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From the news reports he’d been following, he knew Reed had turned into a really bad character. James was glad the bastard had headed into the mountains instead of the city. He reckoned that if the convict was cornered, he would take whatever hostage he could to get out of a situation.
James had left instructions with his wife and daughter to stay inside the ranch house and keep the doors locked. But he knew they were stubborn women and wouldn’t stand by and leave the animals to fend for themselves, especially in bad weather. They’d venture out into the barnyard to feed the chickens, pigs, horses and goats to keep them from going hungry. With the winter weather making a reappearance, they’d likely put some of the livestock in the barn.
Which would leave them at risk of being captured if Reed circled back to the Iron Horse Ranch. Hopefully, they’d be smart and enlist the help of their ranch foreman, Parker Bailey.
Sheriff Barron held up a paper with an image of William Reed. James didn’t need to see the picture. He knew Reed. However, others amongst them were newer to Eagle Rock and the county. “This is our man. Right now, we think he’s up in the mountains. The longer he’s free, the hungrier he’ll get. It’s imperative we bring him in quickly. All of our families’ lives are in danger as long as he runs free.”
“Then let’s stop talking and start tracking,” Marty Langley called out.
The sheriff nodded. “All right, then, gather around the map. We’re going to split up into different quadrants so we’re not shooting at each other.” Sheriff Barron spread a map over the hood of his SUV, and the group gathered around him. He gave instructions as to where each person would be during the hunt and what signal they should give if they found something. He handed out as many two-way radios as he had, distributing them to every other quadrant.
Once James had his assigned area, he mounted Rucker and rode into the mountains, his knee nudging the rifle in his scabbard, his hand patting the pistol on his hip.
He’d known Reed for years. When you lived in a small community, everyone knew everyone else. Some were better at keeping secrets than others but, for the most part, everyone knew everyone else’s business.
Reed had been a regular guy, working in construction and hitting the bar at night. He’d been a ladies’ man with a lot going for him. How had a guy like that ended up robbing an armored truck and killing the people driving it? What had driven Reed down the wrong path?
James could have been home with his wife of thirty-five wonderful years, holding her close in front of the fireplace, instead of riding out on a cold winter’s night in search of a killer.
He knew he had it good. After twenty years in the military, he’d settled in Montana on the land his father had passed down to him. He’d wanted his kids to have what he’d had growing up. Ranching had made him the man he was—unafraid of hard work, determined to make a difference, able to take on any challenge, no matter how physically or mentally difficult.
He’d been damned proud of his sons and daughter and how they’d taken to ranching like they’d been born to it. Even Angus, who’d been twelve when they’d moved to the Crazy Mountains of Montana. He’d been the first to learn to ride and show the other boys how wonderful it could be to have the wind in their faces, galloping across the pastures.
A cold wind whipped into James’s face, bringing him back to the present and the bitterness of an early spring cold snap. Just when they’d thought spring had come and the snow had started to melt at the lower elevations, the jet stream had taken a violent shift downward, dipping south from Canada into the Rocky Mountains of Montana, dumping a foot of fresh snow all the way down into the valleys.
He nudged Rucker in the flanks, sending him up the path leading to a small canyon that crossed over a couple of ranches—including his, the Iron Horse Ranch.
He knew the area better than anyone, having lived on the ranch as a child and as an adult since he’d returned from serving in the Army. As his father’s only child, he’d inherited the ranch upon his father’s death. Now, it was up to him to make it sustainable and safe for his family and ranch hands.
Again, he thought about his wife, Hannah, and his daughter, Molly, and worried for their safety.
Clouds sank low over the mountaintops, bringing with it more snow, falling in giant flakes. The wind drove them sideways, making it difficult to see the trail ahead.
About the time James decided to turn back, he’d entered the canyon. Sheer walls of rock blocked some of the wind and snow, making it a little easier to see the path in front of Rucker.
James decided to give the hunt a little more time before he gave up and returned to the highway where he’d parked his horse trailer.
He knew of several caves in the canyon suitable for a fugitive to hole up in during a brutal winter storm. They weren’t much further along the trail, but they were higher up the slope. Snowcapped ridges rose up beside him. He was careful not to make any loud noises that might trigger an avalanche. Spending the next couple days in a cave wasn’t something he wanted to do.
If he survived an avalanche, he could make do with the natural shelter until a rescue chopper could get into the canyon and fish him out. But Hannah and Molly would be sick with worry. James tried not to put himself in situations that made his sweet wife worry. Unfortunately, the Reed escape had worry written all over it. The man had escaped. He’d already proven he’d kill rather than go back to jail. He wouldn’t go peacefully.
Rucker climbed higher up the side of the canyon wall, following a narrow path dusted in snow. The wind blew the majority of the flakes away, keeping the rocky ground fairly recognizable.
The trail had been there for as long as James could remember. His father had told him it was a trail created by the Native Americans who’d once used the caves for shelter over a century ago.
Rucker stumbled on a rock and lurched to the side.
James’s heart skipped several beats as he held onto the saddle horn.
Once Rucker regained his balance, he continued up the slope, plodding along, the snow pelting his eyes. He shook his head and whinnied softly.
James patted the horse’s neck. “It’s okay. Only a little farther, and we’ll head back to the barn.” The weather in early April was unpredictable. It could stop snowing altogether or become a white-out blizzard in a matter of minutes.
The first in the row of caves James remembered appeared ahead and up the slope to his left. He dropped down from his horse’s back and studied the dark opening. If he recalled correctly, the cave was little more than five or six feet back into the mountain side. Not enough to protect a man from the cold wind and driving snow.
James grabbed Rucker’s reins and moved on to the next cave, glancing up the side of the hill as he approached.
The hackles on the back of his neck rose to attention. Had he seen movement in the shadowy entrance?
