Brandon said.
“The hell I do.”
“Yes, you do.” Brandon couldn’t point, so he shook his head in the direction of the door.
It took Walt a moment to see the plastic dart canister wedged into the intersection of the wall and floor.
“They got him, Sheriff. That’s what we heard with that first shot. We’re maybe, what, fifteen, twenty minutes behind him?”
Walt processed everything Brandon was saying and his eyes were telling him. “Darted him inside the cabin? I don’t buy that.”
“Who the fuck knows? That’s a dart, and, unless I’m mistaken, no one’s home.”
“You’re bleeding out.”
“I can get down the hill. It’s easier than going up.”
“Bullshit.”
“Give me the keys.”
“This isn’t going to happen, Tommy. I’m going with you.”
“We’ll use the radios,” Brandon said. “I’ll keep talking. As long as I’m conscious, you keep heading up there. I go silent, then, sure, come back and be the hero.”
“Give it a rest. There’s procedure, Tommy. I’m evacuating the wounded.”
“You’re pursuing the hostage. The first twelve hours, Sheriff. You know the drill.”
“ If someone took Mark, they’ll be on snowmobile. I’m on foot, Tommy.”
“And when I get down to town, I’ll send a deputy up Yankee Fork on a snowmobile looking for you.”
“Got it all planned out, do you?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Mark’s a vet. The dart could be his,” Walt said.
“Could be.” Gripping his arm tightly, Brandon said, “I’ll need help with the snowshoes, and you’ll need a pair of gloves.”
“We’re going to clean and wrap the wound,” Walt said. “We can get a lot of compression with the wrap.”
“Well, fucking hop to it!” Brandon said. “He’s got a head start on you.”
Walt passed him the keys.
16
WALT FOLLOWED THE TRAIL OF PACKED SNOW FOR ONLY the first fifty yards, then gave one final look back at Brandon before cutting to his right and entering into a stand of towering lodgepole pine that formed the southwestern boundary of the National Forest. He had first learned to track in Boy Scouts; but where other kids picked up footballs or soccer balls, Walt had spent his school-day afternoons in the wilderness with his head down. A man named Jeff Longfeather, a Blackfoot Indian who worked as a farmhand for his maternal grand-father, had seen the boy’s passion and had taught him the natural state of indigenous flora and fauna, the different ways and speeds that mud dried, the forces behind impact prints. Taught him the feeding, watering, and mating habits of big game. How to bugle an elk to within fifty yards. How to construct a blind. To survive in the woods for days at a time, eating pine nuts and edible roots, and burying his own scat. In the process, Walt had come to respect the environment in ways that wouldn’t be popular for twenty more years, but his reverence had paid off. Jeff Longfeather turned a wet-behind-the-ears Boy Scout into a fine tracker who could stalk a bull elk or deer for days without revealing himself. Walt had not stayed with scouting, but he’d visited the family farm weekends and school holidays and had come to view Jeff as something of an older brother, spiritual adviser, and mentor.
He disappeared now into the woods, his mission twofold: to track the man who had kidnapped Mark Aker, for there was only one set of snowshoe tracks coming and going, and to make certain no one tracked him.
Brandon’s ramblings crackled on in his earpiece, as his deputy descended from Aker’s cabin toward the Cherokee. The reception wasn’t great, but he continued to hear Brandon’s voice, which was all that mattered.
The snowpack was thinner inside the woods, most of it caught by branches. He doubled back on his own tracks, removed the snowshoes, and climbed rocks to break his own trail from being followed. He climbed trees for surveillance and never left the confines of the forest, even when the tracks he was following reached
“The hell I do.”
“Yes, you do.” Brandon couldn’t point, so he shook his head in the direction of the door.
It took Walt a moment to see the plastic dart canister wedged into the intersection of the wall and floor.
“They got him, Sheriff. That’s what we heard with that first shot. We’re maybe, what, fifteen, twenty minutes behind him?”
Walt processed everything Brandon was saying and his eyes were telling him. “Darted him inside the cabin? I don’t buy that.”
“Who the fuck knows? That’s a dart, and, unless I’m mistaken, no one’s home.”
“You’re bleeding out.”
“I can get down the hill. It’s easier than going up.”
“Bullshit.”
“Give me the keys.”
“This isn’t going to happen, Tommy. I’m going with you.”
“We’ll use the radios,” Brandon said. “I’ll keep talking. As long as I’m conscious, you keep heading up there. I go silent, then, sure, come back and be the hero.”
“Give it a rest. There’s procedure, Tommy. I’m evacuating the wounded.”
“You’re pursuing the hostage. The first twelve hours, Sheriff. You know the drill.”
“ If someone took Mark, they’ll be on snowmobile. I’m on foot, Tommy.”
“And when I get down to town, I’ll send a deputy up Yankee Fork on a snowmobile looking for you.”
“Got it all planned out, do you?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Mark’s a vet. The dart could be his,” Walt said.
“Could be.” Gripping his arm tightly, Brandon said, “I’ll need help with the snowshoes, and you’ll need a pair of gloves.”
“We’re going to clean and wrap the wound,” Walt said. “We can get a lot of compression with the wrap.”
“Well, fucking hop to it!” Brandon said. “He’s got a head start on you.”
Walt passed him the keys.
16
WALT FOLLOWED THE TRAIL OF PACKED SNOW FOR ONLY the first fifty yards, then gave one final look back at Brandon before cutting to his right and entering into a stand of towering lodgepole pine that formed the southwestern boundary of the National Forest. He had first learned to track in Boy Scouts; but where other kids picked up footballs or soccer balls, Walt had spent his school-day afternoons in the wilderness with his head down. A man named Jeff Longfeather, a Blackfoot Indian who worked as a farmhand for his maternal grand-father, had seen the boy’s passion and had taught him the natural state of indigenous flora and fauna, the different ways and speeds that mud dried, the forces behind impact prints. Taught him the feeding, watering, and mating habits of big game. How to bugle an elk to within fifty yards. How to construct a blind. To survive in the woods for days at a time, eating pine nuts and edible roots, and burying his own scat. In the process, Walt had come to respect the environment in ways that wouldn’t be popular for twenty more years, but his reverence had paid off. Jeff Longfeather turned a wet-behind-the-ears Boy Scout into a fine tracker who could stalk a bull elk or deer for days without revealing himself. Walt had not stayed with scouting, but he’d visited the family farm weekends and school holidays and had come to view Jeff as something of an older brother, spiritual adviser, and mentor.
He disappeared now into the woods, his mission twofold: to track the man who had kidnapped Mark Aker, for there was only one set of snowshoe tracks coming and going, and to make certain no one tracked him.
Brandon’s ramblings crackled on in his earpiece, as his deputy descended from Aker’s cabin toward the Cherokee. The reception wasn’t great, but he continued to hear Brandon’s voice, which was all that mattered.
The snowpack was thinner inside the woods, most of it caught by branches. He doubled back on his own tracks, removed the snowshoes, and climbed rocks to break his own trail from being followed. He climbed trees for surveillance and never left the confines of the forest, even when the tracks he was following reached
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