The feeling of dread seemed to increase in direct proportion to the altitude, Joe thought. The sharp smell of pine and sweating horses, the gritty taste of dust from the trail, the beating of his heart as the air got thinner—it was as if he’d never been away. For the third time in an hour, Joe reached out and touched the butt plate of his shotgun with the tips of his fingers, as if assuring himself it was there.
Apparently, Nate saw him do it, said, “Remember what I said.”
Joe said, “Yup.”
“So we’re agreed that the best way to do this is to drive hard on our own, right?” Nate said. “We’re going to try to catch up with those boys while they’re within striking distance? And we aren’t going to give a good goddamn about all of the drummers on their way here right now?”
“Yup.”
Nate said, “Okay, then.”
Joe said, “I feel like we owe it to those brothers to find them before they’re cornered by the cavalry that’ll be coming.”
“Even though the result may be the same,” Nate said.
28
THEY FOLLOWED THE TRACKS OF THE HORSES THAT HAD BEEN there before them into the mountains. Joe determined that the men from Michigan had six horses. What he couldn’t tell was if that meant there were six men total or if at least a couple of the animals were packhorses. The horses they were following had been recently shod, based on the sharp edges of the imprints in the dust and mud.
But who were they, these men? And how did Dave Farkus get hooked up with them? Joe’s best guess was Farkus stumbled on the men and was taken along—or disposed of along the way. The purpose of the riders was unclear as well, although Joe was pummeled with the many connections to Michigan and the Upper Peninsula that kept cropping up. Were these riders after the brothers? Or allies with them?
Joe and Nate quickly fell into a procedure where if they wanted or needed to talk, they would sidle next to each other on horseback so they could lean into each other and keep their voices down. Joe sidestepped his horse off the trail and let Nate catch up and rein to stop.
Joe said, “What do you think happened to the boys from Michigan?”
Nate narrowed his eyes while looking ahead of them up the mountain. “All I know is that they haven’t come back down the trail to their vehicles. That says they’re still up here. Or that they aren’t ever coming down.”
“I’d opt for the latter,” Joe said, leaning on the pommel and looking ahead.
“I’m trying to figure out why the brothers went after their vehicles,” Nate said. “It seems kind of pointless to expose themselves that way.”
Joe nodded. “Unless the purpose was more general.”
Nate caught Joe’s meaning. He said, “Like a warning to everybody out there that if you try to go after the brothers, they’ll come around behind you and destroy your property. They’re saying, Stay the hell out of these mountains.”
“Just like the message they gave Sheriff Baird,” Joe said.
Nate started to say something but didn’t. He swallowed and made a face as if he’d tasted something bitter.
AS HE RODE, Joe continually scanned the trail up ahead of him and shot hard looks into the trees lining both sides. His shotgun was within quick reach. If the brothers didn’t know they were being pursued, it was possible he and Nate could simply ride up on them. He wanted to be ready.
The afternoon sun lengthened the shadows across the trail and enhanced the fall colors of the aspen into almost blinding acrylic hues. It would be effortless for the brothers to simply meld into the throbbing colors of the trees and for Joe not to see them, he thought.
A doe mule deer and her fawn stayed ahead of them on the trail and Joe kept seeing her at each turn. She’d graze with the fawn until the horses came into sight, then startle with a white flap of her tail and bound ahead again and again. Joe wished she’d move off the trail for good, because each time she saw him and jumped, his heart did, too.
AN HOUR LATER, as dusk muffled the eastside slopes and the acrylic colors muted into pastels, Joe again spooked the doe and fawn. But rather than running ahead along the trail where it narrowed and squeezed through the trunks of two massive spruce trees, the deer cut into the timber to the right. Joe was pleased the deer had finally got out of the way, but then he saw them reappear yet again on the trail farther up the mountain slope like before.
Instinctively, he leaned back in the saddle and pulled back on the reins. He said, “Hold it, Nate,” quietly over his shoulder.
Nate rode up alongside. “Are you wondering if the packhorse and panniers are going to fit through that narrow chute?”
“No,” Joe said. “I’m wondering why those deer went around in the trees instead of staying on the game trail.”
JOE AND NATE approached the trap from behind after tying off their horses in the trees. The design of the trap was a brutal work of art, Joe thought. And if it weren’t for the deer, he would have ridden right into it.
The brothers had cut down and trimmed a green lodgepole pine tree about as thick as Joe’s fist near the base. The base was wedged into the gap between two branches on the large spruce, then bowed back almost to the point of breaking before being tied off with wire. The wire was fed through a smooth groove around the tree trunk and stretched ankle-high across the trail. It was tied off to a set of ten-inch lengths of wood that were notched back and fitted into one another. A thick foot-long sharpened stake was lashed to the tip of the lodgepole. If the wire was tripped, the notched lengths would pull apart sideways and release the tension that held the cocked arm and stake back.
“Chest high for a rider,” Joe said, absently rubbing a spot just below his clavicle.
Nate found a stump in the timber and carried it toward the trap from behind. “Stand back,” he said, and threw the stump with a grunt. It landed on the wire, which yanked the notched sticks apart and sent the lodgepole and stake slicing through the air with surprising speed and velocity.
While the pole and stake rocked back and forth, Joe said, “This was more than a warning to stay away.”
“That it is,” Nate said, inspecting the cuts on the lodgepole where branches had been trimmed away. With his fingertip, he touched an amber bead of sap that oozed from one of the cuts. “Fresh,” he said. “The boys probably put this up within the last couple of days. Maybe they’re expecting us.”
At that moment, far up the mountainside, was the harsh crackle of snapping branches. Joe and Nate locked eyes for a moment, then dived for the ground. They lay helplessly while a dislodged boulder the size of a small car smashed down the slope leveling small trees and splintering big ones along its path. The boulder rolled end-over-end, coming within ten yards of where they were on the trail. Remarkably, the horses didn’t snap their tethers and run away.
When the boulder finally stopped rolling and settled noisily below them, Joe stood up. The sharp smell of broken pine trees was in the air, along with the damp odor of churned-up soil.
“Man . . .” Joe whispered.
“They’re real close,” Nate said. “And they know we’re right behind them.”
WHEN THEY RODE to the edge of the tree line, Joe and Nate paused on their horses before continuing up. The sun had sunk behind the western mountains an hour before. The moon was narrow and white, a toenail clipping, and the wash of stars was so bright and close as to be almost creamy. Ahead of them was a long expanse of treeless scree. The trail they were on switchbacked up through the scree, but dissolved into darkness near the top of the summit.
“I can’t see what’s up there,” Joe whispered. “But we’ll be in the open. This would be a great place to get ambushed.”