Linda Howard - Prey

Water was easy; there was water everywhere. He just didn’t want to leave the shelter of the overhang, because he didn’t have a slicker and his coat was still damp from being in the rain last night. Finally he decided that, as he was going to get wet anyway while riding back to the camp, getting wet now wouldn’t make that much of a difference. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have dry clothes back at the camp. He was a decent person; he couldn’t let them go without water.

So one by one he led them out into the rain and found places for them to drink. There wasn’t much for them to graze on, but if they showed any interest in cropping at anything he stood hunched against the rain and let them grab at what food they could get. He got soaked to the skin all over again, of course. By the time he climbed on a rock and maneuvered himself onto the chestnut’s back, he was feeling positively virtuous.

The other three horses he left tied under their rocky shelter, hoping they’d stay where they were and not try to shake the reins loose and wander off. He needed to know exactly where the horses were, so he’d know whether or not Angie had found one of them and was riding for help. At least they weren’t on any recognizable trail, and the nightlong pounding rain had washed away any tracks they’d left. He was fairly certain Angie couldn’t find them, not without a stroke of luck that would border on the miraculous.

The chestnut didn’t like the soggy, insecure footing; he had to constantly urge it forward. He hunched his shoulders against the miserable pounding rain; wherever he ended up after he escaped from this godforsaken wilderness, he was damn certain it would be someplace where the sun shone every day, and he’d know which direction was which. If the sun had been out he would have been fairly certain of his direction, but the cloud cover was so thick he couldn’t pick out a bright spot, so he had to rely completely on his sense of direction, which was tough when none of the landmarks were familiar-if you could call rocks and trees and bushes “landmarks.” The only directions he could reliably tell were uphill and downhill, but that helped. The mountain chain ran north/south, so uphill, generally speaking, was west, and downhill was east. He wanted to go south, so that meant he kept the upward slope on his right.

Beyond that, the best he could do was try to pick out something in a visual straight line, at the edge of visibility, and ride to it. From there he’d pick out another target, and ride to it. The problem with that means of navigation was that he knew he hadn’t ridden in a straight line during his panicked flight in the dark. But should he be angling uphill, or down? Who the fuck knew? He didn’t even know how far he’d ridden last night; all he could do was estimate.

God, if only he didn’t need those keys! If it hadn’t been for that damn bear, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. He’d have hunted Angie down and finished the job, he’d have the keys, and he’d have gotten a good night’s rest. Granted, the weather today would still be crappy, but he could afford to wait out the rain, if that little detail had been taken care of.

The bear would be long gone by now, of course, but he’d love to be able to put a bullet in its ass for all the trouble it had caused him.

He actually found the campsite by accident. He came to a place where it seemed as if the mountainside had washed out, and he nudged the horse uphill to see if he could get above the mudslide that had turned into a roaring torrent that had taken some trees down with it. About seventy yards up he reached the head of the mudslide and started across, but the chestnut suddenly shied and began backing up, ignoring Chad’s command. After a minute of trying to force the horse to go forward, he said to hell with it, and instead turned the horse uphill; it was willing to go up, and eagerly picked its way over the soggy, uneven footing.

Chad ducked his head; the rain was hitting him in the face. He didn’t even have a hat with him. If he’d ever been more physically miserable in his life, he couldn’t remember when. At least he’d improved his riding skills enough in the past year that he could stay on the chestnut bareback, otherwise he’d have been walking in this shit.

Then he saw, to the left and a little farther uphill, a corner of something orange, and a burst of excitement flooded him with so much adrenaline that he felt nauseated. The camp tents were a dirty orange, he assumed for safety reasons, so no one would shoot in that direction. Looking around, he thought he recognized the terrain.

He’d almost missed it. If the horse hadn’t balked, he’d have ridden right past the camp, unable to see it in the pouring rain. Maybe the horse knew where it was and associated the camp with food.

His heart began slamming against his rib cage. Angie might be in one of those tents right now, armed and waiting to see if he came back. She’d be dry and comfortable, while he’d been stuck under an overhang with four horses, smelling their shit all night long. Maybe he’d just walk behind the tents and shoot into all of them, just to cover his bases-that would flush her out.

Except he didn’t have any ammunition other than what was in the clip, so he didn’t want to waste any. There was more ammo in his tent, of course, but until he had his hands on it he had to be careful.

Slowly he dismounted, and sank into muck that came up to his ankles. It pulled at him, resisting every step; if his boots hadn’t been so tightly laced, it might have pulled them right off his feet. No wonder the horse had been so jittery. He tied the reins to a low-hanging tree branch, even patted the horse’s neck and said a few soothing words, keeping his voice low.

Jesus. All he had was this pistol. If Angie was there, she had a high-powered rifle capable of picking him off right where he stood. She’d be limited only by the poor visibility.

Slowly he eased forward, pistol in his hand. A part of him wanted to turn around and run, but running wasn’t an option, so instead of focusing on his fear, he focused on the hunt. His plan to take care of Davis had thrilled him, in a way. Everyone always underestimated him; no one would have thought him capable of the meticulous strategy, the acting, the satisfaction that had come as he’d pulled the trigger. Hunting Angie Powell was a thrill of another sort, because she wouldn’t be caught by surprise the way Davis had been.

He wasn’t thrilled enough to show himself too soon, to take a chance that she might shoot him before he got the chance to shoot her.

At the edge of the thick wood he stopped, surveying the camp. It didn’t look like much, but it was well situated; he’d give it that. Because the tents were on low platforms, they were still dry and snug, so well anchored that the wind hadn’t taken them down. The place looked empty, though. There was no hint of movement, no smell of coffee or anything cooking, but that didn’t mean anything. Angie knew what she was doing; she wouldn’t give away her location so easily.

There wasn’t any sign of that freaky bear, either. Weren’t bears infamous for trashing camps looking for food? The tents looked undisturbed. Of course, Angie had done a big song and dance about keeping the food so far away from the camp, in a basket strung between two trees, about fifteen feet high, so maybe she’d been right about doing that.

He stood there for a long time, watching, listening, though he doubted he could hear anything over the steady drumming of the rain. Nothing moved. There was no sound other than wind and rain. Was it possible he’d been lucky enough to have hit her with that one wild shot and she was already dead? He didn’t care if she’d died from a bullet or the bear, so long as she was no longer a problem.