Dead or Alive

by Michael McGarrity

  He waited thirty minutes, and when the chopper didn’t return, he went and retrieved the horse from the back room, where it had dumped a load of fresh horse apples on the floor.

  Larson thought that was a hoot. As he packed food he’d raided from the pantry into his saddlebags, he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching on the dirt road. He picked up the Weatherby, stood back from the open door, and waited. Soon a pickup truck pulling a horse trailer came into view. Larson used the rifle’s scope to look into the cab. Only a driver was inside the vehicle, an older man with a droopy mustache, wearing a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat.

  Larson sighted in on the driver and followed him with the Weatherby as he drew closer. Just when the man noticed the open door to the line camp and started to turn the truck around, Larson shot him through the windshield.

  The truck careened into a tree and the horse trailer skidded over on its side and slammed into the bed of the pickup. Larson first checked the driver, who was dead with a big hole in his chest that spurted blood. He dug the man’s wallet from his hip pocket and read the name on his driver’s license. One day, Truman Goodson’s name would be added to the plaque at the St. James Hotel that listed the people killed by Craig Lee Larson, “Last of the Western Desperadoes.”

  Larson pried open the rear doors to the horse trailer. Two fine-looking cow ponies were inside, both busted up pretty bad. It was a damn shame, as either one of them would have been a far sight better than the horses he’d taken from the stables at the ranch. He put them both down, walked his gelding out of the line camp, gathered his weapons, mounted up, and rode off.

  He started counting up how many kills he had made, and decided he should have finished off the prison guard and that scumbag Lenny Hampson who’d squealed on him to the cops. Also, he should have iced that young couple with the baby. Maybe the sheriff he’d shot and crippled had died. Add up all his kills, throw in the ones he let get away, and it would have been a damn impressive list. Too bad he hadn’t thought it through before he got in the groove.

  Looking back, he should have written down their names for posterity so when the commemorative plaque went up at the St. James Hotel, nobody was left off. But since the cops would ID all the victims anyway, that wasn’t a problem. His big mistake was not thinking to leave instructions about the plaque with his brother, Kerry.

  Thinking he needed to kill more cops to add to his luster as a badass bandito, Larson headed for the base of the mesa behind the line camp, where he could easily find cover if the chopper came back.

  Following Larson’s trail under a blue sky in full sunlight proved easy enough to do. By noon, Clayton and Kerney had reached Dawson Canyon, and when they got to the melting shell of an old two-story adobe ranch house, they stopped to water and feed their horses.

  Standing over the hoofprints of Larson’s animal, Clayton scanned the low mesas that squeezed the narrow valley. “If Larson was going to skip over to the next canyon, he would have had to do it right about here.”

  “His tracks keep following the railroad spur,” Kerney said, “so I don’t think he’s trying to outfox us quite yet.” He opened one of the maps the game and fish officer had given them and studied it. “Besides, the most reliable water source in the area is right here on the Vermejo River. The map shows that the canyons on either side of us drain the runoff from the high country by occasional streams and dry creek beds.”

  Clayton nodded as he bit into a sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “How far into Dawson Canyon does the railroad spur go?”

  “About fifteen miles from where it crosses the highway, and ten miles or so from the old Dawson town site.”

  Clayton took another bite and chewed it down. “It would make sense that Larson would use the spur line as the fastest route into the tall pines. Once he’s in the dense forest, it’s going to be damn hard to find him and flush him out.”

  Kerney put the map away and swung into the saddle. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Aren’t you eating?”

  Kerney shook his head. “Grumpy gut.”

  “That’s why you look so pale. You got a fever?”

  “Mount up and let’s go.”

  Clayton pulled himself up on his horse. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  Some years back, Kerney had been gut shot by a drug dealer during a gunfight, which had forced him to be more careful than most people when it came to what he ate and drank. “I haven’t been doing a good job of minding what I eat,” he explained.

  Clayton eyed Kerney with concern. “Let me know if you need to stop or something.”

  Kerney handed the reins to the packhorses to Clayton and took the lead. “I’ll be just fine.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” Clayton called out. “You’re such a tough guy.”

  “Give it a rest,” Kerney called back as he slowed the buckskin to a walk across a muddy patch.

  Within the hour, they entered the Dawson town site and came upon the crashed pickup truck and overturned horse trailer under a canopy of trees that had blocked any view from above. The driver and the two horses he’d been hauling in the trailer were dead.

  “This guy Larson just doesn’t stop,” Clayton said, cursing as he speed-dialed Frank Vanmeter to give him the news and request assistance.

  Kerney looked at the old house, which must have surely been a residence for a mine manager or superintendent back when Dawson was truly a town. He walked over to the truck and horse trailer and studied the skid marks. “I bet Larson shot the victim from inside the house, through the open door.”

  Clayton snapped shut his cell phone. “The poor guy never saw it coming.”

  Kerney walked across the remnants of an old sidewalk, went up the dirt path, entered the house through the open front door, and gave the interior a quick once-over.

  “Are there any other victims?” Clayton asked when Kerney stepped back outside.

  “No,” he replied, “but he’s re-provisioned himself, although it’s hard to tell how much he took. I’d guess he’s got two or three days’ worth of food. What’s Vanmeter’s ETA?”

  “Thirty minutes, maximum.” Clayton put his foot in the stirrup and looked at Kerney. “We’re not going to wait for him, are we?”

  “Nope.” Kerney swung into the saddle. “Let Vanmeter know we’re pushing on.”

  “I already did.”

  Kerney shook his head in mock disbelief. “Then why in the hell did you ask me?”

  “I read somewhere that it’s important to give retired people a sense of empowerment.”

  Kerney grunted. “You know, I’m starting to think that maybe it’s the company I’ve been keeping lately that’s giving me my grumpy stomach.”

  Clayton shook off the barb and gritted his teeth before smiling. “Touché.”

  “You’re damn right, touché.” Kerney dropped the reins against the buckskin’s neck and the horse stepped out nicely, showing Clayton its rump.

  Figuring it was time to throw off whoever might be following him, Larson left the railroad spur far below where it dead-ended. The canyon had narrowed considerably and the tracks squeezed through tapered gaps where the thick pine forest dropped down to the rocky roadbed.

  He paused for a few moments to let the gelding graze on bunchgrass along the side of the spur. Then he walked it through the overgrown forest, winding his way around stands of trees too dense to penetrate and making slow progress as he moved up the side of a mountain. The tree canopy cut the bright sunlight down to a dusklike glimmer, and except for the scurrying of squirrels and an occasional birdcall, the forest was quiet.

  He reached the crest of the mountain hoping for a fix on the horizon so he could get oriented, but all he saw before him was another steep, thickly forested incline. Winded, he sat under a tree and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t lost.

  There was no way he could go back to the railroad spur. If there was a posse on his trail, that would be just plain foolish. He checked the time on Pettibone
’s Omega and looked up, trying to use the sun to get a general sense of direction, but the light was too diffused.

  He decided to follow the ridgeline for a while before climbing the next crest in hopes of finding a break in the forest that would give him a better sense of direction. The ground underfoot was a hazardous combination of moist, rocky soil covered by a thick layer of pine needles, and he’d already turned his ankles several times on some loose stones.

  Larson searched for a route between the two crests, gave up after twenty minutes, and started up the next steep incline. The woods were so thick that no matter how hard he tried to avoid low branches, his face stung with welt marks and there were scratches along the shoulders and flanks of the horse.

  He topped the next crest and grunted in disgust at the wall of tall pines on a steep slope that greeted him. The slight tinge of panic that had been growing in his gut turned to bile in his throat. He turned on his heel and did a three-sixty, hoping for a view of anything that would give him a hint of which way to turn, but found nothing.

  Larson found himself sweating and laboring for breath in the thin mountain air, his throat dry and his body aching. He could go no farther without resting. Even his jaded horse looked ready to drop. He unsaddled the animal, tied it off to a nearby tree, and stretched out, using the saddle as a pillow.

  How long had he gone without sleep? Two days? More? Killing that old cowboy at the line camp felt like it had happened days instead of hours ago. What was the cowboy’s name? Larson couldn’t remember.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and took out the cowboy’s wallet. Truman Goodson, that was his name. Before he dozed off, Larson decided he needed to make a list of all his kills before he forgot their names completely.

  Where Larson’s trail left the railroad spur, Clayton and Kerney paused, rested their animals, studied maps, and considered their next move.

  Kerney ran his finger over a map. “If Larson doesn’t get disoriented, and keeps traveling northeast, he’ll be in mountain wilderness until he reaches the paved highway that runs from Raton to the York Canyon coal mine.”

  “If he makes it through the mountains to the highway, which is iffy, I doubt he’s going to ride his horse into Raton,” Clayton replied.

  Kerney nodded in agreement.

  “And if he doesn’t make it through the mountains,” Clayton added, “chances are slim we’d ever find his body.”

  “That’s unacceptable,” Kerney said. “Let’s have Vanmeter saturate the road to the coal mine with uniforms. Constant 24/7 patrols, plus officers stationed at every mile marker along the length of the pavement.”

  Clayton nodded. “And if he changes direction?”

  Kerney pointed on the map to where the spur line ended. “If he cuts back, eventually he’ll intersect the river somewhere above the end of the railroad tracks. At that point I’d guess he’d follow the river north to the York Canyon coal mine.”

  “We won’t know what he does unless we follow him,” Clayton said, “and I suggest we don’t. At least not right away.”

  Kerney looked up from the map. “Explain yourself.”

  “Where Larson is headed, it’s all up and down, except for two major north-south drainage ravines. Unless he gets totally lost and confused, he’ll reach one or the other of them sometime tomorrow. But if we stay on the spur right-of-way, we can gain a hell of a lot of ground on him and, with an early start in the morning, cut across both ravines if necessary and pick up his trail that way.”

  Kerney folded the map. “Let’s get game and fish to put some people on horseback behind us to keep Larson from sneaking down the mountainside.”

  “We should keep some planes in the air over our sector during the daylight hours to cover any breaks in the tree cover,” Clayton said. “That should keep Larson on the move.”

  “Call Vanmeter, give him our coordinates, tell him what we want, and ask him to get the ball rolling,” Kerney said.

  Clayton hesitated before keying the handheld. “You do know with all this, we could still lose him out there.”

  Kerney shrugged. “Larson’s luck can’t hold forever. It’s time for us to catch a break.”

  The sound of an airplane overhead woke Larson. He sat up, looked skyward, and listened as the sound of the engine receded and then returned again. He told himself that it was nothing to worry about, but decided to get moving anyway while he still had enough light to see by. He saddled the horse, led it to the ridgeline, and found a game trail that wound under old growth trees to a rock outcropping. There he discovered a pool of fresh rainwater in a shallow stone basin.

  Both Larson and the horse drank from the pool. When he finished and looked up, he could see through the undergrowth a large burn area of blackened trees that extended to the top of the next summit. Above was blue sky. Staying hidden under the canopy, Larson made his way to the burn area. The shadows cast by dead trees told Larson the direction of the sun.

  He checked the time on Pettibone’s Omega. Toward dusk, when the planes stopped flying for the night, he’d cross to the next ridge line, make camp, get his bearings in the morning, and move on.

  Larson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe his luck was still holding. His good spirits returned. This might turn out to be fun again after all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Frank Vanmeter called by radio just as Clayton and Kerney finished setting up camp for the night.

  “Have you caught him yet?” Vanmeter asked.

  “You’ll be the first to know when we do,” Kerney snapped.

  “Didn’t mean to make you testy,” Frank said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “Thought you’d like to know that a rancher turned in a satchel he found near the Cimarron River when he was out checking his cattle after the storm. It came from the barn at the ranch where Larson’s brother works and contained at least a hundred thousand dollars in jewelry and cash.”

  “Has Larson pulled a robbery that we’ve somehow missed?” Kerney asked.

  “I wondered the same thing. So far the answer is negative. But that aside, if Larson was planning on using the jewelry to disappear, he’s now up a creek.”

  “And all the more dangerous because of it,” Kerney said.

  “Amen to that,” Frank said. “Everything you and Agent Istee asked for is in place. Uniforms are at every mile marker along Route 555, three game and fish officers are moving into the foothills to cover your back, and all aircraft are ready to go again at first light.”

  “I’ll talk to you then,” Kerney said.

  “Ten-four.”

  Kerney filled Clayton in as they fed and watered the horses. Then, on the off chance that Larson might be in the vicinity, they had a light dinner in the growing darkness with no campfire.

  Although his stomach still hurt and he had no appetite, Kerney hadn’t eaten all day. So he sat on a fallen log and forced himself to swallow some soup Clayton had mixed up from a packet and warmed over a small propane camp stove, and nibble on some cheese and crackers, hoping to keep it all down. When he couldn’t stand the thought of another bite, he buried the remains of his meal in a pit and covered it, so the smell wouldn’t attract any passing bears or other hungry critters.

  “You’re still not feeling good, are you?” Clayton asked as he hoisted the bag of foodstuffs up to a high tree branch and tied it off.

  “I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep,” Kerney replied as he took off his boots and slid into the sleeping bag.

  He spent the early part of the night awake, leaving the warmth of his sleeping bag once to vomit and returning to swelter in the cool air. When sleep came, he dreamed bizarre images of Craig Larson’s murder and mayhem, and woke up several times in a sweat. Finally the fever broke, and he fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

  In the morning, Clayton woke him up with a hot cup of tea. “I heard you in the night,” he said. “You look awful.”

  “I bet I do.” Kerney sat up and took the tin mug from Clay
ton’s hand. “Thanks.”

  “I put some honey in it. That should settle your stomach down some.”

  Kerney nodded and sipped his tea.

  Clayton looked Kerney over with worried eyes. “We can always pull back and have Vanmeter send in replacements.”

  “No way. I’m fit enough to continue.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yeah.” Kerney smiled. “Whatever got to me has passed.”

  “Do you mean that literally?”

  “It’s gone one way or the other.”

  “How about some dry toast and a bowl of instant oatmeal?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “I’ll get to it.” Clayton rose, went to the camp stove, and got busy with breakfast.

  As he drank more of his tea, Kerney watched Clayton, a son he never knew he had until a few short years ago. He thought he was damn lucky to have the man as his son and his friend.

  After breakfast, they broke camp and were starting out to cut Larson’s trail when Frank Vanmeter called again. This time, to tell Clayton that Paul Hewitt had died in his sleep overnight.

  Clayton stiffened in shock and gave Kerney the news, the expression on his face a mixture of agonized sadness and pure rage.

  After thanking Vanmeter, he climbed off his horse, silently handed Kerney the reins, and walked into the forest until he was out of sight. Fifteen minutes later, Clayton returned. His eyes were dry and features composed, but he had hacked off his long hair with his hunting knife. Kerney figured it was Clayton’s way of mourning the loss of Paul Hewitt. It was more eloquent than any spoken words.

  “Let’s go,” Clayton said with a hard edge to his voice. He took the reins from Kerney’s hands, got on his horse, and started up the slope of the wooded canyon wall.

  Kerney said nothing and followed him.