by Dale Cozort
Chapter Twenty-Five
Greg woke just before dawn. The predawn light revealed a transformed landscape. A creek ran through the canyon. The dry grass looked greener, though the moisture rapidly evaporated from the parched sand.
The pastor was already awake. He groaned and flexed his knee back and forth. "The tracks are gone. We guessed wrong unless there is something in your page."
Greg pulled it out and tried to read. "The rain smeared it. I can make out words, but not sentences."
"Might want to figure it out. We have visitors."
"Who?"
The pastor pointed to two figures standing on the ridge near Butcher's Hole. "Lyle and Ermaline."
Greg squinted. "You can tell from here?"
"Yep. Skinny rancher. Muscle-bound Neanderthal woman." The pastor stood up and waved. He winced. "I should have babied my knee yesterday."
Lyle and Ermaline scrambled up the trail to the overhang. Lyle said, "I wondered when you'd get around to back trailing her. Too bad the rain came before you got further."
"We found some things. Somebody shot at her from the ground and from an airplane. They also broke the wall at my waterhole."
"So it was murder," Lyle's expression didn't change, but his body tensed. "I thought so. She would have made it."
The pastor nodded. "She fought hard for her life; should have won." He handed Lyle the notebook. "There was more but animals got at it."
Lyle read the page, with Ermaline at his shoulder. "Looks like we have a job to do. I'll meet you at the farm." He stalked away, cold anger visible in every step.
Greg started to follow them, but the pastor said, "Nope. Not now. He'll need alone time. What you saw walking away was as close to the wrath of the Lord as I hope I see in this lifetime. And I hope I never get that close in the next one."