Dead or Alive kk-12 Read online

  “Anything else you’d like me to pass on?” Vanmeter asked.

  “Tell her I’ll call as soon as I can,” Clayton replied.

  “Ten-four.”

  Clayton ended the transmission, spread open a map on his sleeping bag, and used a flashlight to study it. Except for one drink in a streambed, the horses had gone without water since afternoon. In the morning, he needed to get them to the nearest water source before setting out on Larson’s trail. He noted the closest water to his position, judged it to be less than two miles away, folded the map, and turned off the flashlight. He’d skip breakfast and get started before daybreak. That way he’d be back on Larson’s trail early.

  Where the rangeland ran against the foothills, a Forest Service road cut through a canyon and traveled deep into the mountains before ultimately hooking up to a state road that led to the tiny village of Costilla, just south of the Colorado border. There were some primitive campgrounds along the way, up around Ash Mountain, but for the most part the area was mainly wilderness.

  For all his adult years, what Kerry Larson loved to do best with his free time was hunt, and time and again he had gone into the backcountry looking to take his annual buck during deer season. In the last twelve years he’d rarely failed to bring a big one home for the freezer.

  Kerry knew every Jeep trail, game trail, old abandoned mining road, footpath, and backcountry trace in those mountains. And by nightfall he was five miles beyond where he’d hidden his truck, sitting next to the bank of a crystal-clear stream that fed into the Vermejo River, wrapped in his coat to keep away the chill, eating peanut butter and crackers for his supper.

  He figured to be north of the lodge at the ranch by mid morning, and no more than two hours away on foot from the valley where he and Craig had found that cave so long ago. If Craig wasn’t already there, he would wait for him. And when he came, Kerry would make him give himself up to the police.

  Kerry washed down his peanut butter and crackers with some water, curled up on a bed of pine needles he’d fashioned next to the streambed, and let the sound of rushing water lull him to sleep.

  Craig Larson slept well but woke hungry. Hiking up and down ravines, canyons, and mountains, sometimes having to almost drag his horse to come along behind him, had given him quite an appetite. He checked the supply of food he’d taken from the pantry at the line camp in Dawson where Truman Goodson had caught his bullet. He was down to one can of sardines. He ate it quickly and saddled his horse. It was time to get more provisions, and that meant paying a visit to the ranch lodge. But first, he needed to find water and grass for the horse.

  After two hours of difficult riding over rocky ground and through dense tree cover, Larson broke clear into a long finger-like meadow ringed by tall pines, causing a startled doe and her fawn to bolt for the woods. He dismounted and walked the horse to a stream where they both drank before he turned the animal loose to graze on the tall grass.

  Larson wasn’t exactly sure of his location, but he knew he was beyond the coal mine and the gravel pit and more or less parallel to the pavement that dead-ended at the ranch. Eventually he would top out on a summit that overlooked the valley where the lodge nestled. Once there, he’d stop and make a plan on how to conduct his attack.

  He thought about Truman Goodson and decided to give him the moniker of “Good Old Truman.” That way he could join Kid Cuddy, Ugly Nancy, Cowgirl Tami, and Porky Pettibone as victims firmly entrenched in Larson’s mind. And how could he forgot la cucaracha, Bertie Roach, whose neck he’d snapped in that Albuquerque motel? An idea surfaced that he needed to come up with nicknames for all the people he’d killed. It would make the memorial plaque that much more historically interesting.

  Larson let the horse graze for a good long time before riding on. Underneath a tall pine, he looked back and saw a rider trailing three horses come into view at the far end of the meadow. He pulled the Weatherby from the scabbard and looked through the scope. It was the Indian-looking cop he’d seen coming out of the Raton motel with the state police officer.

  He sighted in on the cop and squeezed off a round. Horse and rider went down in the tall grass and neither got up. The three riderless horses, one saddle mount and two pack animals, scampered back into the trees.

  Larson dismounted and fired five more rounds at the spot where the horse and rider had fallen. From his vantage point he couldn’t tell if his shots had hit the mark. He waited a good ten minutes for any sign of life before scrambling partway up the slope to see if his quarry was down.

  He cautiously peered around a tree and a bullet almost took his ear off. Larson blind-fired rounds before retreating to his mount and riding away. He figured the cop’s horse was dead. If the cop was unharmed, he’d have to round up his scattered animals before he could continue the chase.

  Larson decided to get to higher ground, find a good spot, and pick the cop off if and when he closed the gap.

  Cradling his rifle in his elbows, Clayton belly-crawled through the tall grass. He made it to the tree line, found cover, called in a 10-55, officer under fire, gave his location, and inspected the leg his roan had fallen on. From what he could tell it was maybe a pulled ligament and not broken. Standing behind a thick pine tree for protection, he stood up and put some weight on the leg. It didn’t buckle.

  He keyed his handheld and reported he was limping a bit but otherwise unhurt, then went looking for the buckskin and the two packhorses, and found them one by one. He returned to the edge of the meadow, secured the horses, and crawled back to the dead roan. It had taken all six rounds meant for Clayton. Keeping his head down, he removed the animal’s saddle and bridle, secured it on his back, and crawled to where the horses waited.

  Kerney’s voice came over the handheld as Clayton was about to circle the meadow and attempt to get behind Larson.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “Affirmative.”

  “I’m in a chopper five miles out. Give me your exact GPS coordinates.”

  Clayton did as asked. “I’m at the near edge of a narrow meadow,” he added. “You can’t miss it.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “If you’re planning to come along with me,” Clayton said, “eighty-six the idea. The roan is dead and I’m riding the buckskin.”

  “You’re not getting shot at again without backup,” Kerney countered. “Put your saddle on one of the packhorses and stay off my buckskin. How far ahead is Larson?”

  “No more than an hour if you hurry and he isn’t perched somewhere up high waiting to pick us off.”

  “Is the meadow big enough for a safe landing?”

  “It is.” Clayton could hear the approaching chopper.

  “Cover us if it’s a hot LZ.”

  “Ten-four.”

  The bird came over the ridgeline, dropped fast into the meadow, and made a quick pass from one end to the other before delivering Kerney, who tumbled out the door and zigzagged to the trees.

  Clayton walked to him and handed the reins to the buckskin. “Hold this while I saddle the packhorse,” he said.

  “You’re limping,” Kerney replied, eyeing Clayton’s leg.

  “Yeah, I’m limping and you’ve got a crabby gut.” Clayton unhitched the frame from a packhorse and wrestled it to the ground.

  “I’m better.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Clayton answered. “As soon as I’m on horseback I’ll be better too, because I won’t be limping.”

  Kerry Larson hiked through a thinned-out stand of trees at the edge of the valley where the Vermejo River gurgled clear and cold in a rocky streambed. He was well north of the ranch lodge, with one tall summit left to climb to reach the secluded valley where he and his brother had long ago rebuilt the old corral.

  Kerry had been back several times since then on solo elk hunting trips. He always took some time to visit the hidden cave with the Indian drawings and watch the small herd of buffalo that roamed the fenced-in valley.

  Although he h
ad no way to prove it, Kerry knew for certain that his brother would come to that valley, and it wasn’t just the mountain man comment that made him know it. In the past, he’d have hunches Craig was about to call him or had sent him something in the mail, and it would happen just like he thought.

  He started up the mountain, his thighs aching from the effort, his calves still sore from his steep descent into the valley. He paused for a drink of water from the canteen in his backpack. What could he say to Craig to make him stop running? He had always bossed Kerry around, but not this time. Not this time.

  Kerry concentrated his thoughts as he climbed, trying hard to put together words he could use to get Craig to do the right thing and give himself up.

  Craig Larson heard the chopper and changed his mind about lying in wait to bushwhack the cop. He’d already passed beyond the meadow and didn’t want to return and risk the possibility that the helicopter had landed and disgorged a half dozen more cops who were already scrambling up the hillside to run him down. He guided the horse through the trees as fast as it would go, stopping occasionally to listen for the sound of pursuit. Except for the wind in the trees and brief bird songs all was quiet behind him.

  Larson walked the horse sideways down a steep gully where the tree cover parted enough to give him a glimpse of the highway below. Beyond the slight curve in the road he caught sight of a stretch of grassland, and hurried the gelding along to take a better look. He broke free of the trees on a rock shelf that gave him an unobstructed view of the valley and the ranch lodge with its many outbuildings, barns, stables, and corrals.

  The lodge was an old timber-frame building with a pitched shingled roof, deep verandas, and massive stone chimneys. The guest parking lot adjacent to the building held a dozen expensive passenger cars and SUVs.

  The barns and outbuildings sprinkled through the sheltered valley were of the same design as the lodge. A rectangular building set well back behind the stables had a gravel lot at the rear where an assortment of much less expensive vehicles were parked. Larson figured it to be staff housing.

  In a large paddock in front of the stables were several sleek, fine-looking horses. Larson decided to bypass the lodge, see what kind of food he could grab in the staff quarters, and get a fresh mount from the paddock.

  He doubted he would be able to get in and out without being spotted, so he checked the magazine in the Glock autoloader to make sure it was full before backing the horse off the outcropping and following a well-worn trail down to the valley.

  Once on the valley floor, Larson spurred his horse toward the staff quarters, expecting to be seen and challenged. But nobody came to intercept him. He made it safely to the stables only to be greeted by a young freckle-faced woman who stepped outside to meet him.

  “Can I help you?” the young woman asked.

  Larson smiled as he slid off the horse, stuck the Glock in the young woman’s face, and hustled her back inside the stables.

  “Why yes you can, Cutie Pie,” he said. “Tell me, where is everyone else beside you?”

  “You’re that man,” the woman replied, almost screeching. “That man.”

  Larson put her in a headlock and pressed the Glock against her eye. “I’ve got no time for small talk, Cutie Pie. Where is everybody?”

  Cutie Pie swallowed hard before answering. “Most of the guests are out on a trail ride with our wranglers. The others are on a birding walk with our wildlife manager. And the lodge staff are getting ready for an early evening wedding reception.”

  “That’s good, Cutie Pie,” Larson said, easing the pressure on her neck. “The building behind the stables is where the staff lives, right?”

  The woman nodded. She had pretty blue eyes filled with tears.

  “Who is there right now?”

  “Nobody. Everyone’s at work.”

  “What about the gardeners who keep the grounds shipshape?”

  “There’s only one gardener and he’s helping set up for the wedding party.”

  “Is there food at the staff quarters?”

  “Yes, we have our own kitchen.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” Larson released his grip and poked her in the kidney with the Glock. “Act natural. Try to run, and I’ll kill you. Scream or shout, and I’ll kill you. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Inside the staff quarters, Larson found the refrigerator and cupboards well stocked. He ordered Cutie Pie to fill a pillowcase with food and carry it back to the stables.

  He walked behind her, prodding her along with the Glock. “What’s your name, Cutie Pie?” he asked.

  “Celia Calvin.”

  “I’m gonna make you famous.”

  “How? By murdering me?”

  Larson laughed as he pushed her into the stables. “I probably should. No, I’m gonna let you live so you can tell people Craig Larson didn’t hurt you much.”

  “How much is not much?”

  Larson slapped her. “I hate a smart mouth on a woman. Don’t make me change my mind about killing you. You tell them I didn’t violate you. No rapine, as the old-timers used to call it. You tell them Craig Larson was a gentleman. That he tipped his hat to you and thanked you for the food and the loan of a horse. You got that?”

  “Okay.”

  “Say it!” Larson ordered with a snarl.

  “No rapine,” she replied in a shaky voice. “You were a gentleman who treated me like a lady.”

  Larson bared his teeth and smiled. “That’s good. Real good. Bring that chestnut mare in here and saddle it for me.”

  Celia did as she was told. When she finished, he clubbed her on the side of the head with the Glock, laid her facedown on the floor, hogtied her with rope, and stuck a rag in her mouth. He packed the food from the pillowcase into saddlebags, transferred the sheathed Weatherby to his fresh horse, and mounted up.

  Behind the stables and the staff quarters, the forest underbrush had been cleared and the trees thinned, creating a parklike setting. There were several well-marked trails that led to vantage points above the valley, complete with signs giving the mileage to each destination. Larson followed the trail that took him in the general direction of the buffalo pasture and the cave hidden in the mountainside.

  He was about to leave the trail and strike out cross-country when a man packing a sidearm and leading a group of four sturdy-looking boomers, two men and two women, came into view. They all had binoculars around their necks and wore floppy hats, hiking shorts, and hiking boots.

  When the man with the pistola held up his hand and told Larson to stop, he shot him with the Glock. The boomers looked on in stunned silence for a minute until one of the women started to scream.

  He pointed the Glock at her but didn’t pull the trigger. “Shut the fuck up,” he yelled.

  She covered her mouth and gagged for air.

  “I should kill you all,” Larson announced, “but I won’t. Because I want you to tell the law it was a fair fight. You tell them he was gonna draw down on me. Understand?”

  The foursome nodded in unison.

  Larson waved the Glock at the dead man. “What was his name?”

  “Wade Christopher,” one of the men replied, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

  Larson smiled. “Wade. I like that name. It’s a good Western name. I’m proud to have shot him down.” He pointed the Glock in the direction of the lodge. “Get going, before I change my mind.”

  The foursome moved quickly around the body, sidestepped Larson on the chestnut mare, and scurried down the trail. He fired a couple of bullets in the air to hurry them along and continued up the mountain.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clayton and Kerney arrived at the ranch and learned that a young woman, sobbing in the arms of the resort manager, had been knocked unconscious and tied up by Larson. Four very distraught lodge guests who’d witnessed Larson shoot down the ranch wildlife manager on a hiking trail huddled nearby. They didn’t know if the victim was alive or dead.

  Cla
yton called it in as they rode hard to reach the spot where the man had been gunned down. Before they were out of sight of the lodge, the first of a string of wailing squad cars could be heard coming up the canyon.

  At the crime scene Kerney advised Vanmeter by radio that the victim was dead.

  “According to the resort manager, there’s a large group of guests out on a guided trail ride,” he added, “and a wedding reception is scheduled for this evening at the lodge. Let’s get the reception canceled, a roadblock set up on the ranch road to keep people out, the trail riders found and brought in, all guests and staff accounted for, and everyone under police protection, ready to be evacuated quickly if need be.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “We’re moving on,” Kerney said.

  “Best to wait for backup,” Vanmeter replied.

  “There’s no time to wait. We’re closer to Larson than we’ve ever been. Put some SWAT sharpshooters on the chopper, bring them to the ranch, and have them ready to go airborne at a moment’s notice. That’s our backup. I’ll call for it if and when we need it.”

  “Affirmative. Be careful out there.”

  “Let’s all be careful,” Kerney replied.

  Up ahead, Clayton waited impatiently. When Kerney joined up, Clayton pointed at trampled bunchgrass under some trees.

  “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.”