Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(40)

“I know it’s tough, but we’ve got to keep climbing,” Joe said in response. His legs hurt as well, especially the left one, where he’d been shot. The muscles in his wounded thigh were overwhelmed and he felt at times that he was more swinging his leg up behind him than using it to climb. He could feel a sheen of sweat beneath his clothing.

The sky darkened into overcast and it was getting colder the higher they went. Their breaths had turned into cloudy puffs of condensation.

“My thighs are burning,” Price said.

“Shhhh.”

Price cursed at Joe, but he chose not to stop and rest. Joe was thankful for that.



* * *



—

Almost there,” Boedecker said with a voice hoarse from exertion. “I can see the top of the ridge.”

“It’s about time,” Price said.

Joe wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on without a breather. His lungs ached and his knees screamed with sharp pain. He was getting to the point where his hands were trembling and his climbing technique was getting sloppy and imprecise. It was like the end of a long day of fly-fishing, he thought, when he would cast with tired arms and the line would bunch up in the air and fall around his head and shoulders. When that happened, it was time to quit.

But he couldn’t quit now.

Ahead of him, Boedecker cursed.

“What is it?” Joe asked.

“False summit,” Boedecker groused. “I thought we were there, but there’s another fifty yards to go.”

Joe took a deep breath and kept climbing. As he did so, he looked over his shoulder to see that Price had stopped. The man was pressed against the rough granite wall with his eyes closed and his mouth agape. He was heaving in an attempt to get more air.

“Steve-2?” Joe said.

Price waved at him to indicate he was still alive. Barely.

“You’ve got to keep climbing,” Joe said. “It isn’t far now.”

He noted that Boedecker had scrambled ahead. Maybe, Joe thought, the rancher would get to the top and take off running on his own and they wouldn’t see him again. Joe could deal with that, and it might even make the situation more manageable. But the rancher could also choose to use his advantage of being on higher ground to make a stand. He could prevent Joe from getting on top of the ridge or kick Price in the head and send him falling down the mountain. All of those scenarios seemed possible. Boedecker was a wild card in every regard.

A moment later, Boedecker appeared above them. He’d reached the top and stood facing them on the lip of the rim, his hands on his knees to recover.

“What’s going on?” the rancher called down to Joe.

“Giving him a minute,” Joe said.

“Fuck him,” Boedecker advised as he shook his head with disgust. Suddenly, he locked in place, his gaze hard on the huge aspen grove below them.

“They’re coming,” he whispered. Then he backed out of view.

As hard as it was, as much as it hurt, Joe shinnied back down the ridge until Price was within reach. He extended his hand and said, “Grab it. Let’s go. Now.”

When Price reached up, his hand was shaking. Joe grasped it. “Come on.”

Joe half climbed and half pulled Price along with him. He gave it so much effort that his vision blurred and blood pounded within his ears until he couldn’t hear anything else. Price’s weight threatened to pull Joe’s shoulder out of its socket.

He crawled up over the lip of the ridge and pulled Price along behind him. Then he rolled onto his back and lay there until he could breathe again and his heart slowed back to almost normal. Price gasped for air next to him. Their shoulders touched. Joe thought it uncomfortably intimate.

Finally, Joe opened his eyes and turned his head. They were on the very top of the barren ridge and the wind was cold and strong. He’d sweated so much on the climb up that as he dried out, he felt even colder.

Boedecker was nowhere to be seen. Where the man should have been was a tremendous vista leading down to the adjacent drainage. The way down looked to be a much gentler grade than on the way up. Between where they were on top and where thick black timber carpeted the slope, the rest of the way to the bottom of the drainage was a vast gray scree field of broken rock plates.

As he watched, snow clouds like white smoke rolled over the top of the opposite ridge and rushed across the valley. The storm came fast, softening the sharp views of timber and granite. Within a minute, snowflakes swirled around them.

Joe had recovered enough that he could move again, although he grunted when he rolled from his back to his belly. He crawled back toward the lip of the ridge and slowly raised his head so he could see where they’d come from before the snow obscured everything.

“Where did your friend go?” Price asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he leading the way or running from us?”

“I don’t know.”



* * *



—

In the distance on the floor of the drainage where the rocky creek bed halved the meadow, four distant horsemen emerged from the aspen. Three rode parallel to the stream, one on the south side and two on the north. Trailing them was the last rider, whom Joe could identify as Brad by his size and the bulk of his horse. Brad led a long string of packhorses behind him. The pack animals were loaded with bulging panniers and gear bags and Joe guessed they were a combination of Thomas and Boedecker stock.