C. Box - Nowhere to Run

“Yup,” Joe said. “I wanted to let you know we’re planning to take horses into the mountains this afternoon to go after those brothers.”

“I figured you’d come back,” Baird said. “How far are you from the trailhead now?”

Joe looked at the dashboard clock. “Twenty minutes.”

Baird said, “Can you divert for now and take the road straight up into the mountains? I’m up here now on the eastern side of the mountains about an hour and a half from you. I may need some help.”

Joe frowned. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not real sure,” Baird said, his voice low. “I got a call earlier today from a citizen about some vehicles sitting empty way up on the side of the mountain. A couple of pickups and a big stock trailer with out-of-state plates. That struck me as unusual since it’s a little early for hunting season, as you know. I had a meeting in Saratoga this morning so I thought I’d check them out on the way back. Looks like I’m not the only one.”

“Meaning what?” Joe asked.

“I’m parked up on a pullout where I can see into the trees below me where the vehicles and horse trailer are located. But as I started looking over the campsite, I saw two men dressed exactly alike in the same clothes come down out of the trees on the other side of the mountain and walk toward the camp.”

Joe felt the hair rise on his forearms and on the back of his neck. He reached down while he drove and turned up the volume on the radio so Nate could hear clearly.

“What’s their description?” Joe asked.

“Taller than hell, skinnier than poles,” Baird said. “Red flannel shirts with big checks on them. Dirty denims. Goofy-assed hats. Kind of zombie Elmer Fudds.”

“It’s them,” Joe said. “The brothers. I wonder why they’re on the wrong side of the mountain?”

“Beats me,” Baird said. “The last I saw ’em, they was crossing a little meadow up above headed toward the camp with the vehicles in it. They’re out of view in the trees, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve reached those trucks by now. Maybe they plan to take the trucks and hightail it out of here once and for all. That would be okay with me,” the sheriff said with a chuckle.

“One thing, though,” he said. “I see a pickup truck down there I recognize that doesn’t belong here. It belongs to Dave Farkus. You know him, don’t you?”

Joe said, “Yup. He’s on my watch list for poaching.”

“Good place for him,” Baird said. “Anyway, his county supervisor called our office yesterday and said he was AWOL. They haven’t filed a report or anything, but I said I’d keep a lookout for him. I have no idea why he’d be over here on this side of the mountain with some out-of-staters, but that sure looks like his wheels.”

“The brothers,” Joe said. “Do you still see them?”

“Naw. Once they went down into the trees, I lost ’em.”

Joe said, “Maybe you ought to pull back.”

“I don’t think they saw me.”

Joe and Nate exchanged a quick look. “Don’t be too sure of that,” Joe said. “Those boys don’t miss much, I don’t think. In fact, you may want to back on out of there.”

“I don’t back off,” Baird said, his voice hard.

“Where are your men?”

Baird sighed. “The timing of this couldn’t be worse. Two of my deputies are in Douglas taking classes at the Law Enforcement Academy-one of ’em is in Rawlins for court today, and the other is on vacation,” Baird said. “It’s just me and I could use some help. I tried to raise a state trooper or two earlier, but they were too far away to respond.”

“They’re probably fetching Rulon’s dinner,” Nate grumbled. “Maybe giving him a nice foot massage.”

“What was that?” Baird asked Joe.

“Nothing important,” Joe said, glaring at his friend.

“Sheriff, can you see the license plates on the pickup and horse trailer at all?”

“Not real well,” Baird said. “I can barely make one of them out through the trees. I can’t see the numbers clearly, though.”

Joe asked, “Is the plate blue?”

“Yes.”

“I’d bet you a dollar it’s a Michigan plate.”

“That sounds right.”

“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” Joe said.

“Who is we?” Baird asked.

“Yeah, who is we ?” Nate asked as well.

“Keep in radio contact,” Joe told Baird. “And back out of there if you see those guys again. Seriously. You don’t want to take them on without help.”

Joe was under no illusion the sheriff would believe him and re treat.

A half hour later, Joe’s radio crackled to life.

“Joe, you there?” Baird asked. Joe noted the urgency of Baird’s tone and his complete absence of radio protocol.

“Yes, sheriff, what is it?” He felt icy fingers pull back on his scalp.

“Jesus!” Baird said, and the transmission went to static.

Joe’s pickup was in a steady climb into the mountains, struggling with the weight of the horse trailer full of horses behind it. When the animals shifted their weight around, Joe could feel the trailer shift and pull back at his truck. His motor was strained and the tachometer edged into the red. He floored it. While he did so, he tried to raise the dispatcher who’d originally connected them.

When she came on she was weeping. “Did you hear the sheriff?” she asked. “I think those bastards got him.”

“I heard,” Joe said. “But let’s not speculate on what we don’t know. Time to sit up and be a professional. Are you dispatching EMTs? Anybody?”

The dispatcher sniffed. “Everybody,” she said. “But you’re the closest to him by far. I hope you can help him. I hope they didn’t. ”

“Yes,” Joe said. “Hey-you don’t need to talk about him that way yet. He may be okay.”

“Okay,” she said, to placate Joe.

A few minutes later, Nate said, “Wonder what’ll be left of him.”

The lack of wind was rare and remarkable, Joe thought, and the single thin plume of black smoke miles away deep in the timber rose straight up as if on a line until it finally dissipated at around 15,000 feet.

Joe and Nate had just summited the mountains, and the eastern slope was laid out before them in a sea of green between the ranges. The vista was stunning: a massive, undulating carpet veined with tendrils of gold and red. The thread of black smoke seemed to tenuously connect the mountains with the sky.

“It’s like whoever set the fire said, Look at me ,” Nate said as they plunged down the other side of the mountain in the pickup. “I’m wondering if they wish they hadn’t set a fire now. Or if they’re trying to draw us in.”

“Black smoke like that isn’t from a forest fire,” Joe said.

“Nope.”

“Smoke that black usually means rubber is burning,” Joe said.

“Do you know how to get there?” Nate asked.

Joe nodded. “There are quite a few old logging roads ahead. I’ve been on a few of them. It’s been so dry, though, we should be able to find Baird’s tire tracks and follow him in.”

Nate surveyed the vista in front of him as Joe eased forward. “Rough country,” he said.

“In every way,” Joe said.

There was only one open road that went to the southeast toward the smoke, and there were fresh tire tracks imprinted over a coating of dust. Joe made the turn and drove down the two-track as swiftly as he could over the washboarded surface without shaking the pickup apart. Nate hung out the passenger window like a Labrador, Joe thought, with his hand clamped on his hat.

“This looks like the right road,” Nate said, pulling himself back in. “We need to be ready.”

Joe nodded. Afternoon sun fanned through the lodgepole pines as he shot along the dirt road. In his peripheral vision, he saw Nate dig his weapon and holster out from under the bench seat and strap it back on.