“I can’t pick it up with this thing,” Farmington complained, moving his head away from the spotting scope. Everyone stared at the hillside.
“I’ve lost track of it now,” Mr. Struthers said. The scoutmaster then motioned for him and the pair huddled away from the boys.
Michael sat on the ground near them, positioning himself to listen in on the conversation. The scoutmaster had opened a large folded map—he called it a “topo”—and said they were less than two miles from the camping area near the waterfalls. Michael looked forward to sleeping in a cabin with other Tenderfoots. He was tired, hungry and wet, just like everybody else.
“Okay, Scouts,” Farmington called out. “Come on over.”
They bunched around their leader as he explained the need to keep together in a tight group until they reached the camping area, which wasn’t far. While they hiked they should talk as loud as they wanted. Sing, if they wished. Whistle. Any kind of noisemaking would be okay.
The scoutmaster said that after getting into dry clothes and getting a good night’s sleep, they could look forward to a fun hike back to the Camporee tomorrow under sunny skies. In a steady drizzle, the boys took off laughing and arguing over what marching song to sing.
While Michael walked, the Scouts passed him by one by one, just like they did on the hike at the church. It was a lot easier for them to pass by him this time because he was more tired than he’d ever been in his life. Everyone was moving too fast, trying to keep up with the leader. Michael kept falling behind until someone would look back and call out to him. Then he’d walk faster, but it was now happening more often.
He wanted to go home. When he stumbled over a rock for the third time, he lay flat for a moment and then rolled into a sitting position. The Scout ahead of him disappeared over the rim of the hill.
“Hey!” Michael shouted, but not loud enough. “Hey!” he repeated, louder.
No answer.
Maybe they didn’t want to hear him. But they’d be mad when they discovered he wasn’t around. That would slow them down, for sure.
They’d have to come all the way back for him, but he didn’t care about causing a problem anymore. Serve them right.
Larger drops of rain began to fall, stinging his face and splattering like pellets of hail in the puddles around him. He shivered. A dead log lay in weeds beside a shallow place where there might be enough room for shelter.
He crawled down into a low spot, pressed his shoulder against the log, and curled up with his face mashed against rotting bark, drawing in the musty stench with each breath. As he pulled the jacket collar up around his neck, he slid his hands inside the sleeves, yawned and leaned against his pack.
Hunger gnawed at his stomach as he squeezed shut his eyes.
FIFTY
The chopper climbed straight up and sped away, leaving behind the silence that Jack Corey had craved. He stood for a long moment, a smile across his face, then sauntered to the rushing river and stooped to examine tracks near the bank—clear prints of hard-leather boots. Hiking boots plus a hoofed animal that left behind soft impressions like a lamb on wet sand. But he knew llama tracks when he saw them. Yanking the walkie-talkie off his belt, he heaved it into the river.
He opened and checked the rifle chamber. The best strategy was to approach from a distance and call out. The bastards would be carrying weapons and he’d have to tell them to put them down. No tricks and no sudden movements or he would shoot them on the spot.
The superintendent depended on him to enforce the letter of the law. He was already counting on a big bonus for discovering the low-life poacher who’d killed the wolf over at Red Lodge. No doubt he’d get an even bigger bonus for this mission. Of course, the superintendent would try to make a big deal about it. He could see the look there’d be then on the face of Greta McFarland, the Black Princess whore.
He cradled the rifle in the bend of his left elbow while he rambled alongside the river and searched for a place to cross to put the river between him and them. One spot in fast water was shallow enough but ran too swift in narrow pockets. Couldn’t take the chance. Another place was more promising.
He stepped from the bank onto a rock that was well above the surface and then found two more within easy stretch. There was no choice but to plant a foot down into the rapid flow while he held his rifle high overhead. He sought out a foothold sandwiched between two rocks as water slapped above his knees.
His waterlogged trousers rubbed against his thighs and freezing water squished inside his boots. Focusing on the gravel bottom, he slogged along until he finally arrived at the edge of the bank where he jumped up onto the field grass.
An hour passed before he stopped to rest under a large pine. He placed the rifle barrel against the trunk and unzipped his jacket, swallowing to lubricate his dry throat. All that cold rushing water and so few ever saw it. Why the hell should they? They were too occupied waiting on Old Faithful to erupt while they sat on log benches fixated on their wristwatches. No need to worry about warnings that he’d given so many backcountry hikers, warnings about the possibility of giardia in the streams. This pure mountain water was direct from a lake at ten thousand feet.
Alert, he moved toward the bank. When he reached the river, he bent down and scooped up water with the palm of his hand. He quickly looked about before slapping a few chilled drops into his mouth. Lowering his head again, he dipped his cupped palm into the water and slurped up more as he twisted his head about to search and listen. His eyes darting back and forth, he rapidly scooped water again and again until his thirst was quenched.
He stood and grabbed his rifle.
Keep moving.
The mellow rumble of a waterfall in the distance egged him on. When he arrived at its base, his first thought was that of another wonder of the backcountry he’d never known existed. If only he had the time to sit and marvel at it, to draw near it and bathe in its spray. The path around it looked steep, but he scrambled along it until he reached the top of the falls. Out of breath, he glared at the sight before him. The Gallatin River—a mighty surge of clear, deep water—plunged over the rim.
A whiff of sulfur fumes caught him by surprise. Then he spotted the cascade of steaming water that bubbled from a crevice in the rocky ground and meandered like a scalding slime down the bank to the river.
Voices.
Crouching down, he waddled through the junipers. The long neck of a grazing llama appeared through a gap in the trees. He stooped behind a boulder and cautiously raised his head. It was them all right.
He needed to alert headquarters and reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt, first one side, then the other. Not there.
Dammit to hell!
He released the rifle’s safety. Careful not to make the slightest sound, he rested the barrel on top of a boulder, held his breath and glared at the quivering image of outlaws in the rifle’s scope. A warning shot, that was all… just a warning shot.
After the rain let up, Dieter walked the trail. He held the antenna high and tried to keep one eye on the meter while watching the ground for rocks and puddles of mud. When his arm grew tired, he switched hands. At that same moment the red light on the meter flickered.
He stopped and reoriented the antenna. The light flickered again and this time the needle on the meter’s face surged to the right.
A signal pickup?
He smacked the metal box against his hip and flipped the switch on and off when a thundering bang pierced the stillness.