At times the new trail was so narrow Cody had to brace the rifle butt on his thigh with the muzzle pointed up so it wouldn’t get caught in a tree branch or overgrown foliage on the sides of the trail that seemed to reach out to grasp at his arms and knees. Gipper walked deliberately and haltingly as Cody pushed forward, and he had to keep nudging and kicking him to keep moving. He knew sometimes horses could sense danger ahead, but he also knew horses were sometimes simply overly cautious and tentative. He found that his mouth had become dry as his heart raced.
The lodgepole pine trees had closed in around him. They weren’t tall but they were dense and so closely packed it would be difficult for a man to walk through them without turning to the side. It had been so long since the trail had been used, long silky remnants of spiders’ webs, broken by Jed’s party ahead of him, fluttered like ghosts from boughs over his head. It was as if he were riding through a shroud.
He heard a grunt, and he thought:
Gipper heard it, too, and the horse planted his feet and leaned backwards with his heavy haunches. Gipper’s ears cocked forward and his nostrils opened and he snorted either a warning or a cry of alarm. Cody brought the rifle up to his shoulder one-handed, aiming it vaguely ahead of him, keeping a hold on the reins with his left hand. The packhorse, oblivious to what was going on, walked into Gipper’s hindquarters and jostled Cody’s shaky aim.
There was another grunt, this time closer, and a heavy footfall. It was coming toward him, whatever it was.
Cody didn’t know whether to dismount or stay in the saddle. He longed for solid footing, but knew he couldn’t slip gracefully to the ground and not risk losing control of the horses. If he was on the ground and they decided to panic and run off, he was stuck. The rifle just seemed to be in the way.
There was a flash of color through the thin trunks ahead. Beige and red.
A low moan,
“Who’s there?” Cody called out. His mouth was so dry his voice cracked. “Who is it? Identify yourself. I’m a cop.”
A man on foot lurched into view, startling Gipper further and the gelding crow-hopped, fouling Cody’s aim. As he tried to gain his balance in the saddle, he dropped the reins to the ground. The only thing that stopped Gipper from turning completely around was the wall of thin trees on both sides of the trail.
“Easy,” Cody said, as much to himself as to Gipper, “Easy…”
The man, an African American wearing jeans, a once-beige shirt soaked almost entirely in glossy red blood, and a look of horror and anguish, cried out again and pitched forward onto his knees on the trail.
Clumsily, with both of his horses stutter-stepping, Cody dismounted and managed to gather up Gipper’s reins. While he was tying his horse to the trunk of a thick aspen tree, the packhorse jerked back and the lead rope unraveled from Gipper’s saddle horn. Cody reached out for it as it pulled away, missed it, and he stood seething and confused for a few seconds, watching the packhorse gallop away back down the trail. He could see chunks of dirt flying from the horse’s hooves and the panniers flapping hard, spooking the horse further.
The drumbeat of the hooves and occasional snap of dry twigs faded away. Cody spat out a string of curses and kicked at the ground.
Then he turned toward the injured man.
* * *
Never in his career had Cody confronted a dying man. In nearly every case, the victim was already dead-in many cases for days-and Cody could observe with clinical detachment and dark humor. Bodies were no more than heavy wet bags of organs, muscle, tissue, fat, and bone bound together by a taut wrapping of skin. He studied those bags for likely offered evidence of what method was used to douse the flame of a soul inside.
Cody sat on the trail. He’d never cradled a stranger’s head in his lap before while the man cried real tears and choked on pints of his own blood when he tried to speak.
“Jesus,” Cody said, elevating the man’s head by raising his own leg, trying to find a position where the victim wouldn’t have to make the gargling sound. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
The man shook his head quickly but couldn’t form words yet. He was still lucid despite appearances. But, Cody knew, he wouldn’t be for long. The victim was bleeding out before his eyes and there wasn’t a single thing either of them could do about it. Bull Mitchell’s field first-aid kit had been in the panniers of the packhorse. But even if the horse hadn’t run away, Cody wasn’t sure he could have done anything to save this man’s life.
