There was a ten-foot drop beside them.
Harris slammed down the pedal, trying o get traction. The wheel spun feverishly, spewing mud and snow behind it, hit a fallen tree and caught. Smoke billowed from tire and log as Harris continued to spin the wheels. The Ford tilted slightly, felt for a moment like it was going to roll over, then righted itself. Harris blew out a breath and lowered his head on the steering wheel.
“Phew, that’s a ten-footer there,” he said. “Long fall in a car.”
Keegan opened the door and jumped out. He was closer to the edge than he realized. His feet foundered in the muddy snow and he had to grab the door to keep from falling into the gully. He pulled himself back up slowly and tried to shield his eyes against the frigid snow which, whipped by a deep, mournful wind, swirled through the pine forest and started to drift against the side of the vehicle. He slowly worked his way to the front of the car, then stared down at the half-frozen creek below. It looked more like a hundred feet than ten. His gaze moved to the rear of the vehicle. The left rear wheel of the Ford was half off the road, wedged against a fallen tree.
Harris got out and appraised the situation.
“Maybe I can bully it outa there,” he said, cupping his hands and yelling in Keegan’s ear. “If I can jockey it back on the trail .
“How long will it take to drive up there from here?” Keegan yelled back, interrupting him.
“We can’t get up this road, sir. Not without chains. Even then it’d be hit or miss.”
“How much farther is it?” Keegan asked.
“At least a mile.”
“We’ll walk.”
“In this storm?” Harris said with astonishment. He shook his head. “Not a chance. I know this country better’n I know my own bedroom but in this stuff we could miss the cabin. Easy as fallin’ off a roof to get lost. Hell, man, you’d freeze to death up here. A mile is forever in a blizzard.”
Keegan slammed his fist on the hood.
“Goddamn it, we’ve got our fingertips on him!” he yelled. “He’s only a bloody mile ahead of us!”
“Okay if we get back in the car and think this out?” Harris yelled. They scrambled back inside the car. Keegan pulled off his gloves and breathed on his frozen fingers.
“He’s not going anywhere in this weather,” Harris said, breathing hard. “He and Soapie will have to hole up there.”
“This guy isn’t holing up anywhere,” Keegan said. “I know him. He’s a survivor. He’s dedicated. He’s on a mission. And he’s on the run. Let me tell you something, Duane. When he’s on the run he’s harder to stop than the Twentieth Century Limited.”
“Hey, Trexler’s good but nobody could ski through the storm that’s brewing.”
“He can and will. And we can’t stop him because we’re stuck in the. . . !“
Keegan suddenly sat bolt upright.
“My God,” he said. “I know what he’s going to do. Harris, get on the radio. Tell them to get in touch with Soapie Kramer immediately. If Trexler shows up at his station, Kramer is to hold him at gunpoint. He’s a very dangerous man.”
“They won’t believe me!”
“Then I’ll tell them. Do it! Your man Soapie’s life depends on it.”
“Kee Dryman started.
“Can it, Dry.”
“But..
Keegan whirled in the front seat and glared at Dryman.
“What?”
He knew what concerned Dryman. Supposing they were wrong about Trexler? Hold him at gunpoint? Dryman was having trouble with that.
“The man’s life could be at stake, Dry,” Keegan said quietly.
Harris raised base station but the reception was poor. Static crackled from the speaker.
“Base, this is Harris, Mr. Keegan of the White House staff says you should radio Soapie Kramer pronto and tell him John Trexler is dangerous and to arrest him.”
The radio popped and snapped and then: “. . . reception. Please repeat . .
“Christ, they can’t read us,” Keegan said.
The ranger repeated the message. Static and a fluctuating signal obscured part of the response but they picked up enough of it.
…… ler left for Leadville an hour. . . Soapie. . . to Copperhead Ridge. . . camp . . . radio shut down.”
Keegan’s shoulders sagged.
“He’s doing it again,” Keegan said half aloud.
“Doing what?” Harris asked.
Just like Drew City, he thought. It worked once, he’s going to do it again.
I know you, you bastard. I know how you think. Always ready to run. Always got a back door.
“Doing what?” Harris repeated.
“Getting away,” Keegan answered.
Soapie Kramer was leaning over the large Mercator projection, pinned by its corners to a drawing table. He traced a trail with his finger, east, then south.
“I got the mountain between me and the wind most of the way,” he said. “It’s only six miles up there. The last ... two hundred yards’ll be the worst. I ought to be able to make it before dark.”
“Well, far be it from me to argue but base says this one’s gonna be a pistol,” said Trexler.
“All the more reason for me to be up there,” said Kramer, then he snapped his fingers. “Hey, what’s the matter with us? I can radio down there, tell ‘em not to worry.”
Trexler hesitated for only a moment. He had forgotten about the radio. A mistake, but not a serious one. It was time to make his move. Kramer walked into the adjoining room. Large glass windows on three sides of the room overlooked the valley, now obscured by windswept snow. The radio was on a table in front of the center window.
“I already shut‘er down,” he said, flipping on the power.
Trexler walked up behind him, leaned over, and reaching under his pants leg, pulled the SS dagger from the sheath strapped to his ankle.
“I don’t think I’d do that, Soapie,” he said.
The ranger turned to him.
“Whyn...?”
Trexler’s arm was already making a powerful underhand swing. It arched upward almost from the floor and buried in Kramer’s stomach just under the rib cage. The long blade sliced deep and up and pierced Kramer’s heart.
“Oh,” he cried out, his eyes bulging with surprise.
Trexler grabbed Kramer by the collar, spun him around and dropped him on his back on the rug. Kramer sighed once as Trexler slammed his foot against his chest and pulled the knife out. He stuck the point of the long knife into Kramer’s throat just under one ear and slashed it. Blood gushed like a fountain from under Kramer’s chin. Trexler quickly rolled him up in the rug before the blood could spread.
A mile away, Ranger Harris was getting fidgety. They had to do something.
“What the hell,” Harris said finally, “I’ll try to back down to Trexler’s place. Least we won’t freeze to death.”
Shifting quickly between first and reverse, he rocked the car back and forth. The tire dug into the fallen tree, started to jog back onto the road, but as it did the tree gave way and dropped into the gully. The front end of the Ford lifted straight up and twisted sideways.
“Jesus, we’re goin’ over!” Harris screamed as the Ford’s rear end dropped over the precipice and the car rolled over and plunged upside down into the gulch.
At Kramer’s cabin, Trexler dragged the ranger’s rug-wrapped body down the front steps of the cabin and dropped it beside the trunk of his car. He opened the trunk, stuffed Kramer’s body in it, then hurried back inside the cabin. He went through Kramer’s rucksack, found an army Colt .45 and a box of cartridges and stuffed them in his own knapsack. He went back outside and threw Kramer’s rucksack in beside him. He slammed the lid down, got in and drove to the edge of the lake. He parked, walked out on the ice with a stick and tried to punch a hole in the ice. Too thick. Leaning over, he carefully worked his way around the lake until he spotted a large clear space below the ice, an air bubble about five feet across. He jabbed the stick into the ice until it punched through. An inch thick, he figured.