Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

The side of his neck bore a deep purple splotch where Carey had tried to decapitate him with that sneaky gook shit, and the shoulder he had landed on was bruised up pretty good.

And now that friggin’ star was blinking on and off like some kind of all-night kosher diner for Jewboys.

Well, Steve Mills might just as well wave a red flag in Hansen’s nose, he thought. There’s going to be one hell of a fight over by that star.

He grabbed a cedar limb, lifted himself up, and started working his way down the mountain.

For Neal it had all come down to a horse race.

It was flat out across the sagebrush, his black horse galloping, kicking plumes of snow behind him, cutting through the crisp air like a sleek, sharp ebony knife.

Neal bent low over his neck like he’d seen the jockeys do to cut down on the resistance, his knees high behind the horse’s shoulders, his calves gripping Midnight’s flanks.

It was desperate, terrifying, and lovely. The sounds of the hooves crashing on the snow, and the horse snorting, and his own heart pounding, all in rhythm, all in sync. And the musty horse smell in his nostrils, and the sweet sagebrush, and the snow. And the heat of the horse against the chill air, and his own sweaty skin beneath his clothes, and the damp warmth of the little body clinging to his back, and goddamn, he was alive!

He risked a glance over his shoulder and could see them coming. Bill McCurdy ahead of the rest. The best rider, the most reckless on the fastest horse, and Neal knew, just knew, that Bill was smiling. Then the three others clumped behind. Hansen on that big bay, coming fast but not too fast, steady so his horse would not get blown. And John’s little gelding chopping away with its clipped gait on its short legs, but still coming, coming. And then Craig on that tall roan that cut the cows so well and never let one get around the corner. And they were all coming on, coming on, flying. Wild men on wild horses.

Neal kicked Midnight and leaned farther over his neck. He felt the horse surge a little more, and he would need that little more, because McCurdy was gaining. Heedless of the gopher holes that could snap a horse’s foreleg in an agonizing instant, heedless of the sudden gullies that could pitch him over the horse’s head and break his own neck, heedless of the patches of icy grass that could send the horse rolling over him, crushing his legs and rib cage and bursting his lungs, the cowboy was racing up, just winging on the tops of the rabbit brush, and he was only six, now five, now four horse lengths behind.

And Neal was just trying to hold on, just trying to stay in the saddle on the plunging, surging horse, and he knew that McCurdy was cowboy enough to ride beside him, reach out one arm, and take him off the saddle as if he were a rodeo rider and the buzzer had sounded. And that’s all it would take, because the other three would be on them and Vetter’s strong arms would take Cody from him and that would be the end.

He dug his feet into the stirrups and gripped the reins and kicked again, asking for a little more, please horse, just a little more. I know you don’t have it, but find it. Please, you have to beat this other horse, because it’s all come down to a horse race now and you’re my horse. And Midnight found it somewhere and reached a little farther and pushed a little more, and Neal heard him grunt with pain as flecks of foam flew back from his mouth and Neal felt Midnight’s heart pound at a literally heartbreaking pace.

I know I’m killing you, horse. I know I’m killing you and I’m sorry, but we have this child with us, you see, and you and I don’t matter, and he felt Midnight surge again. Unbelievably to him, the horse took it up another notch, stretched it out, and they were flying. Flying like wild, sweating, heaving, gasping, living angels through the night sky.

Then Neal could see the lights in front of them, the silver lights of a star. He’d never loved an animal before and he’d never loved a child, and now he loved both and they weren’t going to make it. Not any of them, because Bill McCurdy was right behind them now. Right behind them and angling to come up alongside.

Neal kicked Midnight to see if there was anything left, but the horse was smarter. The horse simply shifted to the right and got in front of his pursuer. Billy was a hell of a horseman. Without breaking stride he leaned left and took his pony with him and then started to pull even again. Midnight pulled left on his next stride and blocked that lane too, but this game couldn’t go on forever, because the other horse was younger and faster and had by far the better rider. So when Billy jerked his horse out to the right again he came up so fast that suddenly they were riding side by side, saddle to saddle, boots almost touching, horses in stride.

Neal felt Billy’s hand grab at his sleeve and he flipped the right rein over and tried to pull his horse away, but Midnight leaned in, laying his bulk against the other horse’s shoulder and pushing him away and damn near bouncing Billy off his saddle.

It damn near lost Neal, too, but he managed to hold on with his left hand and keep riding. Then Billy was back again, right at Neal’s side, his right foot out of the stirrup and poised on the saddle. Neal saw he was getting ready to jump, for God’s sake. Jump and pull Neal and the boy off the galloping horse, and the Mills place was so close

… so close… he could see the house now, and the wire fence. Then Billy swung his left foot out of the stirrup, staying on his horse just by the reins, that crazy cowboy look in his eye and his muscles coiled to spring and-

Midnight jumped to clear the fence and Billy slid off his rump and landed hard on the barbed wire. He ripped himself out, though, when the bullets started kicking the ground up around him.

Midnight seemed to sense he had done his job and slowed to a canter as he came into the yard, where Steve Mills stood with his rifle. The horse took two more strides, then his heart finally gave out. Neal swung off the saddle a second before Midnight dropped and rolled onto his side. Neal got down on his knees and cradled the horse’s head. Midnight’s eyes rolled back, his mouth heaved streams of foam, his legs jerked.

For the first time in the whole damn ordeal, Neal started to cry. He felt Steve standing over his shoulder.

“Steve, I-”

“Your friends told me all about it. I’ll take care of your horse. You better get that boy inside.”

Neal staggered through the door into the kitchen. Karen took the pack from his shoulders and cradled Cody in her arms. The last thing Neal heard before he collapsed was a single shot from Steve’s rifle.

The boy’s a survivor, that’s the understatement of the year,” Karen Hawley said. “He needs hospitalization, a ton of vitamins, long-term psychiatric care, and his mother. 1 intend to start with the hospital. Right away.”

“What do you mean?” Neal asked. They were standing in Shelly’s bedroom, where Karen had Cody wrapped up in blankets on the floor.

“I mean I’m taking him to Austin right now and calling a helicopter to take him to the hospital in Fallon.”

“You can’t do that,” Neal answered.

Karen got her back up and stared at Neal. “You’re forgetting that I’m the child abuse officer for South Lander County, and this child has most certainly been abused. I’m taking him into my custody. Do I need to arrest you? Fine. Neal Carey, or whatever your name is, you’re under arrest.”

“I mean you can’t do that because the house is surrounded by armed men.”

It had taken three hours of intermittent sniping and return fire to get a rough idea of how many men and where they were. Four, at least, in the big hay barn, two more around the road, probably three scattered in the sagebrush around the house.