Season of Death (15 page)

Trudging out of the undergrowth, they saw Billy Bob wading toward them. Or at least, making an attempt. He was wet to the knees, the expression on his face was something between panic and despair. He crept upstream a few paces, then back down, trying to work up the nerve to follow Ray’s precarious lead.

Ray waved him back toward shore. “Get back on the bank!”

The cowboy lifted his arms in a gesture of frustration. “What’re we gonna do?”

“Remember the rafts upriver?” Ray called.

“What about ‘em?”

“We’re going to head back up there and see if those people have a radio.”

Billy Bob nodded. “Okay. But what about this?” He flailed his hands at the river.

“We’ll work up the bank and look for a place you can cross.”

“Okay … I guess,” he lamented. “Lewis, you all right?”

“Kinda all right,” Lewis replied. “Not real all right.” He pointed to his shoulder.

Ray started up the bank, mud sucking at his boots. What a day, he thought. None of them would have trouble sleeping tonight. He was exhausted, mostly from the stress of nearly drowning, twice, and dodging bullets. Having to portage and wander through the woods had taken its toll on his legs. They were sore, burning. Tomorrow they would ache. Why had he agreed to this trip?

The west side of the river was flatter, bordering a series of thin meadows that rose to greet the limestone peaks. The tundra was soggy, but manageable. There was less foliage, almost no berry bushes. The mosquitoes were thick, but a generous application of Cutter’s ameliorated the problem. After two granóla bars, Ray decided that he would live. He was still dog-tired, still convinced that the expedition was one humongous mistake, but the sugar and carbs buoyed him to a level approaching tolerance. He had regained his composure and was no longer bent on beating Lewis senseless. In fact, he almost felt sorry for the little guy. He was clearly in quite a bit of pain.

He
did
feel sorry for Billy Bob. The poor guy was slogging through thick brush, up and over sandbars and tributaries, batting at the bugs that were about to carry him away. He had no repellent, no food, no extra clothing, nothing. Worse, he was on Headcase’s side of the river. Poor kid. It was his first venture into the Bush. And judging from his haggard face and wilted posture, it might well be his last.

It took over an hour to hike past the rapids. Above the white water they were greeted by the deceivingly tranquil “calm before the storm” section of river: serene, aquamarine water dotted with yellowish gray boulders.

Ray studied the miniature atolls, his mind playing connect the dots. When a pattern presented itself, he shouted to Billy Bob, “Think you can rock hop across?”

The cowboy glared at the stepping-stones. Most were large enough to accommodate two boots, but even those closest to one another would require an agile, athletic leap. The water between islands, though smooth, looked deep and unforgiving. This river was serious. Though calmer than Ray’s crossing point, a misstep here would carry Billy Bob into the rapids below, dumping him into the boulder field like a rag doll.

“Wall … I spose I could,” he drawled back, hesitantly. “If I have ta.”

“You still have that rope?” Ray asked Lewis.

The guide nodded, his brow sunken. He looked tired, worn, ready to admit defeat.

Ray set both packs down. After digging out the rope, he fastened one end to a smooth, round stone the size of a grapefruit. “Incoming!” he yelled, heaving the rock at Billy Bob. It landed with a hollow kathunk, disappearing into an eddy. Reeling it in, he checked the knot and made another attempt. This time he hit the far bank. The stone thudded onto the steep, muddy incline, teetered, and began to roll back toward the water. Billy Bob stumbled after it, drew in the slack, and attached the rope to a clump of willows. Ray did the same with his end, tying it off on a birch with a sturdy, eight-inch trunk. The finished line was taut, running at shoulder height. It wouldn’t keep Billy Bob from missing his appointments with the stepping-stones, but it might keep him from drowning.

Grasping the line with his right hand, the cowboy stood at the edge of the bank.

“Don’t think about it too much,” Ray advised. “Take it slow. One rock at a time.”

“Okay …” He sighed. “Here goes.” Instead of going, he merely leaned, his feet seemingly unwilling to relinquish their hold on dry, solid ground.

Ray was about to offer further words of encouragement and seek out a soft place to sit down, since this had the look of a long-term project, when he saw a white-hot flash up on the ridge. A fraction of a second later a boom echoed through the canyon and on the far bank, a dollar-sized clump of gravel exploded just inches from Billy Bob’s boot. The cowboy hollered something and leapt into the river.

Ray flattened himself on the tundra as another shot whizzed down, this time toward him. The bullet struck a poplar a foot away. A third boom made the water just to the left of Billy Bob erupt in a miniature geyser.

“What da …?” Lewis hurried behind a tree.

Billy Bob was still coming, urged forward by the spray of gunfire. He reached for the safety line, jumped from one rock to the next, before the rope was cut by a single shot.

Rolling, Ray retrieved the rifle and a box of ammo from Lewis’s pack. Headcase was apparently exacting his revenge. Anytime now, he would grow weary of toying with them and start aiming to kill. Unless Ray could change his mind.

Shots were ringing out in four-fourths time, bracketing Billy Bob, causing him to perform a jerky jig across the stones. Ray fed shells into the 300 Magnum and pointed the barrel at the ridge. Headcase might have been crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. He was being careful not to give them a viable target. There was no movement, nothing to track.

A bullet found the sole of Billy Bob’s right boot and sent his leg kicking into the air. The cowboy flailed his arms wildly. Wobbling on one foot, he came ominously close to tumbling from his perch on a boulder at midstream.

Ray crouched behind a poplar and peppered the greenery below the ridge with a flurry of shots. The response to his statement was encouraging: silence. Headcase was either shocked, having assumed that they were still unarmed, or fleeing, or … wounded? Ray doubted the latter were possibilities. Headcase wasn’t the sort to back down from a fight. And the chances of hitting a man Ray couldn’t even see from this distance by firing blindly were nonexistent. More likely, the wacko was reloading.

Stuffing in more shells, Ray watched as Billy Bob bounded gracelessly across the rocks. He was three-quarters of the way home and coming hard.

Ray picked spots at random and fired, hoping to keep Headcase honest, even at bay for the remainder of the cowboy’s journey. “Get into the woods,” he told Lewis.

Injured and still reeling from the surprise attack, Lewis complied without comment. He stumbled past Ray with wide eyes, his face pale, his right arm cradled against his chest.

Billy Bob was two modest hops from shore when Headcase replied. The first bullet caught the cowboy in the left calf, the second grazing his left shoulder. He sagged as if his entire side had been deflated.

Ray showered the brush with lead and urged Billy Bob forward. “Come on!”

The cowboy seemed confused. The sudden intrusion of pain had a paralyzing effect, freezing him in place.

Ray knew that if he didn’t move, Headcase would finish the job. “Jump!!”

A bullet came at Ray, splintering the bark of his tree shield. Another dug a hole in the tundra a foot to his right. Ray retaliated by firing aimlessly.

On the last rock, Billy Bob stood, mouth hanging open as he gawked at his pant leg. It was dark red. Almost black. So was the sleeve of his parka.

“Jump!!” Ray begged. He yanked the trigger until the chamber was empty.

There was a brief calm. Ray reloaded, wondering where the next attack would come from.

Billy Bob looked to Ray in desperation, his head cocked back, as if he were about to faint. He staggered to the edge of his stone platform and gauged the effort necessary to reach the bank like a drunk about to cross a busy boulevard. His body compressed slightly, knees bending, head falling into his shoulders. He pushed off in slow motion.

There was a deafening crash. A tiny missile found the cowboy, and his long jump was aborted. He twitched and slumped forward, executing a picture-perfect belly flop before disappearing into the current.

SIXTEEN

R
AY STAGGERED FROM
behind the birch, incensed, appalled, horrified by what he had just witnessed. He ran wildly down the bank, into the river. With icy water lapping around his knees, he pointed Lewis’s 300 at the veil of greenery, issued a war whoop, and opened fire. He pulled the trigger, pulled it again, and again, and again, venting his hatred, silently willing each bullet to pierce the heart of the hidden assailant.

When the chamber was empty, he clicked off another half dozen shots, the rage slow to dissipate. Instead of reloading, he just stood there, panting, sweating, cursing softly, daring Headcase to show himself. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. A half minute. Nothing. No retort. No movement. Maybe he had gotten lucky and nailed him.

Ray was trying to calculate the chances of a blind hit when he heard something behind him: a sickly gurgle. Turning, he saw Billy Bob half-swimming, half-floating toward shore. Ray high-stepped over and dragged him unceremoniously onto the bank as if he were a punctured raft. The cowboy was heavy, limp, his breathing shallow. After spreading him out on the gravel, Ray peeled the parka back and examined the shoulder wound. The flesh had been grazed, the bullet plowing a shallow furrow just above the collarbone. It was superficial, no muscle, ligament or bone exposed, but he was bleeding. Ray applied pressure with his hand.

“Is … is it … bad?” Billy Bob whispered dramatically, like an actor in a death scene.

“No. Just a scratch,” Ray consoled. “Put your hand here and squeeze.” With Billy Bob clutching at his own shoulder, Ray rolled up the cowboy’s pant leg.

“That one there …” Billy Bob managed between labored breaths, “it burns.”

No wonder
, Ray thought, grimacing at the wound. The bullet had passed completely through the calf, leaving a ragged entrance wound on the right rear, a ragged exit wound on the left front. Surprisingly, neither hole was bleeding. Ray used his bandanna to fashion a makeshift bandage. It wasn’t sterile and would do nothing to mask the pain, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ray urged. “Can you walk?”

“I’m … I’m not shore.”

Ray helped him up and leaned him against a tree like a stick. Billy Bob had his wounded leg bent at the knee, foot suspended in the air to avoid contact with the ground.

After scanning the far bank, Ray prodded, “Can you walk or not?” Headcase probably hadn’t been hit. And it was hard to imagine the wacko being frightened away by a few poorly aimed shots. More than likely, he was sitting over there, watching them, laughing, amused by this diversion, preparing to blow them to dust.

“You want me to carry you?” Ray offered. He wasn’t sure how far they would get like that. But at least they wouldn’t be sitting ducks.

“I’m gonna try ta walk.” Stretching his leg out, the cowboy tentatively tapped the tundra with his boot. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged at Ray, suggesting that everything was fine so far.

“Good. Come on.” Ray retrieved the discarded backpacks.

Billy Bob swung his leg forward, wobbled, then collapsed with a howl of pain.

Ray worked to right him. Draping Billy Bob’s arm over his shoulder, he acted the part of a human crutch, bearing the brunt of the load on a hip. Together, they started away from the bank, haltingly, clumsily, with Billy Bob whining at each awkward hop. It took them a full minute to reach the first rank of alders. After struggling through it, Ray muttered, “At least we’re out of the line of fire … for now.”

“Thank he’ll come across after us?”

“One can only hope.” While they had survived for the moment, the picture was still decidedly dismal. Lewis was hurt. Billy Bob was hurt. There was a sociopath stalking them with a rifle. It was up to Ray to fend off the gunman, tote the group’s belongings, care for and protect his two handicapped charges, and somehow usher them to safety and medical care. Right …