clumsy bandage.
“Are you hurt, young lady?” It was hard to tell under the coating of dirt and smears of blood.
Maggie snorted. Her temperament had not improved with the long drive, the wait in the hospital and the deputies’ interrogation. Her fear for Cole made it worse.
“Am I hurt? Well, let’s see. First, I got bucked off a horse spooked by a rattlesnake. See these bruises?” She rolled up her sleeves and lifted the ragged bottom of her shirt. She’d landed on rocks and other debris in the canyon, and as she had suggested to Cole, the bruises were indeed spectacular. “Then, an idiot shot at us, and I saw my boyfriend get hit. After that, I had to keep him from bleeding to death. Oh yeah, we also rode out of the canyon after sundown—you ever tried that?—and then I had to load the horses in the trailer and drive home. In the dark. By myself. Does that sound like I’m hurt?” Maggie’s voice had risen through the recitation.
The doctor chuckled at the histrionic litany. The fiery redhead may have had a hard day, but it had not intimidated her. “Well, if that’s all that’s wrong with you, a hot shower and bed is what you need. I’ll write you a script for a sleep medication.”
In most cases, the hospital would discharge Cole. When the doctor learned how far they’d have to drive to get back home, he decided to keep Cole in the hospital overnight. “With the dehydration and injury, Mr. Merrick is better off here.”
Once again, Maggie and Elena argued. “I’m staying here with him,” Maggie insisted.
“No, you’re not, chica. With those circles under your eyes, you look like you’ve been beat up or were in a car wreck, and you can hardly stand, you’re so tired. Cole’s already asleep, and he will fine. We’ll come back tomorrow and take him home.” Elena looked at her watch and amended that. “When we come back later today. We’ll bring clean clothes and feed him Mexican food before we head home. Not to worry.”
Maggie protested but suddenly seemed to sag, the fight in her gone. Cole didn’t stir as she kissed him goodbye. Tim, who snoozed the entire time in the waiting room, left to get the truck. When she crawled into the back seat, Maggie fell asleep at once.
* * *
Under the emergency-room canopy and bathed in the sickly green fluorescent light and the scarlet, neon blur of the emergency sign, Elena called Sander Jorgensen. A deep, dreamless sleep enfolded him, but he was instantly awake when he heard her voice.
Elena explained what happened, her voice breaking a little. “The kids think the shooter might have been the pot hunter we’ve been seeing traces of all summer,” she told him. “This thing is getting out of hand, Sandy, and I’m frightened.”
“Of course you are. Tomorrow, I’ll call the sheriff and get the incident report. In a day or two, I can talk to Cole and Maggie. In the meantime, try to relax. We’ll work this out together.”
Together. That’s a lovely word. Elena kept it close to her heart as they drove home through what remained of the night.
* * *
Mel was awake and met the truck when its exhausted occupants arrived in camp. “Where’s Cole?”
“They kept him overnight in the hospital. We’ll pick him up tomorrow,” Elena said.
Maggie stumbled to the tent and dragged off her boots. She had filled the script the ER doctor wrote for her, and she gulped a pill before fell into bed without undressing. Much later, she had the most wonderful dream. Cole lay next to her, kissing and caressing her. His body was warm against hers. It was so comforting after the awful day they suffered. And it seemed so real.
When a hand touched between her legs, Maggie jolted awake. It was real, but the person lying beside her wasn’t Cole. He was asleep in the hospital in Show Low, she remembered dully. In the soft, gray light before sunrise, she could just make out Mel’s face.
Maggie removed Mel’s hand and struggled to sit.
“What are you doing, Mel?” It was surprising how calm she was. Normally, her yelling and cursing would have awakened the entire camp, but she was too tired to pitch a fit. The sleeping pill had made her groggy, too.
Mel reached out to touch Maggie’s face. “Oh, Maggie, I’m so sorry. Please know I didn’t mean to scare you. I only wanted you to know how I feel since Cole is away. There might never be another opportunity.”
“This is more than telling, Mel. It’s a little like rape, actually.”
“No, no. I love you, Maggie, and I hoped you’d love me back. Or I could persuade you to love me.”
Maggie shook her head. “Mel, we can’t help who we love. Love chooses us. It’s sad that you care for me, because I can’t love you back. It’s Cole for me, and I’m lucky that he feels the same way.”
Her gentle response and kind manner shook Mel. Tears slipping down her cheeks gleamed as the first light brightened the tent.
“I’ll be your friend, help you any way I can. But I can’t be your lover. Don’t ask again.”
Mel was crying hard now. “Please don’t tell anybody—especially Cole.” She was sure that the director had guessed she was besotted with Maggie, given her gentle prodding on the field trip to Globe—but if Cole knew—
“Don’t worry. I can keep secrets, even though with my big mouth, it doesn’t seem like I can.”
Mel pulled herself together and dashed outside, leaving the tent flaps open. In her wake, the fresh, early morning breeze swept into the tent. Maggie trembled with the stress of what had transpired on this endless, horrible day. What if someone saw Mel leaving the tent? What would they think? Most importantly, what would Cole think if someone told him?
Maggie gulped back a half-sob, half-sigh, and turned her back to the brightening side of the tent. She was asleep again, and this time, she would not dream.
Chapter 24
Waste
The old man had wasted his time. It had seemed to be a promising little cliff dwelling tucked into a rock shelter, but it proved to be just a few shallow, little rooms, crumbling and empty except for packrat nests. He’d dug around, finding nothing but corn cobs and the crap the rats collected. There weren’t even many sherds. All summer, those fucking archaeologists dogged his heels, keeping him from working. Once, they had almost caught him.
The gunshots scared off those stupid kids, but they took a long time to leave. He was sure he had winged the boy, but that was the price the kid paid for being nosy. When the old man was certain the kids had left, it was too late to leave the canyon. He spent the night in the ruin with nothing to eat except some beef jerky and crackers he’d packed for lunch. The old man huddled in his old sleeping bag, tossing and turning and worried about the blood-sucking kissing bugs that lived in the packrat nests.
His horse, tied up in the canyon where no one would find him, would be hungry and thirsty. Because he hadn’t planned on spending the night, he’d left the animal’s feedbag and water bucket back in the trailer. The old man would hobble the animal and let him graze in the morning, and he would find a pool down the canyon.
He worked more the next morning, poking in the talus below the rock shelter. The old man found nothing except pieces of woven sandals and corn cobs. Angry, he ate what was left of the jerky and then packed up the horse and rode back down the canyon.
The rig was well hidden, and there were no tire tracks or footprints around it. No one had been on the road since he’d left it. As he drove away, the anger and frustration took hold, shaking him like a dog shakes a packrat to break its neck. Two days, he thought, two whole days, and nothing to show for it. It was a complete waste. The old man muttered and cursed to himself as he drove up the mountain. It was the damned archaeologists’ fault.
Clouds that lined the rim all day began to shed hot bolts of lightning. As he neared the mountain crest, the wind roared and shrieked, and huge drops fell. Sudde
nly, it was dark, the clouds and rain blotting out the light. The rutted road ran red in the flashes of white light, and it was like driving in a waterfall of blood.
Lightning blinded him, and in the middle of a flash, he thought he saw something leap across the road. It was a gray shadow that disappeared almost before his brain could register it. He reacted instinctively, swerving to avoid it, and the truck slid into the ditch that bordered the road. The trailer canted at a crazy angle, throwing his horse against the side. The animal neighed in terror and kicked wildly, the iron shoes thundering against the floor and sides of the metal trailer almost as loud as the booms from the sky.
As he opened the door, he almost fell onto the road. His muscles had stiffened during the drive, and he was sore from the ride, his exertions, and the night spent on rocky ground. The open door’s warning bell dinged. Ignoring it, he stood in the road, shaking his big bull’s head from side to side. Water poured off his hat and clothes.
“Goddam critter!” he yelled. A coyote? Or one of those goddam wolves the asshole environmentalists dumped on the ranchers? Lightning was striking all around, raising the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.
The fear, which seemed to rise from him like a scent when he saw the gray shape, had faded. Instead, the lightning’s power filled him, and he felt it buzz along his bones and bubble in his bloodstream. He would defeat those smartass, latte-drinking, college-educated elites and steal pots from right beneath their noses. Those pots were rightfully his. This was his country.
From the crazy, light-struck darkness at the side of the road, a pair of yellow eyes watched.
Chapter 25
Excavation
As he promised, Jorgensen called Elena soon after the shooting in the canyon. He had talked to the County sheriff who confirmed what Cole and Maggie thought—the incident took place on Forest land.
“The Forest is planning to send one of their investigative agents to interview Cole and Maggie,” Jorgensen said. “If the kids’ suspicions prove correct—that it was a pot hunter who shot at them—the shooter broke laws protecting archaeological sites on Forest.”