Dead or Alive (33 page)

“He's traveling cross-country,” Clayton said as he turned his horse to go up the trail. “I checked one of the maps the game and fish officer gave us. The only logical place he can be heading is to a small mountain valley above us. There's a notation on the map that it's home to a small buffalo herd owned by the ranch. Other than that, it's rugged, uninhabited country.”

“Why in the blazes is he going there?” Kerney asked as he came abreast of Clayton's horse.

Clayton shook his head. “Don't know, but if we stay on the trail for another mile or so, we'll intersect a jeep track that will take us right to the valley. If we push it, we may even be able to get there before him.”

“Then let's ride.” Kerney spurred his horse and left Clayton, who was astride a less than speedy packhorse he'd drafted as his mount, in the dust.

 

 

Kerry Larson reached the valley where the buffalo, enclosed by a high fence, were clustered on three hundred acres near one of the streambeds that drained out of the higher peaks and coursed through the basin. The land never got a break from the animals, and the tall grassland and wildflower meadows that had once filled the valley had been grazed and trampled into hardpan. The shallow, wandering, clear streams had been turned into deep, fast-running gullies bounded by eroded banks.

Kerry thought the cattle down on the short grass prairie ranches lived better than these poor animals, who survived on feed brought in by ranch hands on the jeep track. He'd learned somewhere that these were domestic buffalo. Dangerous, as any big animal on the hoof could be, but not wild. They still needed to roam though, maybe not like the truly wild ones up north somewhere in a national park, but enough so the land could heal and not be ground to powder under their hoofs.

Kerry circled the fence, looking for sign that Craig had arrived. Finding none, he climbed the side of a mountain that rose almost vertically from the valley floor, and went directly to the mouth of the small cave he'd discovered with his brother that summer long ago. It was hard to spot the opening through the thick branches of an ancient mountain mahogany, but once there, he threw some stones inside just in case some critters had taken up residence. The stones caused no ruckus, but to be make sure it wasn't home to a rattlesnake nest, he shined his flashlight around before crawling in.

For a few minutes he sat and looked at the Indian drawings that were still visible on the cave walls. There were deer and bear figures and one of a hunter with a bow and arrow. But his favorite was a warrior wearing a headdress. Down in one corner of the back wall, he and Craig had carved their initials in the rock, along with the date. Kerry ran his hand over the letters, remembering the good times with his brother.

He wrapped his small backpack containing his remaining supply of food and water in his coat and went outside to find a good place to wait on Craig's arrival. With his back against a big old pine tree and a clear view of the whole valley, he settled in, his rifle close at hand.

He still hadn't come up with any good words to use on his brother. He was slow all right, just like Craig always said he was. But he wasn't a bad man, and he didn't want his brother to be bad anymore.

 

 

Not long after leaving the trail where he'd met up with the pistol-packing guide and his flock of bird-loving tourists, Larson found himself on a well-used jeep track that traveled straight up over a summit and down some switchbacks to the valley. At the crest he stopped and looked over the buffalo herd clustered behind the high post-and-wire fence at the far end of the basin. He counted twenty animals, including four calves. That wasn't as many as he'd hoped for, and they looked none too wild and woolly, but if he could get them stampeded, it still might be fun to see how many he could bring down with the Weatherby Mark V.

A rifle shot from the far side of the valley cut through the air. Larson jumped off the chestnut mare, pulled the Weatherby, and hit the dirt, looking frantically for the shooter. Another shot echoed through the peaks, followed by the sound of his brother's voice calling him.

Cursing, Larson stood, used the scope of the rifle to scan the mountainside across the valley, and spotted Kerry clutching a long gun and waving at him with his free hand. He hollered, waved back, got on the chestnut, and started down the switchbacks, totally mystified. How could Kerry have possibly known where to come looking for him? More than that, what in the hell was he doing here?

He kept his gaze fixed on his brother as he dropped down the mountain, watching Kerry scramble to the fence line and run along the perimeter toward a gate a good half mile distant. Seeing no horse or vehicle, Larson figured Kerry had hiked into the valley. But why?

A wave of paranoia unexpectedly hit Larson. He pulled the chestnut to a quick stop. What if Kerry had brought the cops here to ambush him? Or barring that, what if the cops had been smart enough to follow his dumb-ass brother? He did a tight three-sixty on the chestnut, looking for any movement or glint of a reflection off a gun barrel or sunglasses. Heart racing, he scanned high and low, half expecting to feel the sudden impact of a slug take him down. After a long ten seconds, nothing had happened. He hurried the chestnut to the valley floor and galloped to his brother, who was still a good quarter mile away from the gate to the high fence.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Larson shouted as he closed the gap. He slipped out of the saddle, tied the chestnut mare to a fence post, and watched his brother jog the final fifty yards.

Winded, Kerry slowed to a walk and caught his breath. “I came to take you home,” he said with an apologetic smile.

“Do what?” Larson replied incredulously. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Kerry stopped three feet away from his brother, his hand tight on the stock of his rifle. “Take you home so you can stand up for me and make it right.”

“Make what right?” Larson demanded.

“That I'm not the cause of you killing all those people.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“People say I told you about Lenny Hampton turning you in to the police and that's what started you off being a killer. If I hadn't said anything, you just would have gone away.”

“But you did tell me about Lenny, didn't you?” Larson said with a short laugh.

Kerry hung his head. “Not to get him hurt. Or those other people either.”

Larson smiled. “Well, let me ease your pain, little brother. I started killing people long before I left your pal Lenny Hampson begging for his life in the desert. Does that make you feel any better? Or do you need a note to take back to all your friends explaining that you're not to blame for the notches on my gun?”

“Don't make fun of me.”

“I wouldn't think of it,” Larson snapped. “But now that I turn the situation over in my mind, it comes to me that you could be an accessory after the fact.”

“What's that?”

“Somebody who helped me get away from the police.”

“Because you lied to me.”

“The cops aren't going to believe that.”

Kerry squared his shoulders, both hands locked on his rifle. “That's why I need you to come with me and give yourself up. To tell the truth.”

Larson laughed in his brother's face as his hand found the grip of the Glock autoloader. “Never gonna happen, younger brother. And if you point that rifle at me, I'll shoot you down, brother or not.”

“So you can pretend to be me, right? Just like you said the other day.”

“It's an idea with some merit,” Larson allowed. “How did you know I'd be here?”

Kerry shrugged. “I just thought on it for a spell and figured this is where you'd come.”

Larson laughed. “Well, isn't that something? And here I didn't even know I was headed this way myself. Are you sure you weren't followed?”

“I know I wasn't, but you were.”

“You're right about that, little brother. Are you gonna stay and help me when the cops get here?”

“I'll help you give yourself up.”

Larson groaned in mock disappointment. “That's not it. I want you to help me shoot the sons-of-bitches.”

Kerry shook his head. “I won't do that.”

“Then you're worthless to me.” Larson tilted his head in the direction of the buffalo herd at the far end of the valley. “But that's okay. You always have been.”

Larson and Kerry locked eyes.
It's like looking in a mirror, but it's not,
Larson thought. “Let's you and me shoot those buffalo before the cops get here,” he said. “Then you can skedaddle.”

“What?” Kerry asked, mystified.

“I've heard that when they're running, the ground shakes. And when you shoot them while they're at a full gallop, the thud when they fall sounds like a small explosion. Man, I'd like to see that.”

Kerry looked at his brother as if he were a stranger. “That's a bad-crazy idea. It's just more killing for no cause.”

“You think so?” Larson snarled. “I'll tell you what a bad-crazy idea is. Firing your rifle twice in the air was really bad-crazy. Now the cops know exactly where I am, even if they're five miles back.”

He stepped up to Kerry and pushed him hard in the chest with the flat of his hand. “Just walk away from me. Get the hell out of here before I shoot you. Go home. Go back to your spark plugs and grease gun, and your simple-minded life. Get going.”

“You're gonna get yourself killed,” Kerry said.

“Maybe so. But if you stay, I'll probably get you killed too. Go on now.”

Kerry dropped his gaze and hesitated.

“Get,” Larson ordered sternly. “Do as you're told.”

Kerry turned, stepped away, stopped, and looked back, his expression like that of a crestfallen puppy.

“Go,” Larson repeated, more severely.

Reluctantly, Kerry walked away, headed back the way he'd come. Larson watched him for a few minutes before mounting up. He turned the chestnut toward the mouth of the valley, where he had spotted a ledge about two hundred feet up the side of the mountain that would give him cover and a great vantage point. That was where he would make his stand.

He looked back once in Kerry's direction. He was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was hiding in the woods waiting to see what happened and would still manage to get himself killed before the day was out.

Larson decided he couldn't worry about Kerry anymore. For a time, he had honestly believed that killing him would have been as easy as pie. But when he'd tried to work himself up to pulling the trigger, he'd realized that it just wasn't in him.

Must be brotherly love,
Larson thought with a snicker as he guided the chestnut to the ledge.

 

 

The sound of a rifle shot brought Kerney and Clayton to a full stop. The second shot got them out of their saddles and moving cautiously on foot up the jeep track. Just shy of the crest, they dropped down and belly-crawled to a mountaintop shelf shaded by the broad branches of a tall pine tree. They scanned the valley floor and surrounding peaks using binoculars. Below, a small herd of buffalo moved slowly inside a fence that ringed the confined basin. Above, a pair of ravens floated on thermals in the cloudless midday sky.

“See anything?” Kerney whispered.

Clayton shook his head. “Other than a bunch of buffalo in a used-up dust bowl, nothing.”

“Me neither. He could be right below us, or off to one side or the other.”

Clayton put his binoculars aside and turned over on his back. “So other than us becoming targets for him to shoot at, how do we get him to make his play?”

“We could ask him pretty please to give up,” Kerney said as he turned on his side to face Clayton. “Or better yet, we could ask Kerry to ask him to give up. That's assuming Kerry is still alive after finding his brother.”

“And here I thought you missed those fresh footprints we passed on the jeep track,” Clayton replied with a hint of approval in his voice.

“Not likely.” Kerney returned to scanning with his binoculars. “Let's assume Kerry has joined up with his brother. That might not be the case, but I'd rather err on the side of caution.”

“Agreed.” Clayton flipped back on his stomach. “So how do we smoke them out?”

“You stay here while I move to the other side of the valley. Once I'm on the ridge across from you with a good line of sight into the basin, I'll have the chopper bring in the SWAT team. That should get both brothers' attention.”

“There's no cover down there,” Clayton said.

“I'll tell Vanmeter to have the team treat it as a hot LZ.” Kerney pointed to a small clearing outside the fence line, near a stand of trees. “If the pilot lands the bird there, the team can get to cover quickly. Once they flush our targets or draw their fire, we can take our best shots.”

Clayton nodded. “Ten-four. You stay here. I'll head over to the other side.”

“No, you won't,” Kerney said as he started to crawl back away from the shelf. “I've seen the way you've been walking, and don't tell me it doesn't hurt like hell. You probably tore a ligament when that horse fell on you. Maybe you even cracked a bone. Stay put and stay alert.”

 

At the mouth of the cave, Kerry Larson removed the scope from his rifle, stretched out behind the branches of the mahogany bush, and quickly spotted Craig working his way up the mountainside riding the chestnut horse. The trees rose straight up on the rocky, steep slope, and twice the chestnut slipped badly and sunk to its haunches as it scrambled around a tall pine.