“Jesus—he’s still alive!” Farkus said, dropping the gun and jumping back. The man’s face was square, his head blocky, and there was a five-day growth of beard. Farkus had never seen the man before, but it certainly wasn’t Butch Roberson. The man’s eyes were wide open but didn’t move around, and there was a pink string of blood and saliva connecting the top and bottom lip of his partially open mouth.
“It isn’t him, is it?” McLanahan asked Farkus, his tone neutral.
“No.”
“Shit. I wonder who it is Jimmy shot?”
Farkus looked up. Sollis looked thunderstruck, but McLanahan seemed to be taking it in stride, which astonished Farkus.
He watched as McLanahan sat back and slowly surveyed the camp. The ex-sheriff said, “I see his backpack over there against a tree. Farkus, why don’t you see if you can find some kind of ID?”
“Me?”
“You. But first you better tie up your horse before it runs away on you.”
Stunned by the turn of events, Farkus sleepwalked Dreadnaught over to a thick lodgepole pine and tied the lead rope over a branch. He glanced up at McLanahan and Sollis as he made his way over to the backpack because he didn’t want to see the face of the gravely wounded man again. Sollis sat in the saddle staring out at nothing, slack-mouthed and frozen. McLanahan was squinting and looking into the middle distance, as if gears were working in his head.
Next to the backpack, propped on the side of the tree that had been out of their view, was a complicated compound bow with wheels and pulleys and a mounted set of razor-sharp broad-head arrows.
He called to McLanahan, “He’s an elk hunter. It must be archery season on this side of the mountain.”
“Gee, you think?” McLanahan said sarcastically.
“I don’t see any ID,” Farkus said, rooting through the pack. It smelled of stale campfire smoke and sweat, and the pack’s contents were typical: camo clothing, rain gear, a sleeping bag and pad, a one-man bivvy tent, freeze-dried food packets, maps . . .
“I’ll see if he’s got a wallet on him.” McLanahan grunted as he dismounted. To Sollis, he said, “Get down off that horse and give me a hand here, Jimmy.”
Sollis simply shook his head, as if by refusing the request he was also denying the reality of the situation.
While rolling the hunter back over to his belly so he could dig through his pockets, McLanahan said, “The dumb knucklehead. He should’a known to stay out of the mountains during a manhunt or use a known murderer’s camp, and especially not to wear the same damn clothes as the murderer.”
Farkus quit searching and wandered toward McLanahan and the hunter. Something wasn’t right, he thought, but his head was too fuzzy with the situation they were in to put it together.
McLanahan stood up holding a billfold from the hunter’s cargo pants. The wallet was inside a Ziploc bag. The ex-sheriff tore through the plastic and opened the wallet, studying the ID sheathed in thick plastic. Farkus could see McLanahan’s shoulders suddenly relax.
“Out-of-stater from Maine named Pete Douvarjo,” McLanahan said with obvious relief. “I was worried he was a local.”
“Still . . .” Farkus said, not understanding.
“Pretty likely his people have no clue exactly where he is right now. Did you find a cell phone or a satellite phone in his pack, Farkus?”
“I didn’t see one, but I didn’t look that close,” Farkus said.
“We’ll need to look.”
Douvarjo made a low moaning sound, and both Farkus and McLanahan turned toward him. Douvarjo hadn’t moved, and his eyes still stared at the sky.
“What are we going to do?” Farkus asked. “Do we call somebody? Can they send a helicopter here to airlift him out?”
“He isn’t long for the world,” McLanahan said, matter-of-fact.
Farkus covered his face with both hands, then splayed his fingers and looked out at McLanahan. “You aren’t saying we leave him here, are you?”
McLanahan looked up sharply. “What can we do, Farkus? The bullet passed through all of his vital organs and made a big-ass exit wound on the other side. He’s shutting down. It’s just a matter of minutes.”
“So we just stand here and wait?”
“For now.”
“Then what?” Farkus said through his fingers.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Sheriff,” Farkus said, “we just shot an innocent man.”
“I’d call it an understandable accident, Farkus. And that’s exactly what it was. This poor guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing.
“One thing I’ve learned,” McLanahan said, “is how important it is to control the story—they call it the narrative. I let it get away from me a year ago, and now we’ve got Wheelchair Dick puttering around with my job. I’m not going to let it happen again.”
He gestured toward Douvarjo. “Nobody will remember this if we bring in Butch Roberson. The story will be how the ex-sheriff who really knows and understands this county went up into the mountains on his own and brought down the bad guy while the Feds and the new sheriff sat on their asses. We’re on a manhunt for a killer wearing camo clothes and we happen on a man bearing that description in the act of shooting down a federal drone. What else were we to think?”
Farkus started to argue when it hit him what was wrong. It must have occurred to the sheriff at exactly the same time, because McLanahan’s face went taut and he asked, “Farkus, did you see a rifle?”
From above them in the dark timber, a voice said, “I need all of you to throw down your weapons and turn around. You on the horse—climb off now.”
Farkus recognized the voice.
It was Butch Roberson.
18
“THIS IS WHERE I SAW HIM,” JOE SAID AS THE SIX horsemen entered the alcove. They’d ridden through the severed fence and into the burnished red forest of dead and dying trees. “Over there is where he paused to eat, and that’s the tree he leaned his pack against. Right next to it was his rifle.”
Underwood reined his horse to a stop, and his team followed suit. Underwood leaned forward in his saddle and took the pressure off his back by grasping the saddle horn. He looked around and said, “So he was coming off the mountain when you saw him?”
“No,” Joe said, dismounting and walking Toby around the perimeter of the camp. “Butch didn’t come down from the mountains. He was going up into them, from the east.”
“He walked across the Big Stream Ranch to get here, is what you’re saying?”
“That’s right,” Joe said. “He cut the fence back there and continued on.”
“Why’d he cut the fence?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Joe said, “but I think he was just frustrated. I think he was striking out at anything that reminded him of you guys.”
Underwood snorted and shook his head. Then: “Didn’t anyone on the ranch think it was unusual for a guy on foot to be just walking across their property? Doesn’t that Frank Zeller goof have cowboys or farmhands watching the place?”
“It’s a very big ranch,” Joe said. “Butch Roberson could have easily stayed concealed as he came across. There are some deep irrigation ditches on the meadows down there and plenty of hills to hide behind. Or he might have crossed it before daylight—I don’t know.”
“Or maybe he had some help?” Underwood asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I wouldn’t know,” Joe said, looking up at Underwood.
Underwood asked, “So if he was coming up from the ranch when you saw him, how did he get here in the first place?”
“I’d like to know that myself,” Joe said. “His truck isn’t parked anywhere down there, but he indicated he’d walked all the way.”
“So someone dropped him off,” Underwood said.
“Yup.”
“Which means someone else is involved in this whole thing. Do you have any theory on who that might be?”