“His would have had three stripes pointed down, with two over the top.” He drew the figure for her in the air.
“Nope. They all had just one of those stripes.”
Relief washed over him. “Then it looks like one got away. Thanks, Gran.”
She wasn’t through talking. “Marshal?”
Trent raised his eyebrows.
“You watch your back, son. There’s something not right about this, but we just can’t seem to pin it down.”
He couldn’t disagree with her on that one. “I hear you, Gran.”
“Then hear this, Marshal. Lon may do the job for you. He was supposed to marry that gal you saw. He’s lookin’ for the killer awful hard. It is makin’ him crazy. Just don’t you shoot him by mistake.”
“Gran, if you see him—you tell him good luck and be careful.”
“I probably won’t see him. For some reason, he spends all his time over in this neck of the woods. Do I see him, though, I’ll tell him.”
After she left, he told Starking the story—leaving nothing out.
Starking just shook his head. “Boy, you got a full plate. Talk to your people. Let me know. I’ve got a lot of people here, and we’re all tired. See what you can do for us. Of the ones I can control, I’ll keep them in check.”
2
Trent left the camp with more questions than answers. He had a cold feeling in his stomach that the answer to his questions was staring him in the face, and he just couldn’t see it. There weren’t many clues, and hardly anything to investigate.
So far, all he had were bodies.
Ignoring his wife’s death, and thinking only of the more recent killings, there was a thread that was tickling his mind. The only connection between the killings he could see was… himself.
The first girl, found within hours of her death, and second girl, killed in the same manner, and near enough to Trent’s line of travel to make it an uncomfortable coincidence.
And he was worried about Gunny—where was Gunny? He’d mentioned joining Trent. But maybe he wouldn’t. More likely, he was trailing the one who ambushed the patrol.
His mind kept at the problem. So, what did he have? Two partial footprints of a moccasin that had been torn and repaired, which pointed to a woodsman, and the fact that the man, and it had to be a man, left little or no trail. This fact pointed to someone trained to hide himself. Army? Special Forces?
Gran thought the killer had been with the patrol. Had they taken a prisoner? Was one of the patrol members an impostor? And how would he find the attacker in a few million square miles of forest?
Trent’s musing totally occupied his mind, so when his horse pulled up and stopped, he had to look around to get his bearings. The trail, once a fire access road around the mountain, narrowed here with a steep fall on his left side and a high bluff on the right. The path was grown up with grass as high as his horse’s knees. Sitting in the partial sunlight that filtered through the trees, he was just nudging his horse forward when he saw a wink of sunlight reflecting off something high on the bluff above him.
He started to wheel his horse when the first bullet caught him high on the shoulder, turning him in the saddle. The second scraped along the top of his head, just under the skin, snapping him off his horse and into the brush along the trail. Head ringing and barely conscious, he kept rolling down the steep embankment trying to get some distance between him and the shooter. Finally, coming up against a lichen-covered dead-fall, he lay gasping in pain. The forest fern and grasses were waist high here, and he couldn’t see the trail above from where he lay. Waves of nausea went through him as the initial shock wore off and the pain hit. He shook his head trying to clear his vision and that just brought on dizziness.
Move. He had to move.
Suddenly the air around him buzzed like mad hornets as several guns opened up on full auto from the trail above. Leaves puffed up around him, and clipped twigs and splinters flew into the air, falling on him as he struggled to move. With a huge effort, he rolled up and over the log as he felt two smashing blows in his side and back.
He gave a hoarse cry and went headfirst over the log, fighting for consciousness before he hit the ground. One arm still showed on the trailside of the log, until it slowly slid from sight, leaving a trail of crimson on top of the log.
After the attack, the silence of the forest was nearly total, and the sound of a man laughing came clearly down the slope.
3
The steady spattering of blood on the leaves was the first thing Trent heard when he came to. His blurred vision could barely see the blood dripping from his nose. He turned and looked painfully at the sun, surprised to see it had moved hardly at all. He must have been out only a few minutes.
Using the log as a crutch, he got his feet under him. Looking longingly up the hill he realized everything he needed was still up there somewhere with his horse. He had his pistol, and the hunting knife. It would have to do.
Trent started to walk… and fell on his face.
All right, he’d crawl. Just like swimming. Reach out and grab a handful of dirt, and pull it toward you…
4
Three men rode out on the trail, having gingerly traversed the bluff. They stopped to survey the damage.
“What do you think, Red?” Pagan Reeves was searching the brush below for any sign of Trent. All they could see was the red-stained log.
“I think we got us one dead marshal.”
Shoving his rifle down in the boot, Pagan turned in the saddle. “I didn’t hear you shooting, Hobbs.”
Hobbs shook his head. “Not much of a back shooter, Pagan.”
“Hell, what’s the difference? You’re just as dead one way as the other.” Pagan eyed the merc suspiciously. “You’re not getting religion on me, are you? I never heard of a born-again raider.” Both he and Seaver laughed.
Hobbs pulled his horse back from the trail. “You boys go on to the Springs. I think we’ll part company here.” His rifle remained pointed at the two men, who were staring angrily at him.
“When you’re out, you’re out.” Pagan’s voice was low and threatening. “No second chances.”
“Don’t try to scare me. I don’t feel like laughing right now.”
After the two men had pounded down the trail, Ben Hobbs sat looking down at the place he knew Trent must be. Sighing, he began a careful descent from the trail into the ravine. Hell of a way to go, he thought, but he could at least bury him. He owed him that much, anyway.
Hobbs approached the blood-stained log. It had taken longer to find it than he first thought it would, and he was anxious to be on his way. Pagan might decide to come back and use him for target practice. Hurriedly he looked over the top of the log.
Trent was gone.
With a soft curse, Hobbs quickly looked around for a trail. It was easy to find. Trent hadn’t gone far.
The Marshal’s scalp wound still bled slightly, the rest of his body seemed painted in red. Hobbs felt for a pulse and was shocked to find it—not strong, but steady. He sat back on his heels a moment, thinking it out. He would retrieve Trent’s horse and take him to the Sanchez ranch. If he lived that long, so be it. It was too dangerous to take him back to Big Springs. Murdock was not that good of a medic anyway. And Pagan would be there. Nodding his head, Hobbs started moving.
5
Hours later, he was hailed at a sentry post. “It’s Ben Hobbs. I got a wounded man here, and thought you might want him.”
“You are alone, Hobbs?” Cruz had come up silently behind him, holding his short M-4 level with Hobbs’s belly.