The Bear Valley Affair

Bear with me while I figure things out - here is the reformatted story which should be easier to read.

Mountaintop pines caught the first rays of the morning sun. Shadows clung stubbornly to the forest floor, and meadows lay under a mist with grass and flowers heavily beaded with dew. Soon, the damp, crisp freshness of night would turn sultry under the mid-August sun.

Light breezes spread the sharp aroma of campfires, a perfume that set Mark’s stomach grumbling with the anticipation of breakfast. A shade under six feet, Mark was trim and solid. His features leaned to the round side of oval, nose defined but not sharp, and a mocha complexion from his heritage and the summer sun. Shining raven hair was pulled into a short braid that nestled between his shoulders.

Birds heralded a new day, and the fast-moving Elk Creek gurgled at his feet, splashing over and around rocks. A small, dark, water ouzle disappeared into the fast water only to pop up onto a rock a few feet away.

“We’re not here to birdwatch,” Larry called from the rock on which he perched. “If we don’t catch three more, we’re going to be fishing for lunch, not breakfast.”

Larry, or Lawrence, was always “Lt. Stokes” to Mark. African-American, as was his wife Alyssa, Larry was a quietly powerful man. Having been a collegiate wrestler and a damn good one at that, he was bulkier, taller, and kept himself in top physical condition. He had worn his hair in a Short Afro with Temple Fade since the time they met, over fifteen years ago as rookie police officers. On the job, they were colleagues but outside of work, the best of friends.

“I thought about crossing over and fishing the other side,” Mark called back as Stokes deftly landed his dry fly across a nice deep pool.

“If you can’t cast to the other side, you’re not much of a fisherman.”

“Then my fishing skills match your cribbage skills. You’d think that at your age, you’d be able to count to fifteen.”

Larry ignored the dig.

Day three of their four-day camping trip, and the previous night, Mark and Rachael, Larry and Alyssa, had played four-handed cribbage long into the night. Paired into teams with husbands versus wives, the stakes had been a fish-fry breakfast. Adding insult to injury, the women set the alarm clocks for five a.m. and requested coffee and a blazing campfire before sending the men out to catch the entrée.

Two tents pitched between the Winterhawk’s 32-foot camp trailer and Stokes’ 28-footer, housed the teenagers. Dakota Winterhawk and Tucker Stokes occupied the green tent. Anna Winterhawk and her good friend Brenda had the yellow tent.

“Shut up and fish, okay?” Larry called back. “If we don’t catch at least three more, somebody’s going hungry and it won’t be the wives and kids.”

“Here,” Mark said. Pulling a protein bar from the pocket of his jacket he threw it to Larry.

Mark wore his signature jacket, brown leather with a white breastplate loosely patterned after the Red-Tailed Hawk. He had made several versions, ranging from heavy fleece-lined to the thin leather he now wore.

“Hey, take a look.” Stokes said, nodding towards the nearby dirt road.

A Ford Bronco with bold SHERIFF lettering came to a stop. Moments later, a uniformed man exited the vehicle and strode across the meadow towards them. Older than Mark and Larry, he may have once been fit but now a heavy paunch folded over his belt. Graying at the temples, his face was patterned with sun-damaged wrinkles and his forehead lined with concern.

“Don’t think he wants to look at our fishing licenses,” Mark said.

“Don’t think he’s here to wish us good luck either.”

Reeling in their lines and collecting their creel of fish, Mark and Larry met him halfway.

“We’re looking for a young girl, thirteen years old,” the sheriff said.

“We haven’t seen anything,” Larry answered. Exchanging handshakes, he continued, “I’m Lt. Stokes, Salt Lake City police and this is Detective Mark Winterhawk.”

“Yeah. I talked to your wives a few minutes ago. They said you were up early and might have seen or heard something.”

“Maybe the kid went out for a morning stroll?” Mark said.

He shook his head. “Several people heard an ATV come and go sometime in the middle of the night. The parents are a basket case. She’s hysterical and he’s threatening to buy a rifle and shoot the ex-husband. They’re convinced the woman’s ex has kidnapped the kid. Claims to have a restraining order against him.”

“They don’t think she just took the ATV for a joy ride?” Larry asked.

“They don’t have an ATV and everybody else’s off-road vehicles are accounted for.”

“Our kids were up all night, so they’d have heard or seen anything,” Mark said.

“I didn’t speak to any kids.”

“We’ll go back and ask. You’re thinking she was abducted, then.”

“At this point, anything’s possible. The family went into town for ice cream the other day and girl posted pictures all over social media, so literally hundreds of people know they’re camping here. It could be anyone.”

“Have you started a search?” Larry asked.

“We’re setting up a command center at the Elk Creek Ranger Station. Search and Rescue is on their way but with a few hours head start, it don’t look promising. There’s a helluva lot of country to cover.”

“We’ll help any way we can,” Mark said. “We can be at the ranger station within half an hour.”

“Thanks, but I’m not taking civilian volunteers.”

“We’re a little more than civilian,” Larry said.

Rachael and ’Lyss had a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage and sourdough flapjacks sizzling in butter and grease upon their return. That, with the sharp smell of percolating coffee along with the sound of snapping flames sent Mark’s stomach grumbling. Sally, the Winterhawk’s chocolate lab, counter surfed the folding table laden with food yet to be cooked.

Tall and lithe, Rachael Winterhawk wore her long black hair straight accentuating her bronze complexion. Mark met her at a festival when she held a dual career of stock car racing and modeling. Careers that she carried into their marriage until seven years ago, when she left them for engineering. Athletically enough for one and nubile for the other, Rachael maintained those qualities well. Alyssa, or ’Lyss, was roughly the same height as Rachael and had a curvaceous figure that turned heads. Her Shaggy Bob accentuated her figure in an elegant manner.

“Larry,” ’Lyss said, giving him a welcoming kiss. “The sheriff was just here and told us what happened.”

Rachael turned from the griddle of eggs and sausage, saying, “We knew you’d volunteer, but you still owe us.”

“We caught five,” Mark said, eyebrows raised seeking approval. “Consider it a down-payment on tomorrow’s breakfast?”

He set the creel aside and Sally trotted over to inspect.

Larry climbed into the tent that housed the boys. Consensus was that about three-thirty that morning, an ATV came into the campground from the east, idled for about a minute during which time they heard people moving about, then left the same way it came.

Pouring himself a much-needed cup of coffee, Mark said, “they’re setting up a command center at the ranger station. We’re going down there to see what we can do.”

Rachael rotated the grill off the fire. “The poor girl, I hope she’s all right. I could hear her mom and dad calling. Paisley. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”

“Any premonitions?” Mark asked.

She shook her head. Rachael had the dubious gift of premonitions, one that she considered more of a curse than blessing. But at the moment, nothing, which could be a good thing.

“I’m going to get a backpack ready,” Mark said as he folded pancakes over eggs and sausage, taco style. Larry loaded his onto a plate, covered everything with maple syrup, and carried it into their camper.

Quickly loading his solid frame backpack with snacks, bottles of water, rope, and a first-aid kit, Mark stepped out to find Larry with his similarly loaded backpack and his service weapon, a Glock 22 .40 caliber strapped to his hip. Mark strapped on his own service weapon, an STI .45 Lawman ACP. Not that they intended to shoot anyone, but there was no telling if whoever Paisley went with was armed. Besides, this was bear and wolf country.

“Larry thought you should use the walkie talkies since there’s no cell phone service,” Rachael said.

“We’ll see what they want us to do first.”

With that, they tossed their backpacks into the bed of Stokes’ Jimmy, a big Sierra 2500, and roared away. Much to the chagrin of Sally who expected to be invited on every trip.

Three men and two women were inside the ranger station when Mark and Larry arrived, representing Forest Service, Fish and Game, sheriff and deputies. The group was engrossed in a topo map taped to the wall, and introductions were professionally succinct.

“The kids heard the ATV about three-thirty,” Larry announced. “It pulled into camp, stopped for a moment, then left heading east on the Landmark Road.”

“Good info, thanks,”

“As I was saying,” the sheriff – Caden Caprio – briefed Mark and Lawrence. “State police are covering the main roads. Search and Rescue has a bird in the sky and six people on the ground covering Bear Valley Creek, and Wyoming Creek over to Lola Creek,” he said, drawing a circle on the map. “That’s areas 1, 2, and 3. We’ve got more people on the way to cover Collie Lake and Marsh Creek. For now, we’re going out in teams of twos. Robin and Dave, you’re area 4, from NF-568 over to Dagger Creek. Leaman and Ramadi are going to take the North Fork Elk Creek trail, then follow Camptender over to the Silver Moon trail, area 5. ”

“You two,” Caprio told Mark and Larry. “I want you to start at the switchback on Bear Valley Mountain and follow the Mountain Meadows trail to where it intersects with Camptender, then back to Dagger Falls Road. That’s area 6. Most of these trails are wide enough for an ATV, and they crisscross everywhere, so just because they headed east don’t mean they didn’t change course. If they get into the wilderness area, we’re probably looking for bodies.”

“What are their names?” Larry asked.

“The girl is Paisley Macon and she’s wearing Harry Potter pajamas and pink slippers. We have reason to believe the mom’s ex, Arleigh Macon, took her. Mom and dad are Harlow and Bruce Wilder. If there’s nothing else, let’s get moving. Check in when you can. Be careful because we don’t know if he’s armed.”

Within the hour, although it seemed much longer, Mark was leading the way along Bear Valley Mountain in his F-250, with the Stokes following in Larry’s Jimmy. Barren, rolling hills stripped clean from the last forest fire, rolled across the horizon below. Dead fall spread across the landscape like spilled toothpicks, but here and there were groves of pines that miraculously escaped the flames. Distant, forested mountains were a hazy blue-black from the light smog pushing out of the Boise area.

The plan was for Rachael and ’Lyss to remain at the lookout tower on top of Bear Valley Mountain where they could get cell phone service. Mark and Larry would relay information via walkie talkie.

Keeping his eyes on the narrow road that cut along the steep hillside, Mark said to Rachael, “We should have good reception since we’re only going about four or five miles. We’ll let you know when we turn back to Dagger Falls Road. You’ll be okay?”

“For the third time, yes, we’ll be okay. I’ve got my CZ and ’Lyss has her Sig, and we a cooler of snacks and drinks. Besides, if we need anything, it’s not that far back to camp. We’re good, so stop worrying.”

“Sorry. I’ve worked too many years with obsessive compulsive behavior being a job requirement.”

The road made a switchback and ended at the lookout tower. Larry pulled next to him and climbed out.

“You got everything you need?” Larry asked ’Lyss.

“Yes. Again.”

“Okay then, don’t forget to call the kids.”

“I know. Please. Just worry about yourselves.”

“When you call the office, remember to ask for Lt. DellaRoma.”

“I will, I will.”

“Call the office for what?” Mark said.

“I requested a background check on the dad and family since the sheriff obviously isn’t going to share any information with us.”

Hoisting their backpacks, Mark and Larry kissed their wives good luck then walked down the road to the trailhead.

“If nothing else, the hike will do us good,” Mark commented.

“I’d rather be fishing.” Larry said. “Since you’re the tracker, I’ll follow,”

Mark checked in with the sheriff, offered a silent prayer to the spirits and angels, then led the way into Bear Valley.

“Even I can track this,” Larry said, pointing to a clear set of ATV tracks.

“If this is them, there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why are they on the west side of Bear Valley Campground, when they left heading east? Did they double back?”

“And if they did,” Larry continued Mark’s train of thought, “where are they going?”

“It makes no sense.”

“Unless these aren’t their tracks. But then, these trails off limits to motor vehicles.”

Two hours at a slow steady pace, with frequent stops to look and listen, brought them to the East Fork of Elk Creek where the trail dropped into a long, lush meadow. Here, they stopped for Mark to reconnoiter and Larry to check in with ’Lyss and Rachael.

“Hey, babe,” he said after a burst of static. “Did DellaRoma have any info on the girl and dad?”

“Plenty. Little over a year ago, mom and dad went through a nasty divorce. Court records show that mom threatened the dad both financially and socially. She got the house and moved her boyfriend in. He’s now her husband. Arleigh the dad, on the other hand, threatened to load the girl into a car and drive off a cliff. He was found guilty of vandalism, but he got off easy when the judge ruled that she had provoked him into doing it.”

“What a wonderful example of parenting. Mom makes threats and dad takes action.”

“It looks that way. Interestingly enough, Arleigh Macon reserved a camping spot at the Fir Creek Campground not far from here.”

“That’s east of us on Landmark Road, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Interesting. Thanks. Love you.”

Lt. Stokes was seated on a log snacking on cheese and crackers, and washing it down with a bottle of water when Mark returned. He quickly updated Mark on the latest information.

“Do you think this is the same ATV that took Paisley?”

“Pretty certain. There’s fresh dust on the grass, powdery where the dew didn’t form, so it had to be this morning.”

Taking snacks and water from his backpack, along with his binoculars, Mark walked up a partially uprooted stump angling towards the sky. With the splintered end rising a good seven feet off the ground, he had a clear view of the surrounding landscape.

“We should be pushing on,” Larry said.

“Patience. Give things time to fall into place.”

“Patience my ass, it’s getting hot.”

A flash caught Mark’s attention. Zooming in, he saw a handlebar and rear-view mirror reflecting the morning sun.

“I got something,” he called back to Lt. Stokes. “Could be an ATV.”

Stokes rose and hefted his backpack.

“It’s on the other side of Elk Creek,” Mark said, “maybe half a mile away, near the upper end of the meadow.”

“He could be watching the trail, and we don’t know if he’s armed.”

“I think they’re in flight mode, not waiting and watching.”

“So, what do you suggest?”

“What say we split up? You follow the meadow and I’ll take the hillside, just inside the timber. If he is sitting and watching, we’ll flank him.”

“Are your betting your life on this?”

“I’m betting both our live,” Mark said and walked back down from the towering stump. “But that’s assuming he’s armed, which I doubt.”

Pointing to a distant, low rise at the upper end of the meadow, Mark said, “the ATV is on the other side of that rise. The trail angles through the meadow lengthwise then loops around the upper end.”

“You’re sure it’s an ATV.”

“The tracks we’re following lead that way.”

In keeping to his word, Mark followed the low domed hilltop to the edge of the burn and entered the spotty pine forest. He didn’t hurry, given that Larry had the longer route. From his elevated position, Mark acted as Larry’s eyes, pausing frequently and for long periods of time scanning with his binoculars.

With a stealth that had been ingrained into him since his earliest memories, Mark moved silently, fluidly, between the trees, through grass and wild shrubbery. Reaching out with his senses, becoming one with the nature around him, listening for disturbances. The angry chatter of a scolding pine squirrel, the raucous teasing of a jay or raven.

Mark found the ATV just beyond a growth of four pines, and after waiting to make sure it was abandoned, began investigating.

“It looks like they hit a rock a couple hundred yards back and bent the oil plug, draining the oil pan,” Mark said as Larry met up with him.

“Then this is where the engine seized.”

“Yup. And look here, I’d say he’s size 11 and she’s still wearing slippers. She was helping him push it.”

“Voluntarily?”

Mark shrugged. “Who knows? Whatever plans they had, this screwed them up big time.”

“The trail splits up ahead. West takes them to the North Fork of Elk Creek. North takes them to Silver Moon. East takes them back to Dagger Falls Road. Anyway you look at it, it’s a long hike, especially for a kid in slippers.”

“I would think that if they were going back to the road, they’d simply cut across country instead of following the trail.”

“Maybe they’re lost.”

“Let’s call in the ATV and location. It’s time for me to really start tracking,” Mark said.

Skirting the meadow, they came to a patch of groundwater that turned the trail soft and dark. Water still seeped into the man’s footprints, and Mark commented on the fact that they were closing in. Hopefully, dad wouldn’t panic and do anything stupid. Or, more stupid than what he’d already done, Mark thought.

The trail turned north and became hard and rocky and Mark wondered how much farther the girl could go in slippers, uncomfortable with how the situation was playing out. Stopping for lunch at the intersection of Mountain Meadows and Camptender trails, Mark took a seat on a fallen log while Larry selected a shaded rock. The day was heating up under the full sun and sapping their strength. The girl and her dad must be suffering even more.

“This is as far as the sheriff said to go,” Mark commented. “From here, we’re to take Camptender back to Dagger Falls Road.”

“The tracks don’t go that way. I don’t think we should, either.”

“I agree. I say we check in with the sheriff and keep going.”

“He won’t be happy about it.”

“Probably not. We can follow Camptender over Silver Moon Creek and maybe meet up with the other search team, the deputies. They can take over the search and cover a lot more ground on horseback.”

Continuing, Mark kept his eyes on a trail that was becoming more difficult to follow. An upturned pebble here, loose dust there, a minute scuff on the hardpan was indication enough. The girl was becoming footsore and Arleigh more agitated, as evident where he turned around, walked back, or impatiently waited. Whether she fell or he was becoming rough with her slow progress, Mark saw where she had gone to her knees and struggled to get back up.

A wider, better developed trail paralleled Silver Moon Creek in zigzag fashion, and the open land gave way to forest. Continuing until they reached a copious amount of shade where soft, cool breezes wafted down the canyon, they rested. Judging from the sun, it was close to two in the afternoon and the heat was beyond oppressive. The scent of pines became dull and heavy, birds that had been chattering throughout the morning went silent.

Larry pulled out the map given them by the sheriff, and after a moment of looking, said, “we’re off the search map. It ended where we were supposed to take Camptender back to Dagger Falls Road.”

“We didn’t bring the atlas or Forest Service map, did we?”

“Nope.”

The search plane passed overhead south of them, at less than a thousand feet.

“The sheriff must have got our message about the ATV. I’ll call in this time,” Mark said, holding his hand out for the walkie-talkie. Larry tossed it to him.

Mark was forced to walk back to Camptender Trail for better reception. It was Rachael on the other end.

“Hi Rache, it’s Mark,” he said through heavy static.

“Hey, hon, where are you? Is everything okay?”

“Fine. You got a map?”

“’Lyss is getting it with a few other things.”

Several minutes later, Rachael called back with map in hand. Mark described their location.

“Okay, so you’ve left Camptender and are starting up the Silver Moon trail. It continues on for several miles to Prospect Creek. There’s a ranch and landing strip there. Any sign of the girl and her dad?”

“I’m still tracking them. Can you let the sheriff know?”

“He’s very, shall we say, unhappy, with what you’re doing. Tell Larry that ’Lyss is also very unhappy, since the sheriff gave her an ass-chewing over you two not following orders.”

“Ouch. You’re not coming in clear, so we’re probably going to lose contact after this.”

“You take care.”

Mark updated Larry and added, “We’re getting close, so I’ll go first. Follow me about twenty-five yards back. We won’t be together if I get jumped, but you’ll be close enough to respond.”

“I don’t like you taking the lead all the time. Don’t forget, I outrank you.”

“Since this isn’t in our jurisdiction, rank don’t matter. Like you said, I’m the tracker.”

They started off with guns in hand.

Paisley’s feet were now scuffed the ground with every step as someone trying to keep their shoes, or slippers in this case, on. Or perhaps she was leaving a clear trail, Mark couldn't tell. A quarter mile farther he came across a pink slipper patterned with yellow daisies. Dirty, muddy, it’s stitching was coming apart.

Once again the search plane passed overhead to the north, and higher. Arleigh would be growing desperate, not only because the search was closing in on him, but his escape was being slowed by his daughter. If Mark was attuned to the narrowing of the search, how much keener did Arleigh feel it? How would he react? Abandon her? Kill her?

Not far from the slipper, he found the first speck of blood. Barefoot and bleeding, Paisley would slow them down considerably. So close, Mark thought, fighting desperation. With her rescue within their grasp, time was running out faster than they could travel and the thought of arriving a split second too late hounded him. He felt the world around them stop to watch with anticipation. Over and over the image of arriving just in time to witness Paisley’s murder hounded him, spurred him on.

The trail turned rocky and the blood specks became more difficult to find, but Mark tracked with the skill of his forefathers. Not that this was the most difficult tracking he had done but it had the highest stakes for sure. Then the second slipper. Several hundred yards farther, rocks gave way to hard packed dirt and the girl’s footprints no longer appeared, not even a hint of blood. Was he carrying her? Or had he killed Paisley and tossed her body off the trail?

Crouching nose to the ground, Mark found the hint of a heel print and marked it with a small rock. Crawling forward, he found another and marked it. Placing his own heels on the marks he made, it was obvious that the stride was not that of a man carrying a teenage girl and the chill of realization momentarily chased away the heat.

Behind him came a soft scrape of rocks. Whirling, he and Larry stared at one another. Mark gestured “all clear”.

“The girl’s not with him,” Mark said softly.

“Damn. She has to be somewhere between here and that last slipper. Unless he left her farther back and carried it this far to throw anyone off.”

“He’s in a hurry and not thinking. The last speck of blood I found was about three hundred yards back. Dead or alive, she’s close by.”

Throwing caution aside, they hurried back. It took Mark a few minutes to find the blood he was looking for.

“You take the uphill side of the trail. I’ll take the downhill side,”Mark said.

With the uphill side of the trail being softer dirt sprinkled with pine needles, Larry had the easier search than Mark, who had to negotiate knee-high grass. Pausing to listen, he heard the faint gurgle of water below.

He hadn’t gone far before finding several blades of bent and bruised grass. Ahead was a small, natural opening between brush and where found a few more blades of damaged grass. The sound of the stream became louder as he approached. By the sound of it, Silver Moon Creek was no more than a trickle of water perhaps six inches wide and three or four deep. Then came another sound. A small, plaintive wail.

With his every sense alert, Mark crept through the sparse brush and trees. Twenty feet away sat a small hunched figure, hair disheveled, sobbing. Wearing only Harry Potter pajamas, Paisley sat crying, soaking her feet in the trickle of water.

Mark swayed with relief. He crouched, watching for a few moments to make sure she was alone, then he re-holstered his gun.

“Paisley,” Mark said softly.

Screaming, lurching to her feet, she stumbled and fell.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m a police officer,” Mark said.

“Go away!” She screamed. “Leave me alone!”

“You know I can’t do that. Can we sit and talk for a little while?”

Shaking, she stared at him with indecision, weighing her options.

“There’s no place to go and you won’t get far barefoot. I’ve got food and water.”

She stared back indecisivel,y then dropped back to the ground. “I don’t care no more.”

“I’m going to call my friend, he’s also a police officer. Is that okay?”

“I don’t care,” she said, nestling her head in her hands.

“Lieutenant! Down here!” Mark called. Then to Paisley, “are you hurt?”

“My feet.”

“Where is your dad?”

“Why? I haven’t seen him for, like, months.”

Larry came storming through the brush, gun in hand.

“We found her,” Mark said, then turning back to Paisley, “if your dad didn’t take you, who’s the man you were with?”

“I don’t know. Stupid. I’m a damned stupid idiot. I’m in a whole shitload of trouble, aren’t I?”

“Not really. Who is he?”

“All he told me his player name, MupoLupo666. We met playing online video games and he said he was fifteen. When I said we were camping here, he said we’d hang out. My parents suck, so I snuck out this morning but he wasn’t no fifteen years old.”

“Predator,” Larry whispered to Mark.

“Go on,” Mark prompted.

“When I saw that he was old, like in his twenties or thirties. It was too late. I told him I was going to jump off the ATV and he said to go ahead, I’d just get boogered up and it’d be easier for him. He told me that if I didn’t go with him, he’d shoot me.”

“He’s armed then?” Larry said.

“Yeah. Big gun.”

“Where did you last see him?” Mark said.

“Up there,” Paisley said and threw her arm in the general direction of the trail “I couldn’t walk no more so he left me. Said he wasn’t screwing his life over someone like me. He was going to shoot me but I told him someone would hear, then the plane scared him. So he just left me and said I wouldn’t make it out alive anyway.”

“You are going to make it alive. Can I take a look at your feet?” Larry said, crouching next to her. “Would you like some water? Something to eat?”

“Guess so,” she said and pivoted to present her feet to him. Both soles were raw, cut, and blistered.

“You went east this morning. How did you get over here?” Larry said.

Paisley smirked, chuckled, then answered. “He ditched the ATV in the brush next to the river. He had a camper van at the Fir Creek Campground and taped my hands and feet together. I was really scared, but it was funny, too. It was dark and he was going too fast and crashed into one of those rocks they line the campground with. I told him my dad was camping there and he’d kill him, so MupoLupo gets the ATV out of the brush and we come back this way. The sun was coming up and he was scared someone would see us, so we took this road but it stopped on top of a mountain that had a tower, so we turned around and found this trail.”

Mark handed her some jerky, cheese and crackers, and a bottle of water. Larry pulled out his first aid kit, but a distant gunshot rippled down the canyon stopping him.

“Damn it all,” Mark grumbled. “Tell you what, take care of her and get her back the Camptender Trail.”

Two more shots in rapid succession echoed down the canyon.

“Two different guns. One’s a rifle.”

“Don’t you dare!” Stokes demanded.

Another shot.

“Gotta respond to this.”

“Then here,” Larry said handing Mark his sidearm. “Take mine, too.”

Mark stuck Larry’s Glock in his waist band, grabbed his backpack, and headed up trail at a jog he could maintain for long periods of time. Two more shots echoed down the canyon. The search plane crossed the canyon about a mile ahead and three more shots rang out.

Mark had reached a point where the canyon opened and the forest thickened when the rapid clip-clop of hooves stopped him cold. Pulling Larry’s Glock from his waist band, he eased off the trail. Moments later, a brown piebald horse trotted over a rise in the trail. Saddled and carrying a pack and empty scabbard, it’s reins trailed between its legs.

“Whoa, whoa,” Mark said gently and stepped out. It shied, eyes wide with fear. Mark feared it would bolt. However, the horse remained, snorting, side-stepping, but not running off. Mark approached calmly, soothing it with soft “whoas”. It’s head jerked as he gently took up the reins.

Gently sliding his hand down its neck, he slowly, carefully, lifting his foot to the stirrup. The horse flinched and sidled away. Mark regrouped, took gentle control, and this time mounted as the horse circled him warily.

T Turning back up the trail, he coaxed it into a canter that would have been a nice ride under any other circumstance. As they approached the area where Mark believed the fighting had occurred, he slowed to a trot and then a walk. Keeping a close eye on the horse’s behavior, he was certain it would tell him where.

And it did.

The horse shied, reared, and swung it’s head, showing the whites of it’s eyes. It took several minutes to settle the horse enough to dismount and hitch it to a tree. Pulling out Larry’s Glock, Mark cautiously proceeded on foot. Three brass casings lay on the side of the trail.

A stifled groan came from a patch of White Mules Ears. Dropping and ready to fire, Mark called out.

“This is Detective Mark Winterhawk. Identify yourself.”

Everything went tense and silent. Mark called out again. Eventually came a strained, “Deputy Ramadi.”

“I’m going to approach, is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

Mark approached in a low crouch, slowly, cautiously, scanning the surroundings. He came to a light-haired man of about thirty lying in a bed of tall flowers. The right shoulder and left ankle of his uniform were wet with blood. Relief swept over his face when Mark slipped the gun back into his waist band.

“I got a first aid kit,” Mark said, unslinging his backpack. “It doesn’t look like you lost a whole lot of blood.”

“Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.”

Mark rifled through his backpack for a bottle of water and his kit.

“Bastard ambushed me from the rocks,” Ramadi said and struggled to a sitting position. He took the bottle of warm water Mark offered. “Bleeding’s pretty much stopped but not completely.”

Ramadi chugged half the bottle in one go. Mark unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his shoulder. Ramadi endured the pain silently through gritted teeth.

“Where’s the other deputy?” Mark said.

“Leaman? Her horse threw a shoe several miles over and she headed back. Since nobody was assigned to this area, I decided to swing around and head back myself.”

“We have the girl. The man who took her isn’t her dad,” Mark said. Then, “this’ll hurt a little.” Ramadi groaned and his face contorted as Mark doused the shoulder with alcohol.

“That didn’t hurt too bad,” Ramadi wheezed. “Bastard popped me in the shoulder. Knocked me off my horse. He was really after my horse.”

“It’s hitched to a tree just down the trail,” Mark said. Wrapping gauze around the wound, he secured it with sports tape before re-buttoning the shirt.

“Which way did he go?”

Ramadi waved to the other sidehill. “North. We exchanged fire. It sounded like he had a .357 Mag. He got me in the leg and I dropped the rifle, of all things. Right there in the damn trail. No way of getting it without getting shot again, so I crawled up here. He took my rifle, then the plane flew over and he took several shots at it. Last I saw, he was heading to Prospect Creek. Did I tell you that he really wanted was my horse, but it bolted?”

By the time he ended his explanation, Mark had his leg bandaged.

“You say you found the girl. Is she alive? Hurt?”

“She’s fine. Lt. Stokes took her back to Camptender Trail where he could get receiption and call in a rescue.”

“You two have been a big help in spite of what Sheriff Caprio thinks. He doesn’t like working with people he don’t know.”

“Totally understandable. As for you, I hate to say this, but you’ve got a ruptured Achilles. Or maybe that’s good news since he missed the bone.”

“Well shit, I’m due for some time off. Help me up,” he said extending his good arm.

“So he’s got your rifle and a handgun and about a half hour head start,” Mark said, helping the deputy to his feet.

“You ain’t going after him.”

“Can you ride?”

“Yeah. I’m not so bad that I can’t. But you can’t be going after him by yourself.”

Mark, bearing Ramadi’s full weight, walked him down to the trail.

“I’ll get you on your horse and you go back to Camptender. I’m going after the perp. He only identifies himself by his player name MupoLupo666.”

“Well, MupoLupo is wearing a green shirt. That’s all I can tell. I heard that they found his van at the campground.”

“He crashed into a rock.”

“Coincidence, huh? That’s where her dad, Arleigh, is camping. Apparently Arleigh follows Paisley on social media and was camping there just to harass the mom. Close enough to worry her but far enough away to not get charged with stalking. The sheriff ran him off, anyway.”

“Helluva life for a kid.”

“Think this over very carefully, detective. He’s armed and dangerous.”

“So am I.”

Deputy Ramadi supported himself on a pine bow while Mark gathered his horse. It was an excruciating task of mounting him into the saddle, and Mark feared his wounds would open up. If they did, it wasn’t enough to be noticeable. Ramadi called the situation in on his satphone before handing it to Mark.

“Take my satellite phone if you’re going after him. Search and Rescue are coming up the trail now, so I’ll probably meet them about halfway.”

Mark took the phone, wished him good luck, and waited until he disappeared down the trail. He seemed to be riding well enough.

Tired, thirsty, and worn down by sun and thin air, Mark nonetheless pushed up the trail at a strong pace. His quarry didn’t appear to be in as good a physical condition and now the rifle was weighing him down. The extra eight or nine pounds wasn’t much, but Mark noticed he was shuffling more, his gait shorter and not as steady. And he was resting more often.

The pines thinned out into rolling hills that sloped down to Prospect Creek, a wide, shallow stream of water that Mark instinctively evaluated for fishing. Opposite the creek ran a wide meadow thick with willows that carried all the way to the ranch a quarter mile away. Mark turned to watch a helicopter land on the distant flats of Camptender Trail. After a few minutes it rose and disappeared.

Selecting a nice flat rock on which to rest, he scanned the area with his binoculars. A few hundred yards away and not far below him, he caught a brief glimpse of the man. As described by the deputy, he was wearing a dark green long-sleeve shirt. His brown hair shoulder length, a scruff of a beard on his square face, and he was shouldering the deputy’s rifle.

He’s not walking with confidence, that’s for sure, Mark thought as he watched the man stumble over the rough terrain, hunched in the way tired people walk.

If the perp made it across Prospect Creek, rooting him out of the heavy willows would be extremely difficult and dangerous. If he made it across the meadow and to the ranch, the sheriff would be looking at a hostage situation.

Mark placed a call on the deputy’s satphone.

“Sherrif Caprio. Is this Detective Winterhawk?”

“It’s me. How’s Deputy Ramadi?”

“On his way to Boise. Now why don’t you just tell me where the hell you are so we can get you out of there?”

“I’ve got the perp in my sights if you want him. Your deputy thought he was armed with a .357 and he now has a rifle.”

A lengthy pause made Mark smile briefly with self-satisfaction.

“Where are you? And don’t try anything.”

“I’m where Silver Moon runs into Prospect Creek. The perp is making his way through the trees and if he gets across Prospect Creek, you’re going to have a helluva time finding him in all those willows. Not top mention a hostage situation if he makes it to the ranch.”

Mark could feel how much Caprio hated asking him, but said, “can you keep eyes on him?”

“I can do that.”

“Whatever you don’t scare him off. I’m sending one of our choppers. I’ll let them know your position.”

“Appreciate it.”

The man crawled into the shade of a tree. Whether he was waiting for night, catching his breath, or weighing his options, Mark waited him out. Eventually came the distant “whumping” of a helicopter. The man heard it too. With his attention fixed on the approaching helicopter, Mark scurried closer, stopping behind a pine tree a hundred yards back. While he wanted to get close enough to provide support, he didn’t want to get close enough to catch any friendly fire.

The chopper approached and Mark watched the man ready the rifle. He phoned in a warning and moments later, the chopper veered away. It hovered off in the distance before beginning a new approach. Through his binoculars, Mark saw a shooter strapped to his seat inside the open door. Then a loudspeaker blared a warning to the man.

Mark watched him shoulder the rifle and take aim through the pine boughs. The helicopter came in high and the man let go with a shot. The chopper swung, then tried for a better run.

Mark yelled to the man, identifying himself and ordering him to disarm. He was answered by bullets ripping through the trees around him. Taking aim, Mark fired back, shattering a limb several feet above his head. Scurrying around the tree, he exposed himself to the helicopter. Caught in the open, he fired two shots. Then came a lone shot came from the helicopter. It hovered for several minutes before peeling off towards the ranch.

The satphone came to life.

“We got him and are sending in a recovery team,” came the sheriff’s voice. “If you want to cross over to the ranch, the chopper will take you back.”

“I appreciate it,” Mark said with relief. “Let them know I’m on my way.”

He stood, took in the rugged countryside, smelled the distant willows, listened to nature’s silence, and thought of fishing Prospect Creek. In a moment of poignancy he reflected on the man lying below, then began his hike towards the lowering sun and the awaiting helicopter.