son, and went into the building trying to convince the general of something.
“ Well, I don’t know what they said,” Bosin said, “but the gist of the visit was pretty clear.”
“ That mayor is poison,” McLean replied. “He’s selling out Denver. They’re probably preparing to move in and want to know where to expect resistance.”
The general walked back out to his humvee and got in. The mayor hurried after him and had barely shut the door before the vehicle took off. McLean and Bosin waited two more hours without seeing any movement around the prison.
Just as twilight was setting in, a bell rang twice and some of the prisoners got up to approach the porch. One of the guards set a big pot down on a picnic table there and stood back with a truncheon in one hand. The inmates lined up with an assortment of cups and bowls and began helping themselves to the pot, which appeared to contain some kind of soup.
McLean was starting to think about heading out when he saw a prisoner in line that looked familiar. There were at least a couple hundred prisoners in line and he’d almost missed it. But after observing the movements and profile of the man, he was certain that he was looking at Darren Bailey.
Chapter 13 : Coming to Blows
“ That’s my guy!” he whispered to Bosin. “He’s the one I came here to find. Looks healthy enough.” Darren had a bushy beard now and he had a slight limp, but as McLean recalled he’d always had the limp. It was probably exacerbated by what he’d been through.
They watched until darkness fell completely and the prisoners retired to their tents. The prison building wasn’t lit, but the guards had a fire in a barrel on the back porch and they carried lanterns on their patrols around the perimeter. This made it easy to see where they were and keep track of their patterns.
After observing this for an hour past dark, Bosin got up. “Well, I’ve got what I need for now.”
“ Me too,” McLean answered. “Darren’s family will be glad to hear he’s alive. Let’s bug out.”
Their egress under cover of darkness was simple, and soon they were back in the hills away from the valley and heading south through the scrub forest. They quickly reached a fork in the small deer trail they were following, one branch leading west and one east. McLean’s camp was hidden in a grove just to the west, from where he could quietly head westward on the long trek back to his ranch. Bosin seemed to want to head south down the hillside.
“ Well, I guess this is where we go Lone Ranger,” McLean said. “It was good meeting you. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
Bosin nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all. Sooner or later. And if you do get involved with these fellows in La Junta and Pueblo, you tell them Micah Bosin vouched for you.”
McLean nodded and trotted off down the deer trail to his camp. Within a few steps he and Bosin had lost sight of each other. The moon had yet to come out, and the night was pitch black.
As McLean approached the grove he began to look and listen for his horse. The closer he got, the more concerned he became that he hadn’t heard a single snort or whinny. It was still too early for the animal to be sleeping. Had it wandered off? He’d double-checked his knot, but there was always the chance that his equine friend had found a clever way to tear it loose.
He froze just before entering the little clearing by the tree where he’d stashed his gun and bedroll. His rifle was leaning up against a boulder in the middle of the clearing, the spot where he’d rested his back while brewing a cup of tea that morning over a tiny, smokeless fire. But that wasn’t where he’d left it. He would never have been so careless.
Slowly, silently, he began to back away. Suddenly the sound of distant gunshots rang out, somewhere back in the hills toward the track Bosin had taken.
A man leaned out of the darkness and aimed a gun at McLean.
“ Well, I don’t know what they said,” Bosin said, “but the gist of the visit was pretty clear.”
“ That mayor is poison,” McLean replied. “He’s selling out Denver. They’re probably preparing to move in and want to know where to expect resistance.”
The general walked back out to his humvee and got in. The mayor hurried after him and had barely shut the door before the vehicle took off. McLean and Bosin waited two more hours without seeing any movement around the prison.
Just as twilight was setting in, a bell rang twice and some of the prisoners got up to approach the porch. One of the guards set a big pot down on a picnic table there and stood back with a truncheon in one hand. The inmates lined up with an assortment of cups and bowls and began helping themselves to the pot, which appeared to contain some kind of soup.
McLean was starting to think about heading out when he saw a prisoner in line that looked familiar. There were at least a couple hundred prisoners in line and he’d almost missed it. But after observing the movements and profile of the man, he was certain that he was looking at Darren Bailey.
Chapter 13 : Coming to Blows
“ That’s my guy!” he whispered to Bosin. “He’s the one I came here to find. Looks healthy enough.” Darren had a bushy beard now and he had a slight limp, but as McLean recalled he’d always had the limp. It was probably exacerbated by what he’d been through.
They watched until darkness fell completely and the prisoners retired to their tents. The prison building wasn’t lit, but the guards had a fire in a barrel on the back porch and they carried lanterns on their patrols around the perimeter. This made it easy to see where they were and keep track of their patterns.
After observing this for an hour past dark, Bosin got up. “Well, I’ve got what I need for now.”
“ Me too,” McLean answered. “Darren’s family will be glad to hear he’s alive. Let’s bug out.”
Their egress under cover of darkness was simple, and soon they were back in the hills away from the valley and heading south through the scrub forest. They quickly reached a fork in the small deer trail they were following, one branch leading west and one east. McLean’s camp was hidden in a grove just to the west, from where he could quietly head westward on the long trek back to his ranch. Bosin seemed to want to head south down the hillside.
“ Well, I guess this is where we go Lone Ranger,” McLean said. “It was good meeting you. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
Bosin nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all. Sooner or later. And if you do get involved with these fellows in La Junta and Pueblo, you tell them Micah Bosin vouched for you.”
McLean nodded and trotted off down the deer trail to his camp. Within a few steps he and Bosin had lost sight of each other. The moon had yet to come out, and the night was pitch black.
As McLean approached the grove he began to look and listen for his horse. The closer he got, the more concerned he became that he hadn’t heard a single snort or whinny. It was still too early for the animal to be sleeping. Had it wandered off? He’d double-checked his knot, but there was always the chance that his equine friend had found a clever way to tear it loose.
He froze just before entering the little clearing by the tree where he’d stashed his gun and bedroll. His rifle was leaning up against a boulder in the middle of the clearing, the spot where he’d rested his back while brewing a cup of tea that morning over a tiny, smokeless fire. But that wasn’t where he’d left it. He would never have been so careless.
Slowly, silently, he began to back away. Suddenly the sound of distant gunshots rang out, somewhere back in the hills toward the track Bosin had taken.
A man leaned out of the darkness and aimed a gun at McLean.
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