Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (15 page)

Whew. I took a swallow of my drink as I watched them disappear up Jack Tone Canyon. I couldn't imagine a stranger encounter. Although this was a popular hiking area and Sara could be expected to know it well, having spent many summers with Lonny at Crazy Horse Creek ... still. What odd chance had brought us to this meeting?

For a second paranoia kicked in and I wondered if Sara might have found out somehow about my solitary pack trip. A moment's reflection ruled that delusion out. Sara had been as surprised to see me as I was to see her. It had been plain on her face.

The sun had now set. I got up and made another drink, grubbed some dried fruit and more peanuts out of the pack bags, and turned my camp chair so that it looked out over the darkening lake. This was not going to be a cooking night. One of the advantages of traveling alone-it incommoded no one if I preferred simply to eat peanuts and drink.

Roey still snoozed by the pack bags; I didn't think she'd even been aware of the two hikers. I hadn't built a fire yet, and now I wondered if I would. My neighbors' fires glowed, bright orange torches in the evening air. I could hear occasional friendly shouts and bits of music; I certainly didn't need a campfire of my own to dispel the loneliness of solitude.

I sat and watched the dark water of the lake, thinking of Sara. I wondered if she knew Lonny had moved away. Wondered how she'd feel if she knew how much I was struggling in my relationship with him. Vindicated, probably. I was getting what I deserved in her opinion, no doubt.

Taking another swallow of Jack Daniel's and water, I wondered where Sara and her friend had camped. I couldn't see their fire.

It was getting well and truly dark now. I could hear the peaceful sound of my horses cropping grass in the meadow when the neighboring campers were quiet. I'd move them along their picket lines before I went to bed so that they'd each have a fresh patch of grass to graze on.

At the thought, I heard a voice. Low and soft, almost a whisper. "Fucking horses." At least that's what I thought I heard. I leaped up and spun around to face the trail.

A figure stood there. In the dim light I could see that it carried a backpack, with what looked like various oddments tied on here and there. Short, square, apparently male. The figure turned toward me and I could see that he had a dark beard. He stood on the trail and stared at my camp.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"Nothing." The same soft, low tone. "Nothing to do with you."

For a second we stared at each other. I could see the gleam of his eyes in the dim light, but I couldn't make out his expression. But surely I had heard him cursing my horses?

"You shouldn't be camped so close to the trail." His teeth showed white in the dark beard when he spoke.

"I know," I said. "There are a lot of other people here. I couldn't find a better spot."

"None of you would be here if it weren't for the damn horses. None of you could make it in here with all that stuff. Fucking horses," he said again. "Ruining the mountains."

Oh no. A genuine tree hugger, as the cowboys were apt to put it. I knew that many hikers were resentful of horsemen, but I had never run into any who cursed me openly.

The man still stood on the trail, regarding me and my camp. Slowly I made out little details of his kit. Shorts with ragged edges, what looked like a canvas rucksack-sleeping bag and pots and pans tied all over it-a floppy hat on his head. He would have presented a rather engaging gnomelike appearance, if it weren't for the animosity in his voice.

"I'm sorry," I said at last. "I know my camp's in the way here. Have a good night."

Turning, I stepped back toward my saddlebags, where the pistol was. If, God forbid, this guy was really a nut, I wanted to be able to get it out fast.

His strange voice stopped me in mid-stride. "You'd be better off leaving your horses at home," he said. "Bad things can happen to them up here. The last bunch of horses I saw were at Deer Lake. They aren't there anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"I turned them loose. People left them tied to trees and went fishing. Fucking horses were pawing the ground, tearing up the trees' roots. I turned them all loose."

"That's wicked." I edged toward my saddlebags, not turning my back on the gnome. "It's wrong for people to leave their horses tied like that; it is bad for the trees. But those horses could be hurt or killed, running around loose."

I could see him shrug. "Leave them at home then. They don't belong here. This is the most beautiful spot on earth, and the fucking livestock is ruining it."

I took one more step toward my gun. Roey woke up at the motion, lifted her head, saw the man on the trail, and gave a startled woof.

"Stay," I told her.

She subsided; the man continued to watch me. I had no idea what to say, or do, next. He spoke again. "You got anything to drink, or smoke?"

"No," I said shortly. This was a palpable lie; I held a mug of bourbon and water in my hand. But I was damned if I was going to share my precious store of liquor with this horse hater.

"I've been in for two months now." There was a faint whine in his voice.

"Is that right?"

"I just walk around, look at things. The more I see, the more I understand."

I was standing right next to my saddlebags now, fighting the urge to get the pistol out and wave it at this guy, yelling, "Go away!"

Instead, I said, "I'm sure that's true."

"We need to ban all livestock from these mountains and most of the people. That's what it will take to save this place."

"Uh-huh." How in the hell was I going to get rid of him?

"All I carry with me is beans and rice. That's all I need."

He sounded plaintive again. "Sure you don't have anything to drink?"

"I'm sure," I said. "Good night."

After a minute more staring in my direction, he turned and moved off.

Jerking my pistol out of the saddlebag, I hung it on my belt and hustled over to check the horses. They were fine. I moved them to new spots on the picket line, and then put my tent as close to them as was practical. I turned the tent so that its open doorway faced the horses and climbed inside.

Stripping my boots, jeans, and jacket off, I wiggled into the sleeping bag, and put the pistol under my folded jacket. Damn. What an evening for company. I definitely preferred being scared of dark solitude to being over-impacted by people.

Looking out of the tent, I watched the distant glitter of stars over Wilma Lake. An image of other nomads, in other times and places, looking out of other tent doorways at the selfsame stars came into my mind. That's what I was, for now, merely another nomad. And tomorrow, I thought, I'll move on.

FOURTEEN

I left Wilma Lake early the next morning, in search of more solitude. The plan called for me to go to Benson Lake next. It would be a long day, but I could just possibly do it. Or I could stop and camp somewhere in the middle. I thought I'd decide when the time came.

Riding toward Seavey Pass, I worried about how tough the trail was going to be. En route, I had passed the cutoff trail to Tilden Lake, and wondered briefly if Blue Winter was still there, or if he, like me, was moving on. No way of knowing.

I kept riding, casting occasional glances at the sky. Unlike the previous three days, big thunderheads were building up. I could be in for some weather.

This was not a surprise. Afternoon thunderstorms during the summer in the Sierras were more the rule than the exception. I had merely been lucky so far.

Well, I had rain gear in my saddlebags. I had a tent, and a couple of tarps to cover my stuff. I'd do fine.

Gunner plodded down the trail, half-asleep. A few days in the mountains had inured him to pine forests and granite boulders. It took something more dramatic to spark his interest. Maybe thunder and lightning would do it.

Damn. I cast another glance at the rapidly graying sky. Despite my preparations, I was not looking forward to a storm. I didn't much like lightning myself. Not to mention the granite got slipperier when it was wet.

Gunner plodded on through the pines, undeterred. Plumber followed, leaning back a little on the lead rope from time to time. Roey trotted behind Plumber, accustomed to the caravan life.

I began to think about alternative destinations as the sky grew darker. Red Can Lake was maybe two miles ahead and half a mile off the trail. I would reach it in an hour or so, all going well. The only trouble was, there was no trail to it.

Lonny had told me that Red Can was a wonderful little lake, one of his favorites. But the half mile between it and the main trail was unmarked except for a few ducks.

"Ducks?" I said.

"Yeah, ducks. You know."

"No, I don't know." I'd had an odd mental image of mallard ducks squatting at strategic spots, pointing the way.

"Ducks are little stacks of rocks. People mark routes with them."

"I thought they used blazes on the trees."

"Not anymore. Forest Service doesn't like it."

"So I look for little stacks of rocks?"

"That's right." Lonny had gone on to describe the route into Red Can Lake; I thought I could remember it well enough.

"All right, I'll go there," I said out loud. Gunner cocked an ear back at me. I looked up at the darkening sky. The wind was starting to blow-an ominous sign. I could see the granite of a steep ridge up ahead. As I understood it, Seavey Pass was at the top of that ridge, and Red Can Lake was a little way down the other side.

Without warning, Gunner spooked-a sudden, violent side-ways leap. I clutched at the saddle horn and clung with my legs and stayed on, barely. I could hear the scramble of Plumber's hooves behind me, even as another noise registered. A buzzing noise. Rattlesnake.

Gunner stood still and snorted, looking at the rock from which the buzzing emanated. I straightened myself in the saddle and looked at it, too.

No sign of the snake. The rock was (now) twenty feet away, a safe enough distance. And fortunately the forest I was riding through was open; detouring around the rock would be easy. Still, if Gunner hadn't jumped when he did ...

I stared at the rock. It was right by the side of the trail. The snake had stopped his rattling. No doubt, though, that he was coiled under that rock. If Gunner had walked past, there was a distinct chance he would have been snakebit at this point.

It wouldn't kill him, I told myself. My knowledge of rattle-snake bites in horses was sketchy and secondhand. Where I practiced, on the coast of California, rattlesnakes were rare. I had never had occasion to treat a horse who had been bitten.

Rattlesnakes were fairly common in the Sierras, though. I knew something about them, mostly through Lonny. I knew, for instance, that they had two types of bite-a fear bite and a food bite. When they struck at a large object, such as a horse or a human marching down the trail, they attacked out of fear and did not inject much venom. Thus, rattlesnake bites were seldom fatal, especially not in animals as large as a horse. A dog now, would be another thing.

I looked back. Roey was lying down just behind Plumber, showing no inclination to investigate the snake. She'd learned to rest when she could.

The worst thing about a snakebite in a horse, Lonny'd told me, is the swelling. "The horse will swell up something terrible," he said. "It's a nuisance if it's in one leg, but if the snake bites the horse on the muzzle, it can kill him because he swells so much he can't breathe."

The other thing he'd warned me about was the food bite. "That's the most dangerous. If you're climbing through the rocks and you reach your hand up on a ledge and the snake sees something small he thinks he can eat, and strikes at you, that's bad. They inject a lot more venom in a food bite."

"So, what do I do?" I asked.

"Ride out, if you can. It still won't kill you, probably. But it'll make you damn sick."

"Great." Thinking dismally about how it would feel to embark on a two-day ride while I was deathly sick from a rattlesnake bite, I guided my caravan on a wide detour around the snake's rock.

When we were once again moving down the trail, I found I was a hell of a lot more jumpy. The sky grew darker; the wind blew.

I could see jumbled rock and a steep climb up ahead; it looked like the storm would be upon me in an hour or so. Still, I could make it to Red Can Lake, if I hurried.

Or I thought I could make it to Red Can Lake. If Seavey Pass wasn't too tough. If there were no more rattlesnakes. If I didn't get hit by a bolt of lightning. If, if, if.

Get a grip, Gail, I admonished myself. A storm is not the end of the world. And Lonny said the trail over Seavey Pass was okay.

But my mind jittered. I didn't like lightning at the best of times, and alone on a high pass on top of a steel-shod horse was not the best of times. Not to mention Lonny's idea of an okay trail and my idea of an okay trail were apt to differ greatly. Lonny rode across country in the same style in which he team roped-balls to the wall. Many times he'd told me, "Come on, this is fine," and I'd found myself on some frigging cliff.

I could see Seavey Pass ahead of me now, and it did not look good. A steep tumbled slope of boulders, it had the appearance of a giant avalanche. And the trail ran right up through the middle of it.