Blood Trail - C. J. Box [106]
In Nate’s peripheral vision there was a dull flash of clothing through the timber to the side of where Klamath was in the meadow. Nate quickly swung the .454 away from Klamath into the trees. Through branches and breaks in the timber, Nate saw the heads and shoulders of several men moving toward Klamath. Nate frowned and brought his radio up to his mouth when he recognized McLanahan’s heavy-bodied gait and familiar battered cowboy hat.
Klamath Moore suddenly froze and turned toward the rushing group of men, and a beat later Nate heard a shout—the reason Klamath had wheeled.
Nate almost cried out as Klamath raised his weapon, pointing it at the men in the trees, when a crackling volley of shots punched through the air and Klamath collapsed in the grass.
Nate keyed the mike. “Jesus—they shot him. Klamath Moore is down! It’s McLanahan and his guys.”
Four men, led by Chris Urman, appeared in the meadow, cautiously circling Klamath Moore’s body.
“Joe,” Nate said, “they got him. He’s down and he looks deader than hell from here.”
Nate lowered his weapon. He could see McLanahan clearly now, wheezing his way across the meadow toward the body of Klamath Moore, who was surrounded by Chris Urman and other volunteers. Somebody whooped.
Nate said, “Joe? Did you hear me?”
He heard Joe’s voice, tight and forced. “I heard you.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“What’s happening?”
“The shooter is coming down the hill toward Pope.”
Nate looked at his radio for a second, then shook it. “Come again?”
“Oh my God,” Joe Pickett said. “No.”
THE SHOTS in the woods behind me sent a bolt of fear up my spine. So many shots, so quickly. I drop to a knee and thumb the safety off my rifle, anticipating more fire that doesn’t come. Who was it—hunters? The number of shots reminds me of when a group of hunters come upon a herd of elk—that furious fire as the herd breaks and runs. Is it possible there are hunters up here despite the moratorium? And if so, why didn’t I see their camp or cross their tracks?
I wonder if it had to do with my earlier sense of being followed. The sheriff has men up here, I know. But they’re incompetent. Maybe they circled in on themselves. Maybe I just heard friendly fire.
Or maybe Klamath followed me and got caught. I briefly close my eyes. It makes sense. He’s always been suspicious of me, and the way he looked at me today when I excused myself—yes, it’s possible. But there is no way to know for sure until later.
No matter. This was never about Klamath, despite what he thinks. Because in his world, everything is about Klamath Moore. Not this, though. This is about bestowing dignity and righting wrongs. Klamath just happens to be breathing the same air.
I look up. Randy Pope is within a hundred feet but somehow he has not seen me yet. His head is down, chin on his chest, arms behind his back. What is he doing?
The shots and Randy Pope’s demeanor and appearance unnerve me. I abandon my plans to cape him. Simply killing him—killing the last one and stopping this—will have to be enough. It will be enough.
I rise and walk toward him, striding quickly. I could easily take him from here but I want him to see me. I want to be the last person he ever sees and the last thought he ever has in his mind.
“OH MY God,” Joe said. “No.”
He watched Shenandoah Yellowcalf Moore approach Randy Pope down the length of his shotgun barrel. She wore cargo pants, gloves, a fleece sweater, and a daypack. Her expression was tight and willful, the same face he had seen in the yearbook photos as she drove to the basket past taller players. The breeze licked at her long black hair flowing out beneath a headband. As he looked at her his heart thumped, making his shotgun twitch; his hands were cold and wet and his stomach roiled.
And suddenly, things clicked into place:
She’d been at the airport to greet her husband, Klamath, meaning she’d been in the area prior to his arrival, when Frank Urman was killed.
While Klamath’s movements throughout the