“That’s better.”
“Mmmmf.”
Chapter 55
At the mouth of Sycamore Canyon, just yards from the Parson’s Spring trailhead, Carrie Olsen buttered a slice of bread for an evening snack and wondered if it was too late to get out of her planned hike with Carl. The recent Wisconsin transplant stared off toward the darkening canyon, torn between the thrill she got from exploring the exotic Southwest desert, and the dark expectation that, somewhere along the trail, she was going to have to poke her backpacking companion in the groin with a sharp object.
Adding to her discomfort was the weird incident on the road leading to the trailhead. She and her companion had come across what looked like an escapee from a horror movie. If she’d been driving, she would have turned around and gone home, but she’d surrendered driving duties to her companion for the trip up from Phoenix to the secluded canyon, and he’d simply accelerated past the bizarre spectacle.
The little Subaru rocked behind her, jarring the tailgate that served as her seat. Caught off-guard, Carrie lost her grip on her butter knife, which skittered off into the dirt. She retained her slice of bread only by clutching it to her t-shirt sticky-side in. Sighing, Carrie peeled her snack away from her clothing, briefly considered—and rejected—eating it anyway, and turned to face the source of the disturbance.
That source sat grinning and scratching his head in the open back of the car. His lower half was encased in a sleeping bag, which rested next to Carrie’s own empty bag. His upper half was encased in nothing, which helped to explain why Carrie’s sleeping bag was empty, and why she nursed doubts about their planned hike into Sycamore Canyon.
“Oh. I thought you were asleep, Carl.”
Carl ostentatiously stretched himself, flexing impressively toned muscles rippling under a rich, mocha complexion. He smiled contentedly—and then broke out in a grin when he spotted Carrie’s soiled shirt.
“Mmmm. Hot-buttered midwestern girl. My favorite.”
Carrie blushed a deep red and broke eye contact.
“Cool your jets, Carl.”
“Hey, did I do that? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was making such a commotion. Here, let me help.” He leaned forward, exposing even more muscles and skin to view.
“No!” she yelled. Then, more calmly, “That’s all right. I have it.”
Carl grinned again.
“I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“Yeah. Hey, if you’re not going to sleep yet, why don’t you put some clothes on and help me— Wait! Let me give you some privacy first.”
Carrie hopped from the tailgate and strolled away, eyes carefully turned away from Carl’s unclad body and hands outstretched for something that could cleanse her buttered shirt and hands. She debated pressing the local vegetation into dishrag service, and then settled for scrubbing her hands in the dirt and wiping down her shirt with a handful of the same. It might not clean anything, but at least her hands didn’t feel so sticky.
On this weekday evening, the dead end of the road that served as a trailhead parking area was empty except for Carrie’s vehicle. Carl had no regular work schedule, and she’d traded precious vacation days for privacy on the trail. So there was nothing but the fading light to obstruct her view when a suspiciously familiar figure rounded a bend in the road.
“Carl!”
“Hang on a sec, Miss Buttery Goodness.”
“Carl, this is important.”
He came up beside her, tucking a much-laundered safari-style shirt into his shorts.
“What’s up?”
“That guy—”
“Oh shit! Did he walk all this way? I don’t see how he did it.”
They watched together as the horror-movie escapee from earlier in the day stumbled into view, closing the distance in slow motion, shambling through the growing dark. The club he’d been waving on the road was missing, seemingly traded for a branch tucked under one arm as a crutch.
“Why don’t you get back to the car?” Carl suggested.
Carrie retreated a few feet, but only to grab a trekking pole that rested against the vehicle, exiled along with the rest of their gear to make room in the back to sleep. She returned to Carl’s side brandishing the pole, its sharp metal tip pointed vaguely toward the approaching figure.
“Hey, buddy. Can we help you?”
The scary man—which is how Carrie now considered him—stopped in front of them. He was filthy and soaked with sweat. She could smell him from ten feet away.
“You’re the people who passed me on the road.”
“Yeah …,” Carrie said. “We didn’t know you needed any help.”
“I was bleeding and yelling for you to stop.”
“You looked like a maniac,” Carl offered. “You still do.”
“Bastards.”
Carrie bristled and raised the trekking pole.
“I’m sorry—”
“I’m an officer of the law, goddamnit! You do not ignore an officer of the law!”
Carrie peered closely, looking past the blood, dust and assorted bumps and bruises.
“Is that a ranger uniform?”
Carl chimed in.
“Is that your ranger uniform?”
The scary man waved his crutch, quickly becoming even scarier.
“Whose uniform do you think it is?”
With his free hand, he slapped at the insignia on his shirt.
“I’m with the Park Service.”
Carrie squinted.
“That says ‘Forest Service.’”
“Shut up!”
There was silence for a moment. Carrie lowered the tip of the pole to the ground and stared at the scary man, trying to avoid eye contact. All his weight came down on the left foot, like a resting crane, with the right one barely in contact with the ground. She wished, desperately, that she were back at her desk just daydreaming about going hiking.
“You two plan on backpacking the canyon?”
Next to her, Carl cleared his throat.
“Yeah.”
“Where is your permit?”
“Permit? There’s no permit for—”
The scary man—scary ranger, now—screamed.
“Where’s your fucking permit?”
“We don’t have one.”
“I could arrest you right now!”
“I don’t really think—”
The scary ranger awkwardly swapped his makeshift crutch to his left hand and dropped his right to his waist, where it rested on the butt of a pistol.
Carl stopped speaking.
“Maybe we should just go,” Carrie said. “We could hike some other time.”
“Good idea,” the scary ranger said. He staggered toward the trailhead. From his pocket, he withdrew a folded piece of paper, which he quickly tacked to the trailhead sign with two pushpins pulled from the same pocket. Barely legible in the gathering dark, it hung limply in place, proclaiming “Trail Closed” in large block letters.
“Is anybody else hiking in the canyon?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. Good.” He pointed to the piece of paper. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, is to go hiking here without a permit. Do you understand me?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Good.”
The scary ranger gave them a last look, and then stepped out on the dark trail. Immediately, he lost his footing and went tumbling downhill. They heard him curse, and then right himself out of view.
“I’m all right!”
Then the sounds of laborious walking resumed.
Carrie and Carl stood in place for a long moment, looking in the direction the scary ranger had disappeared.
“Want to catch a movie?” Carl finally asked. “I think there’s a theater in Cottonwood.”
“Yeah, sure,” Carrie answered. She barely noticed Carl’s hand resting on her ass.
Chapter 56
Scott lay along the edge of the ledge, chin resting on his hands, peering off into
space.
“There is some wacky shit going on down there.”
Behind him, Rollo sat back against the rocks enjoying the cool evening breeze. His hat brim was tilted down over his eyes.
“How can you see anything?”
“I can’t. They’re staying out of view and it’s getting too dark anyway. But I’m catching snatches of conversation.”
“What are they saying?”
“I’m not really sure, but it sounds like they’re not getting along very well.”
Rollo grunted.
The younger man slid back from the edge and sat up.
“Hey, buddy. I have a question for you.”
Rollo lifted his hand to push the hat out of his eyes.
“Uh oh. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Thing is, you’ve been living out here on your own for a lot of years, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“And that means you’ve honed your survival skills. You can build shelters, make fires and hunt and gather with the best of ‘em, am I right?”
“I guess so. Where are you going with this?”
“What I want to know is … If you’re a modern fucking Daniel Boone, how come you’re such a lousy shot?”
Rollo shuffled his feet and grumbled.
“I’m not so bad.”
“You’re terrible. You should have at least hit somebody by accident.”
Rollo slumped in place.
“Hey. Another question.” Scott raised his hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“It’s getting dark—”
“It’s not that dark. How many fingers?”
Rollo tilted his head forward and squinted.
“Four. Four, damn it!”
Scott laughed out loud.
“I thought so. You can’t see a damned thing, can you?”
Rollo sighed. He wiped both hands over his face, drawing the flesh downwards and smoothing the whiskers on his chin.
Scott scratched at the scruffy new growth lining his own jawbone.
“C’mon. You can’t see for shit.”
“All right. I can’t see very well.”
“And you weren’t going to admit this because …”
“I hate wearing glasses. They look goofy.”
Scott let that hang in the air for a long moment.
“How old are you?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake. All right, I need glasses.”
“That raises another question—”
“Full of fucking curiosity, aren’t you?”
“Only when my life is in the hands of my trusty blind scout.”
“Fuck you.”
“Anyway.” Scott shifted sideways to ease the threat posed by a sharp rock to his posterior. It now nestled in less dangerous position, pressed into his right thigh. “If you can’t see, how do you hunt?”
Rollo removed his hat from his head with his right hand and punched the crown with his left fist. Now more crumpled, it went back on top of his head.
“Well … I’m sneaky.”
“How’s that?”
“As my eyes have gone south on me, I’ve had to get closer and closer to my dinner-in-waiting to take a shot. I’m pretty good at sneaking up on deer, elk and whatnot.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
Scott sat silently for several moments staring into space. Then he smiled.
“You think armed, naked pyromaniacs might count as ‘whatnot’?”
“You mean khaki-shirted—” Rollo stopped speaking as his eyes went wide. He snatched his hat back off his head and slapped it into the ground.
“Crap!”
*
Three, maybe four hours later—neither man had a watch—Scott and Rollo carefully retraced their way down the cliff to the canyon floor below. Dim moonlight gave just enough illumination to make the hazards of the trip apparent, without revealing enough of those hazards to ease the way. Rollo led, slowly, working with gravity to drop from handhold to foothold without sending rocks—or human bodies—plummeting down the cliff to alert the enemy below. More agile, but less accustomed to stalking in the dark, Scott followed in the path of the older man. He assumed that any projection that could handle the larger man’s weight would hold his as well.
Muscles strained to ease weight from one hold before applying it to the next. The trick wasn’t just to climb down safely, but to do so silently—or with as little noise as possible. Sweat broke out on their foreheads and under their shirts, then dried rapidly in the cool night breeze.
Strained nerves stretched the climb into what seemed like hours, but was only ten or fifteen minutes. With their packs left on the ledge above, they wriggled, slid and fell all the way to the ground with a minimum of noise, fuss and blood loss.
Still in the lead, Rollo stepped cautiously along the canyon floor. He felt with his feet for loose stones before taking each step. By this time, Scott could see little more than the silhouette of his friend, making it difficult to follow his lead. He listened closely to whispered instructions, and then did his best to ape the hermit.
Progress was slow as they inched forward, dodging brush, side-stepping stones and generally sneaking their way up-canyon.
The men froze and ducked as something passed closely overhead.
“Owl,” Rollo hissed. “Probably.”
Minutes later, Scott stubbed his toe and a stone rolled away like it was shot from a cannon. It sent up a clatter that seemed destined to bring the firebugs down on their heads.
Rollo froze ahead on the trail, and the younger man stifled an apology. Instead, he shrugged, not knowing if his companion could even see the gesture.
Gently placed feet ate up ground quickly, and soon they were in territory that they knew had been occupied just hours before. Rollo held up his hand and waved it to slow the younger man. He stepped even more slowly than before. As he had so many times this night, he eased his foot forward and …
Coming up behind, Scott saw the older man lose his balance. His arms wagged frantically as he pitched backwards, only to be caught by his younger friend just before he crashed to the ground.
“Rena?” said a voice softly in the dark. “Oh no. Not again. Please, not again. C’mon, please let me sleep.”
Scott pushed Rollo upright and then lunged forward. He bent and slapped his hand over a dimly seen mouth.
“No. I’m not Rena,” he whispered. He dropped his left knee—hard—on the stranger’s ribs. “But I do have a few questions for you.”
Rollo dropped into place next to him, clamping his hands like vises on the stranger’s arms.
“Damn.” He sniffed the air, and then leaned closer to the captive. “Do I smell pussy?”
Chapter 57
Lani slept fitfully, tossing and turning through the night in her sleeping bag tucked amongst the brush on the canyon floor. Moonlight cast an eerie glow over the landscape creating what would have been a beautiful scene, except that it was populated just out of sight by phantom maniacs supplied by her own imagination. Every whisper of wind or rattle of a pebble dislodged by night-traveling creatures became a sneaking marauder.
She’d hiked late the previous day, stopping only as the light faded. A cold meal of powdered hummus, rehydrated and rolled in a slightly stale tortilla, served as her dinner, unwilling as she was to light her stove or make a fire that might serve as a beacon to human predators, however far behind they might be. Washed down with warm water, the tortilla and hummus made for a passable meal, spiced by hunger and anxiety.
Champ seemed equally nervous as he dined on bits of salami mixed with his dry kibble. Between mouthfuls he leaned against Lani and whimpered.
A burst of gunfire up the canyon eroded the last of the woman’s calm. The sound echoed and faded, offering no hint as to its resolution. She sat on her sleeping mat resting her head on her knees and fearing the worst. With night falling—and Champ pawing sympathetically at her hair—she’d made her camp in
as concealed a spot as possible. She drew on years of outdoor experience to choose a small clearing hidden from easy view. A taste for unauthorized backpacking trips in national parks had taught her the basics of concealment. Rocks and shrubs up-canyon from the clearing broke up the ground so as to discourage hikers from tramping through the refuge—or so Lani hoped.
And so she’d made a restless night of it, worrying about Scott, about the gunshots, even—who’d have thought?—about Rollo.
Picking up on her mood, Champ stood guard. He sat upright at the edge of the clearing, staring up-canyon. From time to time he growled softly at unseen menaces and shifted his weight from paw to paw. Lani slept little, but every time she checked, the dog was awake and on-duty.
Morning came as it usually did in canyons, peeking tentatively over the rocky walls and easing itself noncommittally toward the ground below.
Lani had her sleeping bag rolled and stowed with the first splash of sunlight.
“We’ve been through a lot, Champ, but this is a new one. Maybe we should have a chat with Scott about toning down the amount of adventure in our lives. I could use a little boredom.”
Champ whoofed softly. Lani took that as disagreement. She’d often suspected that Champ was a bit of an adrenaline junky.
Staring up-canyon, Lani couldn’t help but wonder about the outcome of the previous night’s shooting. True, plenty of ammunition had been expended to little effect so far, and the pursuers seemed more of a danger to themselves than to her and her friends, but there was no ignoring the fact that she was the one who was running. The firebugs might not be the most competent bad guys in the world, but they were tough enough to keep Scott, Rollo and herself on the defensive.
“I’m not sure we’re as tough as Scott and Rollo think we are,” Lani told Champ.
Champ whoofed again. He definitely disagreed.
“You’re pretty confident, buddy.”
With the sun rising and the situation up the canyon uncertain, it was time to get going. Lani shouldered her pack with difficulty. The weight of the gun on her hipbelt threw her off and she thrashed around before getting the shoulder straps settled and everything snapped and tucked where it belonged. Annoyed though she was by the unaccustomed bulk, the gun was reassuring.
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