Dead or Alive (28 page)

“Maybe he backtracked to seek shelter,” Kerney said.

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?” Kerney asked as he threw his saddle on the back of his horse.

“Because he didn't make a beeline when he doubled back,” Clayton replied. “Instead he wandered partway up a mesa trail before trying to hide his tracks on some rocky ground. I found some fresh horse apples and several hoofprints from his pack animal. He headed west again.”

“So it was a feint to throw us off.”

Clayton nodded. “But I thought it best to have Vanmeter and his people do a sweep anyway.”

Kerney cinched his saddle. “Good thinking.”

He put the bridle on the buckskin and walked him to the barn door where Clayton waited, sitting in the saddle and ready to go. “So, I take it we're heading west, young man,” he said.

Clayton nodded and handed Kerney the reins to the two packhorses.

“Lead on,” Kerney said as he mounted up and stared out into the soupy, dense fog. “But try not to guide us into trees, buildings, barbwire fences, ditches, or any moving vehicles,” he said.

Clayton pulled the hood of the rain poncho over his head. “I'll do my best.”

 

 

Larson chased the pack animal into a thick fog that enveloped and disoriented him. He knew he would be in a hell of a fix if he couldn't find that animal. Already, half of his equipment, gear, and provisions was spread along the last five miles of rangeland. But as far as he could determine, several weapons and all of the ammunition were still strapped to the pack frame, and that's what he needed most.

With his head bent over the neck of his horse and his eyes glued to the tracks on the ground, Larson didn't spot the animal until he heard it whinny. He looked up to see it lying in the mud, struggling without success to rise. He dismounted and walked to the animal. It had broken a front leg and the shattered bone showed just above the fetlock.

Cursing the worthless, stupid beast, Larson put a bullet in its brain, and retrieved the weapons and ammunition, all of which had fortunately remained securely tied to the pack frame.

He put the Colt and Ruger handguns in the ammunition bags, tied them to his saddle horn, stuck the 9mm Glock autoloader back in his waistband, and slung the lever-action 30.06 Winchester over his shoulder. He'd been carrying the Weatherby Mark V in the saddle scabbard, so the only rifle he had to leave behind was the Remington Safari.

He looked around for the satchel with the money and the jewelry, and it was nowhere to be seen. Through the fog, Larson sensed a slight lessening of the charcoal gray sky. Should he risk backtracking to find it? He checked Pettibone's Omega wristwatch, looked again at the sky, and decided against it, although the idea of losing the satchel pissed him off. It was getting on to first light and surely the cops would be out in force looking for him, even if the storm stuck around and dumped more moisture.

He mounted up and turned the horse in the direction of the Cimarron River. After twenty minutes of steady riding, he reached the banks and walked the horse to the edge of the fast-moving water. Larson guessed it was no more than five or six feet deep and twenty feet across, but if he tried to swim across on the horse they could both be swept away.

Back when he'd cowboyed on the ranch there had been a landing strip close to the highway that ran from French Tract to Cimarron. An old plank bridge on a ranch road to the landing strip crossed the river at that point. His best bet was to go there and hope that it hadn't been washed out.

Larson followed the river, found the ranch road, reached the intact plank bridge, and gave a sigh of relief. It had been rebuilt and reinforced with riprap, and native trees and vegetation had been planted along the riverbed to control erosion. He crossed over the river and rode to the gate that accessed the highway at the end of the landing strip. As he expected, it was locked.

He took the Weatherby out of the scabbard, blew the lock into a dozen metallic pieces, unwrapped the chain from around the gate, and walked the horse through. He couldn't see more than ten feet in either direction, but there was no sound of traffic on the two-lane highway. He closed the gate, led the horse across the pavement to the far fence line, remounted, and headed west, hugging the fence line, looking for another gate.

Four vehicles passed him by in a twenty-minute stretch, headlights dim and flickering in the soupy fog. But he stayed invisible in the murkiness.

The anger Larson felt about losing his equipment, provisions, and supplies lifted somewhat. He was halfway to safety, with one more river and one more road to cross. Once in the forest, he'd hunt for his food and build a shelter, if need be. But it might not come to that. People lived in the mountains. There was a resort in the high country, some summer cabins, even some mining operations, if they hadn't been shut down, which happened periodically. There might be slim pickings where he was going, but there were pickings nonetheless.

 

 

At a painstakingly slow pace, Kerney and Clayton tracked Larson through the fog until it lifted and revealed scattered provisions and gear on an open expanse of rangeland. They followed the litter to the dead packhorse.

Clayton swung out of the saddle and gave the animal the once-over. “It broke a foreleg,” he said. “Larson put it down.”

“It's the only killing he's done so far that makes any sense,” Kerney said. “How far behind are we?”

Clayton got back on his horse. “I'd say we're no closer than we were when we started out. But he lost his provisions, and left behind a rifle.”

“Well, that's something,” Kerney said glumly.

“Are you all right?” Clayton asked, eyeing Kerney closely.

Kerney nodded but said nothing in response.

Above, the sky had lifted and patches of blue broke through the fast-moving cloud cover. In the distance they could hear the sound of approaching airplane propellers and helicopter rotors.

Clayton looked up. “We've got air support now. That's something to cheer about.”

Kerney keyed his handheld radio and made contact with Frank Vanmeter. He gave him their location and asked to have all aircraft concentrate the search to the west, north, and northeast of their position.

“You're sure of that?” Vanmeter asked.

“I don't think there's a chance that he's going to turn around,” Kerney replied. “Not this close to the foothills and canyons. Tell the pilots and spotters to look for a horse and rider only. The pack animal is dead, and most of Larson's supplies are scattered near our twenty.”

“That's encouraging.”

“I wish I shared your optimistic outlook. Stay in touch.” Kerney fell in behind Clayton, who'd picked up the trail, heading northeast.

The breeze turned blustery. Over the mountains the sky was a cloudless pure blue. Soon a hot July sun, still blocked to the east by the remaining clouds of the vanishing storm, would begin drying out the land. But it was going to be a muddy twenty-four hours before the puddles, sinks, ditches, arroyos, and dirt roads began to firm up.

Kerney pulled up even with Clayton, who gave him a questioning look.

“What?” he asked.

“You look kind of pale,” Clayton said.

“I'm just fine,” Kerney said firmly.

“Okay. Never mind.” Clayton pointed at the fresh tracks that showed Larson had picked up the pace, and spurred his roan into a trot.

 

 

Larson's decision not to cross the next river right away, but to follow it to the highway that ran from Cimarron to Raton, proved to be the right move. By the time he reached the highway, the torrent in the Vermejo River had subsided and he was able to cross it and the pavement as well on a railroad spur that ran deep into the canyon to several coal mines.

When the sky began to clear, he left the spur for the cover of the old cottonwoods that hugged the bank of the river, and within minutes he heard the drone of an airplane engine. He brought his horse to a stop and through the thick foliage watched a small plane fly low along the railroad spur and disappear in the direction of the Dawson cemetery.

At one time, there had been the town of Dawson, a village of 1,500 people living and working in one of the most productive coal mining districts in the Southwest. In the early 1950s it had been shut down and dismantled by the mining company that owned it. But the cemetery remained, with hundreds of grave markers of miners killed in two of the largest mining disasters in the nation's history.

As a teenager, Larson had come to several of the annual reunions of the descendants of the old-timers who had lived, worked, or grown up in the town of Dawson, and its colorful and tragic history was part of the folklore of the area.

He waited until the sound of the engine faded before continuing on, and then stopped again when the airplane returned and banked low over the river, heading east. He wondered if the cops were tracking him yet, or still searching for him on the mesas near Miami.

When it was all clear he kept riding, past the adobe shell of an old, roofless two-story ranch house, a collapsed barn, an irrigated wheat field, and a large pasture where fat cattle grazed on lush grasses. Where the spur spanned the Vermejo River again, he walked the horse through a muddy field, found a fast-running but shallow place to cross, and followed the tracks all the way to where the adjacent road ended at a locked gate posted with “No Trespassing” signs. A fork in the road allowed visitors to tour the cemetery, but access to the old town site was denied.

Larson returned to the railroad spur until it bridged the river once more. He remounted his horse, dropped down into the grassy valley, and splashed through the water and up a muddy bank. Since his last visit many years ago, the old smokestacks to the coke ovens had been torn down, but through the trees near the base of a small mesa he could see the outline of the two or three structures still standing. In the past, one had been used as a line camp by cowboys during summer months when cattle were in the high country. If the line camp was still in use, maybe he'd be able to resupply his provisions before moving on.

At the sound of an approaching helicopter, Larson spurred his horse to a gallop. He reached cover under a stand of trees in front of one of the old buildings just as the whirlybird swooped low on the other side of the river and hovered for a moment over an old weather-beaten cabin close to the bank, before continuing up the canyon. When it flew out of sight, Larson circled around the line camp looking for any sign of recent occupation. There were fresh tire tracks in the road at the front of the house, but no vehicle. All the window shades were drawn, so he couldn't see inside. The front door was padlocked.

Larson figured the padlock meant no one was home. He led the horse up on the porch, used the Glock autoloader to destroy the padlock, and got himself and the animal inside with a minute to spare before the chopper returned and hovered overhead.

When the chopper left, Larson let out a big sigh of relief and looked around. The front room had a small propane cook stove on the counter, next to a sink with an old-fashioned hand pump. There was an ice chest on the floor, but it was empty. However, the pantry held a variety of canned meats, beans, soups, crackers, dried food, and bottled water. A twin bed in the back room was made up with sheets, a pillow, and a lightweight blanket, and the closet held a couple of changes of jeans and long-sleeved cowboy shirts on hangers.

Larson walked his horse into the back room, unloaded the ammunition bags, grabbed the Weatherby from the scabbard, and closed the door on the animal. Hungry, he set about fixing a meal, figuring he'd stay put at least until he ate, maybe longer if the chopper or the airplane kept coming back. He opened a can of meat, put it in a skillet, turned on the camp stove, and let it simmer while he poured a can of beans into a pot and put it on the second burner.

While the food warmed, he positioned the small dining table directly in front of the open door, arranged all the weapons he had on the table, made sure every gun was fully loaded, and put additional ammunition close at hand. Should people come calling, he was ready.

When the meat and beans were warm, he sat behind the table looking out toward the river valley, gobbled the food down, and mopped up the bean juice with some crackers. The chopper came back twice more while he ate.

Larson knew he couldn't stay long; the cops had to be on his trail by now. Hopefully the chopper would move on to other canyons that wound up the mountains, especially the one with a Forest Service road that could take you all the way to the Colorado border.

He waited thirty minutes, and when the chopper didn't return, he went and retrieved the horse from the back room, where it had dumped a load of fresh horse apples on the floor.

Larson thought that was a hoot. As he packed food he'd raided from the pantry into his saddlebags, he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching on the dirt road. He picked up the Weatherby, stood back from the open door, and waited. Soon a pickup truck pulling a horse trailer came into view. Larson used the rifle's scope to look into the cab. Only a driver was inside the vehicle, an older man with a droopy mustache, wearing a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat.

Larson sighted in on the driver and followed him with the Weatherby as he drew closer. Just when the man noticed the open door to the line camp and started to turn the truck around, Larson shot him through the windshield.

The truck careened into a tree and the horse trailer skidded over on its side and slammed into the bed of the pickup. Larson first checked the driver, who was dead with a big hole in his chest that spurted blood. He dug the man's wallet from his hip pocket and read the name on his driver's license. One day, Truman Goodson's name would be added to the plaque at the St. James Hotel that listed the people killed by Craig Lee Larson, “Last of the Western Desperadoes.”