“More blood here,” Sergeant Brayton said, pointing to a thick splash on a rock. “I say they’ve got her in a tourniquet and probably have a coagulant patch on the wound.”
“Fresh?”
He touched the blood. “Sticky. Hours ago. But she’s hit hard. As long as Max can stay on the scent, we will find her.”
We moved closer to the alpine bowl, scanning the steep mountain flanks that soared above it, looking for people climbing out. A quarter of a mile from the open ground, we passed through thick groves of low spruce, like Christmas trees, the kind of place Brayton said a wounded creature might hole up. We all had our AR guns at port arms, ready in case we got in a firefight.
I admit I suffered a few moments of incredible anxiety easing through the last hundred yards of Christmas trees, sure that M’s men were going to spring up and mow us down as they’d done to so many of the cartel gunmen behind us.
Fifty yards from the edge where the trees met rocky alpine terrain, there was a tremendous crash to our right. We all spun toward it, guns shouldered, hearing more crashes, the dog barking wildly.
There was a flash of brown ahead of us. A cow elk and her calf broke from the timber with a clatter and snapped branches as they bolted out of sight.
“I almost had a heart attack there,” Mahoney said.
“I almost soiled myself there,” Sampson said.
My temples were pounding with my racing heart. But I laughed as I lowered the gun. Out in the bowl itself, we found another splash of fresher blood on a game trail that led toward a notch high in the cliffs above us.
“That’s midmorning,” Brayton said, staring up the steep path that led to the notch. “She’s tough, I’ll give you that.”
Lightning flashed again. The bolt hit the ridge to our right. The rain came in a deluge that swept toward us like a dark curtain.
“That’s it,” Sergeant Brayton said, turning Maximus around. “Not even Mr. Nose Wizard could follow a track in these conditions.”
The rain hit us and we were soaked before we reached the Christmas trees.
“The chopper can’t come for us in this kind of weather,” Mahoney said. “We’ll have to hike back.”
“Better we jog back, stay warm,” Sergeant Brayton said. “This is classic hypothermia weather.”
“What’s back up that trail?” I asked. “I mean, over that ridge?”
“Eight miles of wilderness and misery before you hit a web of logging roads.”
Chapter 72
Matthew Butler, Big David Dawkins, and J. P. Vincente ignored the rain, the lightning, and the thunder, totally absorbed in working on their burglar’s right thigh. They had Alison Purdy on her back below a tarp they’d rigged between several saplings to keep her and the wound dry.
Her pant leg was slit open. She had a piece of stick wrapped in a bandanna in her mouth, and she bit into it and screamed every time they probed the wound.
“Think I feel it,” Dawkins said. “But I’m going to have to go deeper, Alison.”
“Gimme more oxy,” she said, panting. “Everything in my bugout kit.”
Months before, as a precaution in case they ever had to escape the ranch on foot, Butler had insisted they stash packs filled with survival gear, medical supplies, ammunition, and new identity documents a mile up the canyon, off the trail in an old bear den.
They’d reached the den within an hour of the cartel’s retreat and began tending to Purdy’s wound, from a shard of grenade shrapnel within inches of her femoral artery. They put her in a tourniquet, doused the wound with antibiotic gels, and used blood-coagulant patches to stanch the flow until they could get her to a doctor.
With the three men rotating as Purdy’s assist, they’d climbed steadily out of Fell’s Creek Canyon and down into the far drainage. Even with the help of three men, Purdy had a hard time; she’d been weakened by the ordeal. Butler realized they were going to have to remove the shrapnel if they were to make it the last five miles to an old Toyota Land Cruiser he’d left covered with logging slash in the early spring.
Big DD groped in Purdy’s kit and found the painkillers.
“How many?” she asked.
“Six,” he said.
“Gimme all of them,” she said.
“Negative,” Dawkins said. “You’ll stop breathing. You get three now and three when we’re done.”
Purdy didn’t like it but nodded and held out her palm for the pills, which she threw in her mouth and washed down with water. “I wish this was vodka.”
“I bet you do,” Butler said.
They waited twenty minutes, until the rain began to subside, before trying again, using surgical tools to retract the wound and probe deeper with forceps. Even with the added painkiller, Purdy was weeping and biting down hard on the stick in her mouth.
Butler felt the tip of the forceps click against something. “Hold her, now,” he said to Vincente, who held Purdy down by her shoulders. “This is going to hurt.”
He spread the forceps, drove them deeper, and grabbed the shrapnel as Purdy writhed and screamed bloody murder.
“Hold her, I said!”
Big DD lay across her torso as Butler drew out a thin, jagged blade of metal about an inch long. To his relief, there was no pumping artery blood flooding the wound. “Got it,” he said. “Alison, I just need to sew you up now.”
Purdy was drenched in sweat and disoriented when Vincente and Dawkins got off her. Butler doused the wound again with saline and antibiotics, cleaned the forceps with alcohol, then used them to grip a fishhook needle that he used to sew the gash shut. As he was bandaging the wound, he heard thunder booming to their west.
“We’ve got more storms coming,” he said.
“Ride it out here?” Vincente asked.
“Negative — we definitely heard that helicopter before the first storm hit. Someone’s looking for us, so we go fast and hard under cover of the rain. And there’s a bigger med kit in the rig. I can give her IV antibiotics and morphine, get her comfortable.”
“You’ll have to carry me,” Purdy said. “No way I can take another step.”
“I’ll carry you, Alison,” Big DD said. “No problemo.”
“We all will,” Vincente said, taking down the tarp. He sawed two of the saplings and lashed the tarp between them. Ten minutes later, as the rain and wind picked up again, they lifted Purdy into the makeshift litter and set off.
Chapter 73
Thunderstorm after thunderstorm with violent lightning and driving rain battered south-central Wyoming that afternoon. It was nearly six before we exited the canyon behind the Circle M Ranch. We were all soaked, shivering, and hungry.
The army of federal, state, and local law enforcement personnel had removed most of the bodies, but a swarm of crime scene techs were still at work, searching every building and seizing evidence, as the last storm petered out.
Even Maximus seemed happy when we climbed up the porch of one of the cabins that agents said was unoccupied and heated. We crammed in there and kept warm while they found dry clothes for us all.
While we waited, Karl Paulson, the FBI supervising special agent in Cheyenne, filled us in on what had been found, learned, and done since we went into the canyon after Maestro’s surviving men.
Due to the violence of the storms, the helicopter had stayed grounded, though the pilot planned to fly as soon as the weather cleared. In the meantime, Paulson had left it in the hands of the local county sheriff to set up roadblocks outside the matrix of logging roads beyond the wilderness area.
The Laramie morgue was overwhelmed by the number of corpses. A decision had been made to keep the sixteen bodies of the ranch hands and their families local for identification. The forty-two bodies of the cartel gunmen and the corpse of Dale Cortland were being sent to Denver in a refrigerated truck for autopsy.