He couldn't tell if the first shot had passed through his upper arm into his lung. The shots had come from above him on the canyon rim. The shooter would have to work his way down to confirm his kill.
He stayed motionless, opened his eyes, and saw nothing. He thought about trying to crawl to the day pack for his handgun and gave up on the idea. Even if he could make it to the pack, he couldn't see to shoot.
He would play dead and hope his sight came back. He listened intently, trying to make out the crunch of footsteps, the whisper of movement through the trees, the sound of snapping twigs. He felt pretty stupid about coming up the canyon alone.
Then he lost consciousness.
Kerney arrived at the Catron County Sheriff's Department expecting to find Jim Stiles stashed away in a cubbyhole studying Jose Padilla's papers.
Instead, he encountered a lone dispatcher in the outer office who looked like a younger version of Omar Gatewood, with the same puffy cheeks and stocky frame.
Kerney introduced himself and asked for Stiles.
"Ain't here," the boy replied.
"He's up in Padilla Canyon."
"Doing what?"
"Don't know. Said for you to meet him there. At the old mine."
"When did he leave?"
"About three hours ago."
Kerney pointed to the radio.
"Call him up."
"Can't," the kid replied.
"Transmitter won't reach into the canyon. It's a blind spot."
"Who can talk to him?"
"The forest lookout on Mangas can," the kid replied.
"Call," Kerney suggested.
"See if they've had any contact with Stiles."
"Sure thing."
The kid made contact, and Kerney listened to the conversation. There had been no communication between Stiles and the lookout tower.
The kid looked up at Kerney.
"Anything else?"
"Who's working in the tower?"
"Henry Lujan."
"Ask Henry the quickest way to get to Padilla Canyon."
"I can tell you that," the kid replied.
"Fine. Then ask Henry to get Stiles on the radio.
Tell him to keep trying until he gets a response."
"Ten-four," the kid replied. He passed along the message and gave Kerney directions to Padilla Canyon.
"Put search and rescue on standby," Kerney said, as he headed for the door.
"And tell your father."
The kid's eyes brightened. This might turn out to be as good as the Elderman Meadows murder. He was keying the microphone before the door slammed behind Kerney.
Kerney found Jim's truck and started up the trail at a fast pace, his anger with Stiles building as he ran. Going into the canyon alone was dumb, and failing to call in made it worse-raising the possibility that something had gone wrong.
He pushed himself to run faster, and his knee almost buckled in protest.
He hated the damn thing for slowing him down. The pain that ran like a spike up his thigh he could handle, it was the permanent sub par performance the knee caused that really pissed him off.
Finally the knee locked up and he was forced into a slow trot. Pockets of white clouds, empty of any rain, blocked the late-afternoon sun and cooled him down, but he had lost a lot of body fluid and his mouth felt like dry cotton. He started sprinting again when he saw Stiles sprawled in front of the mine entrance. Breathing hard, he reached Jim and bent over his body. He was alive but unconscious.
His face was a bloody mess, and his left eyelid was almost torn off. A bullet had cut through muscle in Jim's left arm and he was bleeding freely. On the ground were the shattered remains of a flashlight.
Using his handkerchief as a tourniquet Kerney stemmed the flow of blood and checked Jim's pulse.
It was fast and erratic, and his skin felt cool to the touch.
Jim's day pack yielded a first-aid kit. Working as quickly as possible, Kerney cut off the sleeve with a pocket knife, cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide, and bandaged it. When he saw the small dark stain on Jim's shirt pocket he flinched. Quickly he ripped the shirt open and found nothing but a deep bruise on the rib cage. If the flashlight casing and batteries hadn't stopped the bullet. Stiles would be dead.
He pulled a soggy handkerchief from Jim's shirt pocket and took a whiff.
It smelled like motor oil.
Using the hand-held radio, Kerney called Henry Lujan at the lookout tower, gave his location, and reported an officer down. He picked Stiles up, carried him to the creek, stretched him on the ground, raised his feet, and covered him with a sweater and tarp from the day pack. He flushed Jim's face with water, cleaning off the blood and some of the rock fragments, working carefully around the eyes. Then he gently put gauze over each eye and taped them for protection. Stiles moaned as Kerney finished up.
"You're going to live," Kerney said.
"Jesus, Kerney, is that you?"
"It's me."
"I can't see a fucking thing."
"Your eyes are patched."
"Am I blind?"
"I don't think so. Who shot you?"
"Didn't see him. It happened too fast. The son of a bitch probably followed me up the canyon."
"No. I saw only your tracks on the way in. Who knew you were coming?"
Stiles forced a small laugh.
"Probably half the county. I used the police frequency to give my destination. Every citizen with a scanner could have been listening."
Kerney started stuffing some aspirin in Jim's mouth.
"What are you doing?" Stiles mumbled, his mouth half full of capsules, as Kerney put the canteen to Jim's mouth.
"Aspirin," he explained.
"It will dull the pain a bit." K-erney watched Stiles drink deeply.
When Jim finished, he treated himself to a swallow, and looked around for a chopper landing site. The canyon was too narrow for a helicopter to fly in, and there was no adequate clearing where it could set down.
He looked back at Jim. Stiles needed to get to a hospital as quickly as possible.
"Can you walk?" Kerney asked.
"Help me up," Stiles replied weakly.
Kerney stuffed the gear back into the pack, slung it over his arm, got Stiles to his feet, and walked him a few yards down the canyon. Jim leaned heavily against him, wobbly and uncoordinated. Walking him out wasn't going to work; he would have to be carried. Kerney put the day pack on Stiles and slung the man on his back. When Jim protested that he could make it under his own steam, Kerney told him to shut up.
Each time Kerney stopped for a brief rest, Jim told him a bit more of what had happened. They heard the chopper long before it passed overhead, and soon the distant sound of sirens echoed through the mountains. Kerney picked up the pace. After a long stretch without stopping, Kerney stumbled and almost fell flat on his face. He put Stiles down and collapsed next to him.
"Almost there," he said, gasping, trying not to sound completely winded.
His chest was heaving, and his knee felt as if someone had pounded it with a hammer.
"Let me try to walk."
"There's no need," Kerney replied. Four search and-rescue team members came into view, trotting quickly up the canyon.
"We're about to be rescued."
Stiles turned his head in the direction of Kerney's voice.
"Did I remember to thank you?"
"You just did," Kerney answered, removing the day pack from Jim's back.
He turned Stiles over to a paramedic, who did a quick check of vital signs, started an IV, elevated Jim's feet, and wrapped him in a blanket.
The patches over Jim's eyes were removed, the damage quickly assessed, and fresh dressings applied. Kerney's spirits sank as the paramedic pointed to his own left eye, shook his head, and made a face, before ordering his companions to put Jim on a stretcher.