Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(70)
“We’ll see,” Price said. “The jury is still out on this God thing. It’s new to me. This is just the beta version.”
“Please turn around,” Joe said.
Price winced, then did so. He said, “Just tell me when you—”
With no warning and as swiftly as he could, Joe grasped the shaft just behind the barbed tip and pulled the spear straight through Price’s shoulder. Price reacted with a swift intake of breath and his legs wobbled. Joe tossed the spear aside and helped steady Price by holding him up in a bear hug from behind.
“Done,” Joe said into Price’s ear. “Are you okay?”
“I was about to say, tell me just before you do that so I can get ready. You could have given me some warning.”
“I could have,” Joe said, stepping back and tearing open the first square-gauze package with his teeth.
“You’ve done this before,” Price said.
“I have a few times.”
“I think I can feel it bleeding.”
“That’s good. You’re less likely to get tetanus or any other kind of infection if it bleeds out.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do. I get hurt a lot,” Joe replied. “And you have no idea how many hooks and flies I’ve taken out of fishermen over the years. It’s best to do it fast.”
Price nodded.
“Now take your shirt off so I can put compresses on the wounds and tape it up.”
* * *
—
While Price buttoned up his shirt, Joe retrieved the spear he’d dropped and stuck it into his waistband beneath his belt. He didn’t want to leave it behind for the Thomas clan to find. Plus, any potential weapon might be useful.
Before turning it off, he ran the beam of the headlamp over the .22 rifle to make sure the muzzle wasn’t blocked by mud and that the bolt action was clean. He ejected the single cartridge and studied it, hoping he could tell by looking at it if it would misfire. He couldn’t determine anything and he put the cartridge back in and secured it by working the bolt.
Joe looked up and around him. The eastern sky was beginning to take on a slightly cream-with-coffee hue, but it would still be at least two hours before the sun broke over the top of the mountains.
In the dark behind them, a length of wood snapped. It was a heavy crunch, indicating there was real weight behind it. He couldn’t guess how far away it had happened, but it was close.
“Hear that?” he whispered to Price.
“I did. What was it?”
“A horse stepping on a dead branch under the snow.”
Price’s eyes widened and Joe choked the headlamp out.
“What should we do?” Price asked.
“Run.”
“Where?”
“That way,” he motioned.
“Straight across the creek?”
“Yup. They’re right behind us and getting closer. We need to angle away from the creek.”
Joe shouldered around Price and walked stiff-legged to the creek. Price followed.
Joe stepped carefully from rock to rock until he was on the other bank. The far slope was steep, but rocks and brush poked through the light carpet of snow.
“Stay in my footsteps,” Joe whispered.
He climbed the slope, hopping on top of rocks and in the middle of squat brush. It wasn’t easy, but it didn’t leave a trail in the snow, he hoped. Price kept up as they climbed.
Joe’s heart beat with exertion and terror as he ascended the slope. Behind him and up the mountain, he heard another branch snap and then the unmistakable sound of a metal horseshoe glancing off a rock.
He hated going in the wrong direction when the best and fastest route to a trailhead was straight down the mountain, following the creek. But if they kept going that way, he knew, they would soon be overrun.
Joe clawed his way through a dense mountain juniper bush just below the tree line. When he emerged on the other side, he turned and helped Price. He could smell the sharp scent of juniper berries they’d crushed or dislodged.
Joe hunkered down behind the bush and tried to breathe deeply and normally so he wouldn’t make loud panting sounds.
Within minutes, he heard the soft thump of horse hooves making footfalls below where they’d just been. He cursed the stillness and wished there was a breeze to provide some cover and white noise, because it sounded like the horses were just thirty to forty yards away in the stillness.
Joe reached out and pressed his gloved hand on the top of Price’s head to urge him to keep down. Then he removed his hat and slowly rose on his haunches to get a better sight angle on the creek.
The ghostly dark shapes of two horsemen passed by below them, parallel to the nameless creek. The man out front was bulkier and Joe guessed it was Earl. The second rider slumped over oddly in his saddle. It was Kirby. Kirby looked as though he was either hurt or fighting sleep. Joe hoped it was the former.
Twenty yards behind them, the unmistakable mass of Brad Thomas appeared, leading a line of packhorses. Toby was second from the last in Brad’s string. The gelding walked along dutifully, but Joe could tell Toby wasn’t liking it by the way his horse kept his head bowed.
There’s our stuff, Joe thought. There’s my horse. I wonder where Joannides went?