I had a better idea that improved the closer I got. The jumble of boulders offered a way to climb, and that’s what I did when I reached the pile, gritting my teeth at the shrieks coming from the bullet wound. I slung the machine gun out of the way and used my good arm to scramble from one big rock to another.
The natural stepping-stones took me around behind the biggest rock, where I found I could climb twenty feet to the top. Moving like a tripod dog on one hand and two knees, I crept to the middle of a relatively flat-topped boulder warmed by the sun.
He came by five minutes later and did what I expected. He poked that flashlight into every one of the little nooks and crannies, hoping to catch the reflection of my face, or a piece of equipment. The beam flashed up the canyon wall and crossed over my boulder, but I was out of sight from below. It was a quick sweep, and he whirled to make sure no one was sneaking up on him from behind, then moved on.
A chill crawled down my spine when I caught sight of a second man. He’d been searching without a light, and I realized they’d almost outsmarted me. The point man used his flashlight to run me to ground, then after he passed, the second guy, who must’ve had the senses of a bat, would come along behind, after I relaxed.
It would have worked had I not gotten above them to gain some perspective. The guy riding drag walked closer to the rim’s edge. Unlike the first, he was farther away, giving him a better angle. If the moon came back out, he’d see my silhouette.
I watched him dodge an ocotillo. The guy’s night vision was uncanny. He threaded himself through obstacles without slowing his cautious pace and I wondered how he’d missed me at the outset when the moon caught me in the open. It must have been because I’d been a statue for a while in the moonlight, or he’d been concentrating on close hiding places in the scrub instead of farther out.
I lay like a mountain lion and rested my cheek on the rock, choking down a hiss when sand and gravel ground into a gash I didn’t know about. It lit me up like a Christmas tree, screaming for attention.
With my seeping cheek on the hard surface, I became part of the rock and was just as still.
Wait for him to move on.
Wait.
Chapter 16
Mohamed Abdullah Kahn squatted in the chilly nighttime air beside a creosote bush, his Cobra ready for action, and watched the beams of light make their way across the shadowed desert landscape. Chino and Pepito had positioned themselves a hundred yards away, vanishing the moment they were still.
Javier made his presence known on the ridge above by the movement of his probing lights. Abdullah sighed. If he could see their lights, then the Ranger could see them, too.
Yipping coyotes chased their prey in the Syrian’s direction and he couldn’t help but see the similarity between running down the rabbit and the wounded Ranger. The clouds parted and the full moon washed the valley floor in cold light.
“Señor.”
The sudden voice in his ear almost made Abdullah yelp in surprise. His heart stuttered as he spun to bring the Cobra to bear, but a hand caught the weapon and stopped his response. It was Calaka.
“That kind of thing could get you killed.” He was stunned at how quietly the big man could move. It must have been the blood of his ancestor, Geronimo. It was bright enough for him to see the tribal tattoo on Calaka’s neck. “Did you see anything?”
“No. We won’t, either. If we see that light up there, then so can he.”
“You people are supposed to be able to track across concrete.”
“We will have a better chance in the daylight. He’s crawled into a hole for now.”
Abdullah turned his attention back to the hard-packed terrain bristling with cactus, mesquite, and yuccas. “You may be right.”
“Bien. We will find him tomorrow and take his ears. I would like to wear the ears of a Texas Ranger. It will bring me great power with my people.”
Abdullah started to tell him no, that Chavez had already given him instructions for the final disposal of the Ranger’s head, but he paused. No one said the head must be intact. The light in Calaka’s eyes frightened him, and it was the first time he’d felt that emotion since he was a kid.
He’d heard stories about the Indio tribe that was said to exist in the Occidental. Stories about their murderous raids through the mountains even made it into the Mexican newspapers from time to time. None of the local branches of law enforcement ever did much more than make a cursory investigation into the incidents, because they might come face-to-face with the descendants of the fiercest fighters in American history, Mescalero Apaches.
“Find him, and you can have his ears.”
Chapter 17
I stayed on top of that boulder for what I figured to be a full hour before deciding they’d moved on. It was the guy with bat radar that scared me the most. The clouds parted for the final time that night, giving me a great view from my boulder. I rested my chin on a fist and scanned the tapering rim, watching the first guy’s light fade into the distance.
By that time the sky had completely cleared, and the moon hung bright as a silver peso, setting to the west. That reminded me to check my badge, and I twisted to feel my chest. Good lord I hurt, and laying still for an hour hadn’t helped. I was surprised to find the cinco peso Ranger badge was still on my shirt, and that made me feel better, because it had been the Old Man’s when he was Rangering.
I finally had time to work my hand around to feel the hole. The entrance wound had stopped bleeding. It felt as if the bullet dug a channel across my ribs. The exit wound had me more worried than anything else. At least I hoped there was an exit wound. Yep, there it was, a hole slightly bigger than the other. The edges felt hot, and proud.
Satisfied that I wasn’t going to die right then and there, I wriggled my way to the ground and waited in the shadows, listening. Still hearing nothing, I adjusted the machine pistol across my chest and headed east, exactly opposite of where I wanted to go.
Northwest of my position was the national park’s headquarters and the well-traveled roads used by tourists. March and April are the busiest times of the year in Big Bend, because of the mild weather. If I could cut a road, someone was sure to come along to give me a ride back to civilization and help.
Knowing cell phone service is spotty at best in the region. I figured I was far enough away from the bad guys I could risk trying to text somebody. I reached into my back pocket to power it up and slapped nothing but material. It took a minute to realize I hadn’t lost it, but had pitched the infernal device onto the truck seat when I got pissed at the lack of service.
Well, that figured. My temper once again got the best of me.
I headed back where I came with the intention of making as much time as I could in the cool night air.
Chapter 18
Javier and Pepito drew close as the descending slope opened to the canyon floor.
“The gringo vanished like a ghost.” Javier shivered in the cold air. “I’m not sure if he isn’t a spirit.”
Pepito shrugged. “Turn out that light. You don’t need it. This man isn’t a ghost, he’s lucky, and pretty good. We’ve run down better men than this, though.”
“He was hombre enough to kill Yooko.” Javier’s voice was full of sadness. “He was a good cousin. We had fun when we were kids.”
“Now his spirit is waiting for you. As sloppy as you are, it won’t be much longer, and then the two of you can make jokes again with our ancestors.” Pepito angled his head toward the stars. “Grandfather will probably beat them out of you with a stick, though. He’d prefer to live in the spirit world in peace, not listening to you two little perritos yapping under his feet.”
It was a long speech for the typically silent Pepito, and the Lost Apaches exchanged grins, remembering their youth in the southwestern borderlands of the Sierra Madres, in Mexico. It was where their ancestor, Geronimo, hid his last band of fighters before turning himself in to General Nelson A. Miles in 1886.
Represented b
y the second of the four long, curved lines in their tattoos, the mountain range was where they’d lived as their ancestors had, preying on the poor Mexican farmers.
It was when the Lost Apaches found an easier and more exciting life with the cartel gang, the Coyotes Rabiosos, back in the 1980s that their own lives improved with good food, better places to live, and women. Doing the cartel’s work was nothing new, other than being even bloodier and brutal. Beheadings, mass executions, public hangings, and torture all became a way of life, putting money in their pockets.
They didn’t always see things as the gangs saw them, though. Despite their background, the Lost Apaches had a rudimentary sense of right and wrong, as they saw it. More than once they’d disagreed with the gang members and backed away. Anyone else would have been executed for violating the cartel’s own code, but the boss, Chatto, was loyal to his tribe and allowed them more leniency than his other soldiers.
“This gringo is a challenge all right.” Using the moonlight, Pepito led the way. It was he who searched for the Ranger without a light. He’d told Javier to take the lead, and he hoped the Ranger would think himself safe and crawl from his hole.
The land flattened, and a figure rose from the scrub.
The Syrian stepped forward. “Nothing?”
“No. We will wait until morning and retrace our steps. He is probably in a hole, finally dead from your bullet that knocked him over the rim.”
Pepito playfully shoved Javier’s shoulder. “You may be right. Chino here thinks he’s a ghost.”
“Let the ghost wander. All I want are the ears from his body.” Calaka waited for a response.
His brothers paused, then laughed.
It would be a great joke on the Ranger to enter his reward without ears. Then he wouldn’t be able to hear his god’s message.
Chapter 19
I made good time following a winding game trail before the clouds closed in again. I wasn’t exactly running, that’s for sure, but for a guy who’d been through as much as I had that night, I was pretty proud of myself.
On the other hand, I was also kicking my own ass for getting into that situation in the first place. It was a rookie mistake, being suckered into the ambush while at the same time not letting anyone know where I was. One more impulsive action that nearly got me killed went into the minus column, and it seemed like that one was getting longer every day.
I was miles from the original murder site, in country full of narrow arroyos with steep, rocky slopes. Even when they finally missed me back home and came looking, they’d be so far off it’d take at least a day to find the truck and trailer. That’s where they’d start the search, and if one of those little rain showers came by and washed Red’s tracks away, it might be days.
Big Bend National Park is a dangerous place if you’re not careful, and sometimes even when you are. Dozens of hikers get lost every year, though they find them most of the time. That comes from preparation. Hikers and backpackers are encouraged to check in with the ranger station, then leave a note in their car with the date, where they’re going, and when they’ll be back.
In my case, no one had the slightest idea where to look, and instead of staying put and waiting for a plane or helicopter to fly over, I was afraid I’d have to keep on the move. Those bad guys were doing their best to kill me, and if they failed, the desert would do it for ’em.
I figured I’d put plenty of distance between us, but the sky clouded up again, and I brushed a prickly pear. The long needles buried deep, pinning the jeans to my calf. It sure stopped me in a hurry and I backed up, hissing from the pain.
The biggest spines were the easiest to pull out, but each one felt like I was yanking a fishhook out of my skin. The problem came after those were out. Dozens, if not hundreds of hair-like needles broke off in the material and every movement was sheer torture.
I couldn’t stand there all night picking needles out of my hide. Cold, miserable, and hurting, I started off again but my speed was cut in half. After what seemed like a couple of hours, an incredible thirst took hold of me and I needed water right then. I’d been hearing a sloshing sound coming from the dead man’s backpack, so I swung it off my shoulders and used the flashlight to see inside. There were a number of items in there, but one I wanted most was a plastic gallon jug that once held milk.
I unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. It reminded me of muddy water on a warm summer day. Glad that I couldn’t see in the darkness, I tilted the jug up and took a sip. My mouth was dry as toast, and I hadn’t realized how dehydrated I’d become. I drew down several long swallows that left that same muddy taste in my mouth, but I didn’t care. It was wet.
Using the flashlight hooded in my fist, I separated two fingers to release a flat beam of light. I’m sure it was as bright as aircraft landing lights in that inky darkness, but it was necessary to avoid even more cactus, so I planted one foot in front of the other and kept going.
An hour or two passed and it was still pretty dark when the ground below my feet gave way. I threw myself backward and landed hard on my wounded side, biting off a scream of pain. The inside of my head went as gray as the clouds until I swirled into unconsciousness.
An ocotillo cactus stretched its waving arms toward the gray dawn when I came back to the world. I rolled onto my good side, grunting and whimpering as I regained my knees, then my feet. Blood had seeped into the dry ground, and I wondered how deep it went.
Swaying, I looked over a steep drop-off into a deep arroyo. Cold sweat popped out on my face at the thought of how close I’d come to falling again. It was the deep, rocky gulch that gave me an idea. I figured I’d been leaving a pretty good set of tracks. Now that it was getting brighter, it was possible to use the terrain to my advantage. Panting like a hound dog, I waited a good fifteen minutes to get enough light, then skirted the edge of the sheer thirty-foot drop into the canyon, looking for a way down.
The wide arroyo below was hard-pack, full of jagged rocks, both living and dead mesquite, and still more cactus. I followed the edge and pretty soon came to a cut that led downward where water had collapsed the bank, providing a natural path angling downward to end in a cone of rock and dirt.
More than once a big rock shifted underfoot, almost throwing me. My heart swelled up in my throat every time that happened. The last was the worst. I twisted to keep my balance and hollered when the bullet wound tore again.
Halfway down, one of the rocks broke loose and I had to jump to another. I was shaking by the time I reached the bottom and had to lean against the eroded wall to catch my breath and get another drink. In the filtered daylight, the water was cloudy through the plastic jug, but I didn’t care. This time it tasted as sweet as well water.
I really wanted to find out what else was in the pack, but at that moment, I was in a precarious position. I needed to get away from the rim where the bad guys might get a clear shot at me, if they trailed me that far.
Rocky walls on either side kept the world narrow, topped by a heavy gray sky above. The fine sand underfoot was boggy, and my leather-soled boots slipped, leaving deep gashes in the silt. I felt as alone as I’ve ever felt in my life. I was lost, shot, and hunted by people determined to kill me, and I had no idea why, not that it mattered.
I slipped and skidded out of the low place and onto the hardpan, where I started making good time on the gravel bed. Mesquite trees had taken root, and pretty soon I felt like I was walking in a park. At times I couldn’t see the rim, and then I’d break out into an opening before the gravel bed led me deeper into an even thicker stand of mesquites that had broken off more than once in long-ago floods.
An insect buzzed past my head and a second later there came an ugly whap of a bullet that splintered a green mesquite trunk in front of me. I dodged around a thick bush at the same time the shot echoed down the canyon, followed by a lightning-fast strip of automatic rounds that shredded the leaves around me.
Instinct kicked in, and I took off like a jackrabbit to get as m
uch space between us as I could. There was no thought of shooting back. That first one was a rifle, and I knew in an instant it was the same guy who’d shot me off the other canyon rim, and the same one who’d killed my friends.
Chapter 20
Herman Hawke hung his elbow out of the open window on Sheriff Ethan Armstrong’s county-issued Dodge Durango SUV. “Thanks for picking me up. I’d have been blowed up without you.”
Sheriff Armstrong didn’t much like the vehicle purchased with taxpayer dollars, preferring his personal Silverado pickup, but he appreciated the steel lockbox in the rear that protected his gear and firearms. “You bet. We’ll get out there as soon as we can.”
“Say they can’t get helicopters up?”
“That’s what I heard. These clouds and the storms coming up from the south have everything grounded.”
The retired Texas Ranger nodded as Ethan drove them out of the flat Chihuahua Desert to climb the rocky bluffs leading to Ballard. He’d picked the old Ranger up and was taking him to Big Bend to be there when his son was found. Behind them, a low ancient ridge of eroded mountains broke up the horizon. Far to the south, and out of sight, was Mexico.
The two-lane ribbon of concrete stretched toward the mountains. Thick gray clouds cast the country in the monochromatic light of early morning.
Ethan took his eyes off the empty highway. “Sonny didn’t talk to you before he left?”
“Nope.” Herman adjusted a new Colt semi-automatic on his hip to get more comfortable. He’d taken to wearing the rig again after the Ballard Incident. “Last I heard he was headed back into the park, but he didn’t say much more. That killin’ is worryin’ him to death.”
“You know him and Kelly were supposed to be on that hike, don’t you?”
Hawke's War Page 8