Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(24)

“Don’t know what?” Jacketta asked the three of them.

Earl slowly shook his head and mouthed something to his sons. Jacketta thought it was “No guts,” which he took as an insult.

“Brad offered me dinner, but I’d like to take a rain check,” he said. He started to walk back in the direction they’d come, but Brad blocked him.

“Really,” Jacketta said. “I’ll break camp tonight and move on. I really don’t want to run into you guys tomorrow, either.”

Then it hit him. The words Earl had mouthed weren’t “No guts.” They were “No guns.”

Jacketta broke for it, shouldering himself around Brad and running as fast and as hard as he could for the dark trees in the direction of his camp.

“Shit,” Earl said from behind him. “The prick is fast.”



* * *



—

Jacketta ran blind, and it was terrifying. Tree trunks zipped past him on both sides and he couldn’t see well enough to know if he was about to slam into one. Once he got deep enough into the lodgepoles, he thought, he’d put his headlamp on for the rest of the way. But he wasn’t far enough from the Thomas camp yet.

Jacketta had no idea what had just happened and he hoped he hadn’t misread it. But he didn’t think so. He thought he’d made the right decision to bolt. His heart whumped in his chest and he could feel the rise of goose bumps on his forearms.

Brad knew where his camp was, but Jacketta thought he could reach it and pack up before Brad could catch up. Brad was stealthy, but he wasn’t quick on his feet. Earl didn’t seem spry, either. Then instead of east where he’d mentioned, he’d go west. Throw them off his trail. And when he got back to town the next day, he’d go to the new sheriff and file charges. Enough was enough with these people, no matter how long they’d been in the county.

That’s when he heard footfalls on the forest floor just behind him.

Jacketta stopped and listened. He recalled how Brad had approached him without making a sound. Whoever was chasing him wasn’t taking those precautions.

Jacketta threw his arms up in front of his face and took off again. He pushed through pine boughs and bounced off tree trunks and he could see nothing. He was getting winded from running and his lungs burned, but he tried to control his exhalations.

He ran across a small open meadow that was half-lit by starlight, then into another wall of tight lodgepole pines on the other side. Although he knew he shouldn’t take the chance, he paused and looked behind him.

It was Kirby, Brad’s brother. Kirby was just twenty yards behind as he crossed the meadow. A glint of starlight reflected off the blade of a large knife in Kirby’s hand.

There was no point in standing his ground, Jacketta thought. He’d left all his weapons at his camp. So he plunged forward. Jacketta couldn’t believe what was happening and he didn’t know why it was.

Footfalls. Kirby was getting closer.

Then Jacketta ran headlong into a tree trunk and smashed into it so hard the only thing he could see were orange orbs exploding in front of his eyes. He knew he’d opened up a gash on his forehead and he wiped the blood away and tried to get his bearings. For a few seconds, he lost his sense of direction.

As Kirby closed in, Jacketta bolted away, stumbling eastward.

The slice of the blade through the back of his leg felt cold, as if he’d been raked by an icicle. The cut itself wasn’t painful—yet—but he was sickened by the feeling of his untethered hamstring retracting up into his thigh.

Jacketta went down. When he turned over and looked up, he saw Kirby standing over him with the big knife in his hand.

No guns, Jacketta thought. Earl didn’t want anyone in the mountains—the hunting party—to hear a shot and know they were up there.

“Damn,” Kirby said after taking gulps of air, “you can run like a motherfucker. I didn’t think I’d catch you.”

“I can’t believe you did that,” Jacketta said. “Don’t let me bleed out.”

“Naw. I just had to stop you.”

“I won’t say anything to anybody,” Jacketta said. “Just let me go to my camp and pack up.”

Kirby seemed to be considering it for a moment. Then: “No dice. I’ll help you up and we’ll go back and get you patched up. We’ll talk to Dad and see what we can figure out. You just ran away so damned quick we were afraid you got the wrong impression about us. You didn’t give us a chance to explain why we’re up here.”

Jacketta didn’t think he had a choice. He reached down and could feel hot blood pulsing from the wound. He knew his femoral artery had been cut.

“Maybe we could put on a tourniquet,” he said. “You could use my belt.”

“We’ll do that when we can see what we’re doing,” Kirby said, extending his left hand. “Here, grab on.”

Jacketta reached out and Kirby pulled him to his feet. He couldn’t feel his right leg or foot, so he balanced on his left boot. Kirby stepped under Jacketta’s extended arm and folded it at the elbow around his neck to support him.

“Can you walk?”

“Barely.”

They stumbled out of the trees into the starlit meadow. Kirby was surprisingly strong, Jacketta thought. He could lean all of his weight on the man.