Nowhere to Run (9 page)

“Not many shots left, by my count,” Caleb said clearly from the shadows. “Since your spare magazines were in those panniers, you may be out of luck.”

The slide on the Glock hadn’t kicked fully back, which meant he had at least one round left. He tried to count back, to figure out how many live rounds he still had, but he couldn’t concentrate. At least two rounds left, he hoped. He’d need that many . . . His heartbeat pounded in his ears, making it hard to hear or think. He thought,
The brothers were formidable before. Now that at least one of them was wounded . . .

LURCHING FROM TREE TO TREE, blood flowing freely again from the wounds in his right thigh, Joe crashed through the timber back toward where he’d left Buddy.

The Grim Brothers couldn’t be far behind.

He’d find his horse, apologize, and spur him on. Push the horse down the mountain. Eventually, he’d hit water. He’d follow the stream to something, or somebody.

Buddy weighed a thousand pounds and had nine gallons of blood. Joe weighed 175 pounds and had six quarts of blood. He didn’t know how much he or his horse had left.

AN HOUR PAST SUNDOWN, BUDDY COLLAPSED ONTO HIS front knees with his back legs locked and his butt still in the air. Joe slid off, and as soon as his boots hit the ground he was reminded sharply of the pain in his own legs, because they couldn’t hold him up. He reached out for a tree trunk to steady himself, missed, and fell in a heap next to his horse.

Buddy sighed and settled gently over to his side, and all four of his hooves windmilled for a moment before he relaxed and settled down to the occasional muscle twitch, as if he were bothered by flies.

Joe was heartbroken, but he did his best not to cry out. He crawled over to Buddy and stroked the neck of his gelding and cursed the Grim Brothers because they’d made it impossible for him to tend to his horse, to stop the bleeding. Now it was too late. And he knew that possibly,
possibly
, he could have saved his horse by leading him and not mounting up, that without Joe’s weight and direction Buddy could have walked slowly and cautiously and maybe the blood would have stopped flowing out.

Buddy blinked at Joe and worked his mouth like a camel. He needed water, or thought he needed water. But it wouldn’t help.

“I’m sorry,” Joe said, reaching back for his weapon. “I’m sorry for being selfish.”

Two rounds left. Buddy deserved to go quickly. Joe pressed the muzzle against Buddy’s head, said a prayer, and started to squeeze the trigger.

He thought better of it and holstered the Glock. The shot could be heard and give away his location. Plus, he might need both bullets. So he unsheathed his Buck knife.

He said another prayer. Asked both God and Marybeth to forgive him for what he was about to do.

 

USING A STIFF BROKEN BRANCH with a Y in the top of it as a crutch, Joe continued down the mountain in the dark. A spring burbled out from a pile of flat rocks, and the water flowed freely and seemed to pick up volume. He kept the little creek to his right. The stream tinkled at times like wind chimes, he thought. It was a nice sound, and reassuring to know there was fresh water to drink, but he had to keep reminding himself not to get too close because the rush of water could drown out the sound of anyone coming up behind him. He followed the spring creek until it joined a larger stream, which he guessed was No Name Creek.

The moon was up and full, as were the bold white paintbrush strokes of the stars, and there was enough light on the forest floor to see because the pine needles soaked up the light and held it like powder-blue carpet. The stillness of the night, the constant pain of his legs, the awkward rhythm of his descent, and the soft backbeat percussion of his own breath was an all-encompassing world of its own and nearly made him forget about the danger he was in. It lulled him. He was jolted back into the present when a covey of blue grouse flushed from tall brush, and the heavy beating of their wings lifting off through the boughs nearly made his heart stop.

For the next hour, his life became as simple as it had ever been because it was reduced to absolute essentials:
Place one foot before the other, keep weight off that right leg, keep going, keep senses dialed to high.

He thought about home, and his vision was vivid. It was as if his brain and soul had left the damaged container and floated up through the trees, raced three hundred and eighteen miles to Saddlestring, and entered his house by slipping under the front door, where he floated to the ceiling and hovered there.

 

SHERIDAN WAS AT the kitchen
table filling out application forms for college. Lucy was in the living room watching television, painting her nails, and glancing down periodically to check for text messages on the new cell phone on her lap. Their dog Tube, a Lab-and-corgi cross, slept curled at her feet. Marybeth put dirty dinner dishes into the dishwasher and scraped what remained of the spaghetti into a plastic container for the refrigerator.

LUCY IN THE FRONT ROOM
called out.

AND JOE WISHED
he was there but he didn’t know what he could add to the conversation.

Joe was abruptly jerked back to the present. The smoke he’d smelled wasn’t in his imagination.

IN THE DAYLIGHT, he might not have found it. If it weren’t for the smoke which hung like a nighttime shadow in the trees, he would have limped right past. But he stopped and turned slowly to the right and slightly in back of him. There was a cut in the hillside on the other side of the little stream where another tiny spring creek fed into the flow. The cut went fifty yards back into the slope and doglegged to the right. The smoke came from where the dogleg ended.

Joe winced and nearly blacked out as he crossed the stream from rock to rock, unable to use his crutch to keep his weight off his injured legs. He paused on the other side and heard moaning and realized it was his own. He closed his eyes tightly and was entertained by fireworks on the inside of his eyelids. When he opened them, there was a cabin ahead. A faint yellow square of light seeped through a small curtained window from an inside lantern.

The cabin, he knew, shouldn’t exist. There was no private land within this part of the Medicine Bow National Forest, just like there were no roads. He thought,
Hunters? Poachers? Forest rangers? Loggers?
Then:
Outlaws?

The curtain on the single small window quivered as he made a fist to knock on the rough pine door. Whoever was inside knew he was there. And if they were armed?

Then a wild thought: What if the Grims lived here?

He collapsed as the door opened and fell inside. A woman said, “Oh my God, no . . .”

Then: “Who
are
you? Why did you come here? Oh no, you’ll be the
death
of me.”

WHEN JOE AWOKE, HE WAS ON HIS BACK ON THE FLOOR OF the cabin in a nest of thick quilts. He reached up and rubbed the right side of his face, which was warm from the heat of an iron woodstove. A curl of steam rose from the snout of a kettle on the surface of the stove, and inside a small fire crackled.

He could remember things: vivid nightmares reliving the attack, throwing off the quilts as he fought off demons, awaking with a fever and drinking water and broth, rolling to his side to urinate into a plastic jar, the touch of her fingers on his bare thigh as she bandaged it, her frequent prognostications of doom.

The cabin was small, old, and close. He guessed it had been built in the 1950s or 1960s, to judge from the gray color of the logs and the age cracks in the pine plank ceiling. Although it was only one room inside and was packed with possessions in the corners and on the shelves, it seemed clean and organized. Red curtains were drawn over small framed windows on each wall.

She was sitting at a small table wearing thick trousers, heavy shoes, a too-large man’s shirt, and a fleece vest. It was hard to tell her age. Her long brown hair fell to her shoulders and her forehead was hidden behind thick bangs. Her clothes were so large and loose he couldn’t discern her shape or weight. He couldn’t even see the rise of her breasts. Her eyes were blue and cool and fixed on him. Her mouth was pursed with anticipation and concern.

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

“Eighteen hours,” she said. “More or less.”

He let that sink in. “So it’s Friday night?”

Her face was blank. She shrugged, “I think that would be correct. I don’t think in terms of days of the week anymore.”

He nodded as if he understood and tried not to stare at her and unnerve her more than she already was. There was something pensive and off-putting about her, as if she would melt away if he asked too many questions.

Joe folded the quilt back. His pants were off, but she hadn’t removed his boxers. He looked at the bandage on his right leg. It was tightly wrapped and neat. There were two small spots of dried blood, looking like the eyes of an owl, where the holes in his thigh were. His other leg was purple and green with bruises.

“Thank you,” he said. “You saved my life.”

She nodded quickly. “I know.” She said it with a hint of regret. “I really don’t want you here one minute past when you can leave. Do you understand me?”

Joe nodded. “Do you have a phone here? Any way I can make a call?”

“No, I don’t have a phone.”

“A radio?”

“No.”

“Any way to communicate with the outside world?”

“This is my world,” she said, twirling a finger to indicate the inside of her cabin. “What you see is my world. It’s very small, and that’s the way I like it. It’s the way I want to keep it.”

He took in the contents of the cabin but tried not to let his eyes linger too long on any one item. There were burlap sacks in one corner: beans, coffee, flour, sugar. Canned goods were stacked near the sacks. A five-gallon plastic container was elevated on a stout shelf with a gravity-feed water filter tube dripping pure water into a galvanized bucket. The drops of water from the tube into the bucket had punctuated his dreams.