High Desert Barbecue (26 page)

A
nd so she’d made a restless night of it, worrying about Scott, about the gunshots, even—who’d have thought?—about Rollo.

P
icking 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.

M
orning came as it usually did in canyons, peeking tentatively over the rocky walls and easing itself noncommittally toward the ground below.

L
ani 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.”

C
hamp whoofed softly. Lani took that as disagreement. She’d often suspected that Champ was a bit of an adrenaline junky.

S
taring 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.

C
hamp whoofed again. He definitely disagreed.

“
You’re pretty confident, buddy.”

W
ith 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.

C
hamp lapped enthusiastically from a stagnant pool of water left nestled in the rocks. He snorted with approval and started down the canyon. Lani sipped from her water tube. Her water supply was low, but she expected to hit Parsons Spring soon and so avoid the need to follow the dog’s example.

T
he sun rose slowly in the sky—or so it seemed as the duo made good time. Lani felt a little safer as she put distance between herself and the pursuing firebugs. Then she felt guilty about her relief as she remembered that Scott and Rollo were back along the trail protecting her retreat.

E
ven though she had descended in altitude into warmer country, she felt the brush of a slightly cool breeze across her cheek. At the same time, the rocky ground gave way to marsh grass.

“
Parson Spring, Champ. Drink your fill.”

T
he dog did just that, pausing to belch wetly as Lani filled her water bladder.

“
Thanks, buddy,” she said as she returned the bladder to her pack. “Try aiming the other way next time.”

N
ow she followed an actual trail, marked by cairns, along the creek that trickled away from the spring. She could almost feel a shower at the end of the trail. Yeah, a shower, followed by a cold drink to wash down a decent meal. There had to be somebody along the trail or at the trailhead. Even if there wasn’t anybody there, there were a few isolated houses and maybe campers along the road leading to Clarkdale. She’d get help soon enough.

L
ost in her thoughts as she was, Lani didn’t hear the man approaching through the brush. She just sensed Champ stiffening next to her. And then the dog growled.

S
urprised, she looked up to see … Christ! Who in Hell is that?

A
head was a ragged cripple in a torn and filthy ranger uniform, hobbling along with a branch tucked in place as a crutch.

I
f Yellowstone is still staffed after World War III, Lani thought, that’s who’ll be working the visitors center.

A
nd then the man reached for his gun.

Chapter 58

T
im awoke by the bank of Sycamore Creek to a chorus of aches and pains. The worst irritation emanated from his mangled fingertip, which glowed an angry red in the early morning light. He inserted the finger into his mouth, alternately sucking and chewing it to relieve a bit of the pain.

B
ut the throbbing resumed immediately once he removed the digit from his mouth.

“
Oh fuck,” he groaned.

S
tiff from pain and from a night spent on the ground, the battered ranger slowly crawled from his sleeping bag and popped his head out of the cramped, one-person tent. He took in a deep breath of air that didn’t smell like … well … badly aged
Tim
.

E
verything else might have gone wrong, he told himself, but at least he’d packed enough gear to get through the night. He hadn’t had a car wreck and personal injuries in mind when he’d set out from Flagstaff, but he’d had no intention of emulating that idiot Jason’s lack of planning skills either. He had no doubt that his colleagues up the canyon were having a miserable time of it, if they hadn’t already been led to their doom by the idiot.

T
im Vasquez was prepared for
anything
.

W
ithout thinking, he stretched and yawned. That stressed various components of his right ankle that were no longer up to the task of bearing much abuse at all. He winced and cursed again. The cursing escalated until he unleashed an inarticulate scream that echoed through the canyon.

T
aking a deep breath, Tim calmed himself. Then he spoke clearly, enunciating each word distinctly.

“
I. Am. A. Law. Enforcement. Officer.”

H
e felt better. He felt official. The uniform—what was left of it—represented the authority of the Park Service behind him. The weight of the gun on his hip embodied the power the Park Service wielded through him.

A
nd all was right with the world.

E
xcept that certain parts of his body still hurt really bad.

S
crew this. It was time to get the day started.

S
tarting late as he had, and hobbling as he was, Tim hadn’t made it far along the trail after his encounter with the hiking couple at the trailhead.

“
Fucking yuppies,” he muttered, remembering the pair.

H
e’d made his camp along Sycamore Creek, well below Parson Spring. The water flowed free and cold here, so he bathed his wounds and his clothes as best he could. The dust and sweat rinsed away, but bloodstains and rips permanently marred the fabric of his uniform.

C
hecking his reflection in a still pool, Tim decided that he was as presentable as possible under the circumstances. It was time to check in. He grabbed his cell phone and eyed the screen for a signal. He smiled. The signal was weak, but he was happy to be able to use the phone at all.

H
e dialed a pre-set number.

“
Chief Ranger Van Kamp? This is Ranger Vasquez. I just want to let you know—

“
What?

“
No, I’m just heading up the canyon-

“
Why? Because I ran into some trouble with the truck—

“
No, it’s
not
still running. It’s totaled.

“
Hello?”

T
im pulled the cell phone from his ear and stared at it for a long moment. He briefly considered calling Van Kamp again, but dropped the idea.

“
Weird little elf,” he muttered. He tucked the phone back into his pocket.

W
ith the sun rising in the sky, Tim shouldered his pack and his makeshift crutch and started—slowly—up the trail. He whistled a marching tune he’d learned on late-night TV—something from a movie about British POWs during World War II. He admired their plucky spirit and their sense of duty.

H
e thought again of his odd conversation with Van Kamp.

“
Why’d he get so damned upset about the truck?”

B
ut the answer to his question wouldn’t be found here.

O
n he hobbled. The many creek crossings stumped him at first. Wet, moss-covered stepping stones provided poor traction for his lame ankle and crutch. He feared a fall that would add to his already painful litany of injuries. In the end, he settled for wading through the shallow water at each crossing, trusting to the creek bottom to provide firmer footing then the stones.

A
fter the first crossing, his feet were thoroughly soaked, so his hike was now serenaded by a creaky squishing sound from his hiking boots.

H
eavy with water, his boots slowed him further.

A
long a dry stretch of trail, he turned a bend in the cliff face. A small opening in the canyon wall looked to him like an abandoned wildcat mine. He stopped for a drink of water and surveyed the area. Scattered remnants of rusting mining equipment in the brush confirmed his guess. He wondered what had drawn the long-gone miners to this canyon. Arizona was known as a copper state, but almost anything could have drawn a wandering prospector’s attention.

T
hen he snickered as he thought of how his allies Bob, Rena and Samantha would react to the abandoned mine. Greenfield’s fanatics wouldn’t like this intrusion into their church, he guessed.

“
Somebody shit on their altar,” he said out loud.

H
e snickered again—and then stopped, abruptly, as another sound caught his attention.

S
omebody was coming down the trail. Whoever it was must have been quiet because they were close and they—
she
. There she was! A cute, if slightly grubby, blonde came into view, backpack in place and eyes on the ground before her. She was alone except for a black-and-white dog trotting ahead.

T
im flushed. His breath quickened.

H
e recognized that dog from the confrontation up on the rim. Mottled black and white with a prominent dark spot on top of its head, that dog was with the guy who’d spied on Jason and his team and disappeared into the canyon—very likely with incriminating evidence.

A
nd if the dog had been on the rim, he bet the woman had been there too.

H
e reached for his pistol.

“
You! Hey you there!”

Chapter 59

“
What kind of bird is that?” Jason wondered softly into Samantha’s ear. Something warbled again, an oddly familiar sound, but one he couldn’t place in distance or origin.

T
he two environmental crusaders—Jason had tentatively settled on the idea that he and his team were crusaders, though the thought brought up mental images at least as troubling as those associated with his musings about Carthage—lay nestled side by side in their chosen haven near the canyon wall. Thick brush gave them privacy, creating the illusion of a private love nest. Well, a somewhat less-than-luxurious private love nest that was already, early in the morning, growing uncomfortably warm.

“
I’m not sure,” Samantha mumbled. Her eyes were closed and her head rested on Jason’s arm, bringing her lips within a scant few inches of his own. “It sounds like—”

H
er eyes flew open. She lifted her head from Jason’s arm and listened carefully.

“
It sounds like somebody crying.”

J
ason lifted his own head.

“
Huh.” He was still for a long moment. “It does sound like somebody crying. It’s probably Terry—”

“
It’s not me,” came a voice from a nearby bush. “I’m not the one who’s crying.”