The Love of a Lawman, The Callister Trilogy, Book 3 (43 page)

The air became cooler yet and he encountered more snow. The sun began to lose heat and he checked his watch. Soon it would be too dark to travel in the thick timber. He didn't know the precise location of the cabin, but he kept climbing toward the rock face, believing that at its base he would find what he sought.

All at once he topped out in a small opening and saw in the distance a pass over the ridge of a drainage he had been paralleling. He rode toward it, keeping the rock face in sight.

On the other side of the pass, he dropped into a small valley flatter and more open than the heavy timber through which he had just ridden. In the pure mountain air, the distinct smell of wood smoke touched his nostrils.

Excited, he broke his binoculars out of his poke and scanned the surroundings. In the far distance he saw something foreign to the natural landscape. He urged Rowdy to a trot on the almost flat ground and rode toward it, at the same time keeping undercover near the tree line at the edge of the vale.

After a short time, he stopped and homed in on the object. Damned if it wasn't a cabin and a faint trail of smoke drifted from its chimney. It could be no more than half a mile away.

His pulse rate picked up. He scanned with the binoculars again, looking for Dancer, but didn't see him. If the horse wasn't there, was Izzy? Concern nagged at him as he ran down the list of reasons the horse wasn't visible, not the smallest of which was that he, John, had played a wrong hunch and wasted a day.

He dismounted and led Rowdy into the thick trees. The last thing he wanted was to be discovered. He debated whether to take the cabin occupants now and have to deal with them in custody and camped out all night or wait until daylight when it would be easier and safer to get down the mountain.

He tied Rowdy and fed him oats from the nosebag. Once he was satisfied the horse was secure, he took the binoculars and made his way on foot closer to the cabin and spotted Dancer in a small lean-to attached to one side of the structure. He was almost as glad to see Dancer as he would be to see Izzy. At least he knew she had arrived.

He assessed the structure, which was nothing more than a primitively thrown together room on the verge of collapse, backed up to an enormous granite outcropping. John had seen many such huts and hovels in out-of-the-way places in the mountains and he knew the old thing would have only one door. He made a half circle around the building, sneaking among rocks and downed trees, being cautious to stay hidden and downwind from Dancer.

Head-on appeared to be the only way to approach the cabin.

John had never faced a life-threatening situation. He had sometimes wondered how he would handle it. What he felt wasn't fear exactly, more like a peculiar high, more like a stranger had seized control of his body. He didn't care, as long as the stranger knew what the hell to do.

He returned to where he had left Rowdy and made a cold camp, having decided to make his move at daybreak. Through the night, he awoke several times and checked his watch.

He came awake for no good reason and felt a presence, felt something against his head.

"Time to get up, sheriff," a gravelly voice said.

John's eyes popped open. He turned his head and found himself staring into the business end of a pistol. He blinked, now wide awake. His hand wanted to grab for the .45 tucked under the edge of the sleeping bag, but he checked himself.

"Come outta there on your hands and knees, sheriff."

John peeled the sleeping bag back and complied. In the steely gray of first light, he looked up at Merle Keeton. His thoughts flew to his sons and he wished he had chosen to hug them good-bye.

"Gimme that pistol," Keeton said, beckoning with his finger. "Butt first."

John handed the .45 up to his captor, then reached for his boots. He sneaked a glance toward his saddle and saw the 30.06 safely tucked into the scabbard. In the dim early-morning light, possibly Keeton hadn't seen it.

"Now, get to your feet real slow. I already shot me a game warden. I figger adding on a sheriff won't make much difference."

Awake now and on his feet, John could think. If Keeton intended to kill him, why hadn't he simply pulled the trigger while John slept?

His captor chuckled. "'Course I never figgered you was a real sheriff, John. That's why it didn't scare me none to walk up on you like this." Keeton's chin hitched in the direction of the cabin. "Let's get up to that cabin. I see they got a fire going. I been freezing my ass off all night out here in these woods."

"My horse," John said.

"To hell with him. For all I care he's cougar bait."

John clenched his jaw and looked Keeton in the eye. "If I go, the horse goes. Otherwise, you can shoot me right here."

When Keeton stamped over to where Rowdy was tied and untied him with one hand, John's confidence lifted a notch. Keeton didn't have the nerve to look him in the face and pull the trigger. And he still hadn't spotted the rifle.

"The horse goes with me," Keeton said. "You walk ahead."

How the hell had Keeton happened upon him on the side of a vast mountain? John wondered as they walked. And what was he doing here? "Where'd you come from, Keeton?"

"Here and there. I been on this mountain a few days, lookin' for that cabin. I figgered ol' Paul'd go there. Then I heard your horse. Don't know if you know it, John, but a horse tramping through the woods ain't real quiet. When I saw it was you riding him, I knew I'd found that stinkin' rat Paul."

So it was Paul that Keeton was after. And after he found him, then what? John swore mentally, disgusted that he had let himself be caught and forced to lead Keeton to the cabin.

* * *

Isabelle awoke shivering from the cold. The wood cook-stove's narrow firebox simply wouldn't hold a large enough log or enough small pieces of wood to burn all night. The dilapidated cabin's walls and roof were full of holes and cracks. Paul awoke, too, and stuffed small pine splits into the firebox. They huddled around it and shivered, waiting for the flames to take off.

Soon as she got warm, she would help Paul pack and together they would head down the mountain. If he was with her, surely he would be safe.

He had a coffeepot and coffee. Isabelle had just set it on the rusted stove's cast-iron surface to brew when she heard Dancer whicker. She opened the door to go outside and check on him and her stomach lurched.

There stood Merle Keeton holding a pistol on John.

He pushed John into the cabin and followed. "Guess you thought I wouldn't find this place," Merle said to Paul.

* * *

John's heart beat like a snare drum as he surveyed the cabin's dim interior. One room, two windows, one door. He saw two rifles standing in the corner. They would be Paul's.

"Okay, so you found me," Paul said to Keeton. "So what?"

John angled his eyes at Paul as it dawned on him Paul had come here to hide out from Keeton, not the law.

"You, Red"—Keeton pointed the pistol at Izzy—"get over there and get me them rifles."

Izzy stared up at John, terror in her eyes, and at that moment, he made a vow. Merle Keeton would never see Callister again if he hurt Isabelle. "Do what he says," John told her.
That is, 'til I come up with something.

Izzy brought the two rifles from the corner of the room.

Keeton gestured her to prop them beside the door and ordered John and Paul back toward the cookstove. "Now," he said to Izzy, "I figger you must have something to eat up here."

"Nothing but lunch meat and bread."

"That'll do. Get me a cup o' that coffee."

John's gaze swerved to the steaming coffeepot on the cookstove and suddenly he found a plan.

Izzy looked up at him again. She had more guts than any woman he knew. He only hoped she didn't waver now. He held her gaze, formed a ring with his thumb and forefinger and barely tipped his hand.

He saw in her eyes she understood and braced himself to grab Keeton's gun. Paul's eyes darted everywhere and John could see he had a scheme of his own.

"The handle's hot," Izzy said in a quavery voice.

A flannel shirt lay on top of a pile of clothing on the floor. "Get her that shirt," John said to Keeton. "She hasn't done anything to you. Why make her burn herself?"

Keeton sidled over to the shirt. Eyes glued to the three of them, he bent, picked up the shirt and threw it at Izzy.

Her hand trembled as she wrapped the shirt around the coffeepot handle. She poured the tin cup full, then lifted it using the shirt as a pot holder. She walked the four steps to where Keeton stood and, just as John hoped, dumped the steaming cup of coffee onto Keeton's gun hand.

He let out a howl and fired the pistol on reflex.
Blam!

Paul cried out, stumbled backward and fell.

John grabbed Keeton's wrist with his left hand and buried his right fist in the man's gut. Merle doubled over with an
oomph!
but managed to fire the pistol again. John twisted the wrist until he felt it snap. The .45 hit the floor and to John's horror, Paul went for it, crawling across the floor, his arm extended, his fingers clutching.

John lunged toward the rifles, grabbed one and popped the safety. "Don't do it, Paul."

"John, no," Izzy cried, in tears now and kneeling on the floor beside her brother.

The .45 lay there, only inches from Paul's fingers. "I mean it, Paul. I'll shoot you."

Izzy reached out and shoved the .45 beyond Paul's grasp. "He wasn't going to shoot."

"John, I was gonna help you," Paul said, getting to his feet, favoring his left shoulder.

John didn't know if he believed that. He didn't dare take a chance. A moan came from Keeton, who lay in a fetal position. John grabbed him by the coat and hefted him to his knees. "Put your hands behind your back," he ordered.

Keeton did as he was told. He had lost his starch. John reached behind himself for the handcuffs attached to his belt loop and cuffed him.

"My arm's broke," Keeton whined, in tears. "I'm burned. Them cuffs is tight."

John picked up his .45 and leveled it at Paul as he propped the rifle by the front door. "Paul, I've got only one pair of cuffs. Give me trouble and I won't think twice about blowing your ass off."

"He's hurt," Izzy cried, stepping in front of her brother. "He's innocent. He can tell you, John."

John caught her arm and drew her away from her brother. "You okay?" he asked her and pulled her closer to his side. "You scared the shit right out of me."

"It wasn't me that shot Frank," Paul said, standing with his shoulder angled.

"How bad are you hurt?"

"I'm okay. Just burns a little."

"Paul didn't do it," Izzy said, her voice breaking. "You have to listen to him, John." She went back to her brother and began working his wounded arm out of his coat sleeve.

John looked into Paul's face as Izzy wrapped the dirty flannel shirt around his bleeding arm. "What makes you think you're innocent, Paul? You were there. You helped bury Frank. You said so."

"I was trapped. If I hadn't, Merle would've shot me, too."

John didn't know if he believed that, either. Paul and Keeton had been friends for years.

Izzy had done the best she could bandaging her brother's wound. "Let's get Dancer saddled," John told her, then turned his attention to Paul. "You help her."

John picked up the coffeepot and used the remaining liquid to douse the fire in the woodstove, then directed all of them outside. Paul followed Isabelle to the corral.

"Goddammit, John," Keeton said, in tears, "don't do this to me. You've knowed me all your life. I got rights—"

Miranda. Shit.
John had never memorized the Miranda declaration. "Shut up, Keeton."

John pulled his wallet where he kept the statement out of his back pocket. By the time he read Keeton his rights, Izzy and Paul had Dancer saddled.

"Anything in that cabin you need?" he asked her.

"Paul's gear and there's some food."

"Get it and let's go," John said as he unloaded Paul's guns.

She came out carrying a gunnysack. He prodded Keeton to his feet, hefted the rifles under one arm and told Isabelle to mount up. He pointed the direction and trailed behind, leading Rowdy as they returned to his camp.

He rolled his sleeping bag and tied it behind his saddle, found a pigging string in his poke and used it to tie the rifles onto his saddlehorn. "I'm gonna tell you something," he said to his prisoner. "You stay twenty feet in front of me. If that distance varies an inch, you're in deep shit." He unsnapped the strap holding his pistol. "I
always
hit where I aim. That goes for you, too, Paul."

"Paul can ride double with me," Isabelle said.

"No. That's dangerous."

"It's at least ten miles," she argued. "He's wounded. He can't walk—"

"Isabelle. He walked up here. He can walk back. He's not that bad off. I intend to get all of us off this mountain with nobody else getting hurt."

At the limestone ledge, John unclipped his cell phone and tried for service. To his relief, the phone worked. He called the office and Rooster answered. John told him to meet him in the Blazer at Isabelle's house.