Uncertain Justice

"And ... there's a hint that he's attended at least one of the Army's survival schools--there's no certificate of completion, only a reference to it in a performance report. He's qualified "expert" with a number of weapons too ... and he declined a battlefield promotion in Afghanistan. Damn ... ya gotta wonder what that was all about." Jack closed the file and sat chewing his lower lip for moment.

"You know," he speculated, "the Sergeant Major said something when I was talking to him ... he asked if it was true Underwood had almost been captured and used a knife to kill a dog in the process of getting away ... asked if the man had any other weapons with him. I didn't know for sure at the time so I told him we hadn't confirmed it yet but the dog part might be true and he was supposed to have a shotgun and a pistol. He didn't say anything for a minute or two; then he said it was damn lucky only a dog got killed.

"He said it was only his opinion, but he thought the search party was damn lucky they hadn't gotten close enough to catch Underwood because he would have cut them to pieces if they had." Agent Randall sat quietly for a moment while he followed that line of thought. He didn't like where it led. His head jerked up when his supervisor broke the silence.

"I agree, Jack. There's a lot that doesn't add up and I want you to change the arithmetic. You make them add up." Pat Reilly's tone was a little sharper than he intended. Nice as the boy was, the Assistant Director had an appointment across town in thirty minutes.

"Get me some answers and find Underwood. Now that the state police search has been scaled back, he might get careless and surface somewhere. I want you there when he does. The Director has given me carte blanch to investigate this and it doesn't matter where it takes you. If you run into any problems let me know."

Jack stood quickly. He recognized a dismissal when he heard one. Waving at the Deputy Director's secretary on the way out, he plodded back to his drab little cubical. Time for more phone calls.

§

Drifting north, Miles searched for an opportunity to change his direction of travel east or west. The direction he went wasn't nearly as important as the change itself. That it would be random contributed to his intention of losing himself in the mountains. Once he'd managed a certain distance in some direction, he was going to turn back south to further confuse the scant trail he was leaving for the authorities.

Less than an hour into the morning's hike, he found what he needed. Moving to the shade beneath a pine tree, he pulled his large canteen out to gulp a few mouthfuls of water while he studied the ground and made his plans.

He thought he saw a path that meandered down and across the rocky slope in front of him that he could follow down to a slender ribbon of a creek that ran the length of the steep-sided ravine. Stepping from one rock to another wearing only his padded hiking socks would keep him off the ground and leave almost no trace of his passage down to the creek. They wouldn't make clear impressions on the ground or scuff a rock in passing and that would make it just that much harder for anyone to track him.

It wouldn't fool any dogs being used to track him but dogs would lose the trail too when he went in the stream. Once in the creek, he would wade up or downstream for a considerable distance.

At some point, he would abandon it and travel west after changing into the combat boots he carried as spare footwear. Then he'd find an opportunity to head back south.

When he got back to U.S. Highway 50, he would march east or west along it for several miles. It would have to be done late at night but cars and trucks traveling the route would pick up his scent on their tires and deposit it elsewhere. That would ruin any trace the hounds might otherwise use to track him down.

As the final touch, he would abandon the highway where a creek passed under it and walk along the riverbed south for as far as he could. He expected neither man nor beast would be able to follow his trail through all the convolutions he had in mind. He settled back for a rest before pressing on.

The big bird plummeted from the clouds with cruel talons extended to capture and kill a small rabbit no more than ten yards from where Miles sat. The rodent might have been surprised by Miles' presence under the tree and maybe it froze with indecision on its best move to avoid the human. Whatever the reason for its immobility, the rodent had surely forgotten the ever-present danger and it paid the price for the error. Miles nodded shortly as he absorbed the unintended lesson.

A monster for its breed, the red-tailed hawk was an albino, almost totally devoid of the characteristic black and copper-colored feathers. The cruel eyes of a hunter confronted the man, expecting Miles to challenge for the kill the raptor had just made.

When Miles only hoisted his canteen in tribute, the bird responded by spreading his wings to their full four-foot extension and screaming his triumph. The bird took to the air with the dead rabbit clutched securely against his body. Another hoarse shriek drifted down from the heights as the hawk disappeared into the branches high on a far-off treetop to enjoy his meal in private.

Miles gathered himself and took another swallow from the canteen while tightening all the straps on his pack. He patted the holstered pistol to make sure it was securely tucked inside the hip belt. Taking a deep breath, he swung out into the trail and followed it another few yards into the rock field.

On a boulder that would have been the size of an apartment building had its buried portion had been excavated, he broke off the path and turned west. Walking carefully, he zigzagged down the mountainside, taking care not to kick or dislodge any pebbles from their resting places. Their disturbance would reveal his passage to a skilled tracker and, in his stocking-clad feet, it would have hurt too.

§

Miles squatted in the shadow of the overhanging rocks and watched the valley spread out in front of him, looking for signs of human beings. He was hungry. Actually, it wasn't so much hunger as it was a craving for something different. He was getting tired of the fish he could drag from almost any creek or pond. He'd dreamed last night he could hear the sizzle of a big steak dropped on a hot grill.

He was a good ninety miles, as best he could determine, south and west of where he'd reversed course. As the crow flew, that is. Miles figured he'd probably hiked another seventy or eighty miles on top of that ... going up, down, and around any number of mountains.

It had been eighteen days since he'd turned back south and a solid week since he had found a footprint made by someone other than himself. He hadn't seen any signs of pursuit. In fact, the only suggestions of civilization he'd noticed for a long while were the contrails of high-flying airliners sliding swiftly across the sky.

He'd known from the start he would have to officially join the food chain in the wilderness at some point, but he'd put it off as long as he could. Hunting had a tendency to attract attention from other predators and made it easier for searchers to find him. He couldn't wait any longer though. He needed meat. Not only that, he'd been looking for somewhere to hold up for a while and get some rest. This place looked as good as any he'd seen.

In the grassy meadows below, he could see several small groups of deer and elk, plenty of hardwood to smoke the meat, and a number of small, shallow creeks that wound through and around the little alpine valley. In short, it had everything he needed.

Rising, he worked his way down slope and into a mixed forest of evergreen and broad-leafed trees to find a good campsite before the sun started its descent. He needed to pull out the crossbow he'd brought instead of a heavy rifle for hunting and check it. He should have done that long since. He'd sadly neglected the bow these past few weeks ... but then, there had been other things on his mind.

§

His first kill was more difficult than he had foreseen. The morning after arriving in the valley, Miles easily found a small herd grazing in one of the meadows and jogged in a wide circle through the forest to get downwind of them. Once there, he crept toward them, concealing himself in the brush as much as possible and moving only when his targets had their heads averted.

Eventually, he worked his way to within forty yards. He could see most of the herd through a screen of bushes and a small stand of trees. They were slightly down slope, alternately dropping their heads to find succulent young shoots and rising again to chew while they kept an eye on their surroundings.

He got his feet under him and stood, steadying himself against a sapling. The young male closest to him was his best shot. He aimed the bow at the feeding whitetail deer while he tried to remember what he'd heard about shooting uphill and downhill. Did you make allowances for it or not ... and did those rules apply to using a crossbow or just to firearms? He couldn't remember.

It stood to reason ... the lower speed of the bolt meant he needed to aim higher. But if he was higher than the target ... didn't that mean he should hold a little lower ... or did it mean...?

He sighed, exasperated. Finally, he decided to trust his instincts and aimed a little higher than he thought he needed. Letting out a careful breath halfway, he pulled the trigger release.

The aluminum bolt flashed off the tracks at better than three hundred feet per second. That was only a bit more than ten percent of the muzzle velocity of a 30-06 round but arrows obeyed the same physical laws that all spinning ballistic objects ... such as bullets ... must. They all actually rise a few inches in the early portion of their flight and then settle. By aiming high at a comparatively close target, Miles exaggerated that characteristic and the bolt flew an inch over the buck's front shoulders.

The animal didn't react except to raise his head and peer placidly around. Deer aren't blessed with an exceptional quantity of brainpower. Their survival adaptations are quick reflexes and great fleetness of foot to run away from predators.

Neither of these was triggered by the sound of the bolt boring a hole through the air overhead. As the three-year old munched on the tender greens of spring, it may have had a moment of dull curiosity at the huge fly or bee that had flown over its back while it grazed--but probably not.

"SHIT!"

That did provoke an immediate response. The deer hadn't known what the bolt was and the flat twang of the bowstring hadn't been enough to spook him, but he did have an instinctive reaction to a loud noise coming from an unknown creature's throat. Unidentified animals were automatically classified as dangerous.

The buck began to trot off into the deeper brush, the white flag of his tail waving energetically to warn his fellows. There was no time for a second shot. Before the young male deer passed out of sight, he stopped and looked back--derisively, Miles thought--at the mighty hunter who had missed so badly.

Miles sighed and trudged down to the little hollow where the deer had been grazing. He would need the bolt for future hunts. Slipping in a patch of dew-dampened grass didn't improve his mood. In his mind, Miles could hear the buck laughing as Miles' posterior smacked onto the wet ground.

He used his knife to carve the arrow from the trunk of an aspen fifty yards beyond where he'd seen the deer. The sharp point of the bolt had penetrated more than three inches into the wood, making the extraction a laborious task. He had to work slowly and carefully in order not to damage the point. The bolts and precious steel points couldn't be replaced out here. With the breeze striking him full in the face, he set off to find another herd of big Rocky Mountain deer.

§

He dumped water on the last of the fires he'd used to smoke the deer meat. Hidden close against the dark rock of the cliff, the fires had smoldered for days under tall trees whose branches and leaves dispersed the rising smoke. It had taken a little more than two weeks to get everything done.

After getting the feel for the crossbow, he'd killed two deer, careful to not take both from the same herd. He did as much as possible to see the entire carcass got used in some way. Even the brains had been used, mixed with ashes as described in his survival handbook, to cure the hides--tanning them for future use. The unusable bones, hooves, and skull had been buried deep to avoid attracting the wolves and mountain lions he hadn't seen much of yet. There were tracks though. He assumed the predators were always around.

He figured he had fifty pounds or more of smoked venison and jerky in the pack waiting under the tall tree. The hides were lashed to the outside of the pack. He didn't know yet what he would use them for, but the skins were too good to throw away.

Miles hoisted the backpack to his right knee. Holding the pack steady with his left hand, he thrust his right arm through the shoulder strap. With the weight supported entirely on his right shoulder, he wrestled his left arm behind him and through the left strap and hoisted the pack into place. He spent the next few minutes adjusting straps and equipment for the most comfortable fit. It was good to be breaking camp; he'd been in one place for too long and he was getting restless.

New to his outfit since he'd begun his trek was the rawhide holster for his pistol. He'd fashioned the holster from the hide of his first kill, working the leather, soaking it, and forming it to the weapon until he was satisfied with the fit. The holster he'd brought with him hadn't been designed for wear with a backpack--in fact, it was damn near impossible to wear with the pack--but he'd long since decided carrying the gun was an absolute necessity.

The newly constructed one had an extra large belt loop that fit over the inside of the hip belt with two extra layers of buckskin on the inner surface for padding against Miles' belly. The hip belt hid most of the weapon, but it was still easily accessible with a cross-belly draw. He kept his old holster and belt to wear when he wasn't carrying the pack.

Miles laughed to himself as he practiced his "fast draw" on an owl he spied roosting on a branch nearby. Wild Bill Hickok, he was not. But then, he didn't need to be.

Jesse James wasn't even in the neighborhood.

The chuckle surprised a ground squirrel an owl had been eyeing hungrily from his perch. Scampering to safety, the squirrel chattered at Miles as the fugitive walked away. The man picked up a game trail heading vaguely south.

The owl blinked his eyes in disgust and kept his head on a swivel as he searched for another creature suitable for a meal.

§

He was as lost as anyone ever had been. That was fine; being lost was part of the plan. The fugitive hadn't seen another human being in weeks, but he didn't miss social contact all that much. He'd always been a loner, comfortable within himself and accustomed to a solitary existence.

Though often alone in his adult life, he was rarely lonely.

Miles sat on a large rock, letting the stone support most of the weight of the heavy backpack while he debated whether to take off the instrument of torture or not. He stuffed a handful of berries in his mouth and chewed appreciatively. He'd picked them as he walked. There was good variety here and not many competitors for them.

When he reached around to the back of the pack for his canteen, it threw his balance off and he had to struggle to keep from tumbling backwards off the boulder. That settled it.

He unbuckled everything and let the shoulder straps fall away. He eased the pack off. It felt fantastic.

"Dumb ass!" he counseled himself. "Next time, just do it and get it over with." He bent to free the canteen from its lashings on the side of the pack and took a long swallow. He squatted beside the pack, leaning against the rock while he wiped sweat from his forehead. Still cool--sometimes cold--at night, the season had advanced enough that the days were getting very warm.

Everything was green and growing.

Idly he compared that to the brown, almost burnt, appearance that much of the plant life would soon be assuming in the south Texas summer to come. For the most part, he liked the refreshing breezes and cool green shadows in the mountains much better. On the other hand, he thought loyally, there was no other place in the world quite like Texas. It was the only state in the union to have been an independent nation.

It had been a true republic ... huge too ... larger, in fact, than many a country in the world today and it had been even larger when the Spanish had still held title. He wondered if this hill had once been part of Texas before sections had been shaved off when the rest of the states were allowed to join Texas in union. He laughed.

He closed his eyes as he tried to recall a map from a high school history class; he decided, totally without any evidence either way, that it was probable he was still in that territory marked on the map as the original Texas. It seemed to Miles this mountain region all the way west to what eventually became Utah had once been included in the Spanish territory. He relaxed and settled against the boulder, dozing in the warmth of the midday sun.

He dreamed of small companies of conquistadors and priests as they toiled their way through the mountains, exploring the region and claiming it for God and Spain. There were other Indians--some of them allies, some conquered by Spaniards and others who fought off the strangely armed and armored soldiers.

Miles felt the heft of the long sword in his grip as he yanked it from its scabbard when the savages attacked, seemingly, from the very ground beneath the hooves of the exploration party's horses.

Miles sensed the tension in the bowstring as he prepared to loose an arrow at one of the invaders mounted on the backs of the strange animals. He saw tribes who watched from a distance but took no part in the drama. As he watched, they all faded until they were no longer.

In his dream, Miles was troubled. Waking from his short nap, he struggled to throw off the lethargy brought on by the too short rest. Lifting the canteen to his lips, he looked around for animal or human who might have come close while he slept.

Across the valley to the east, he caught sight of a dark line zigzagging its way along the low ridge. It rose to the crest in easy stages and disappeared over the summit. The line was a trail ... perhaps nothing more than a track ground into the earth by generations of deer or mountain sheep ... or it could be a path used by Indians in ancient times.

Spanish missionaries and soldiers may have walked it, hunting for the mysterious city of gold they heard of from neighboring tribes. Whatever its history, he was drawn to it.

Besides, he didn't have any better direction to travel.

§

When he reached the ridge Miles hunted for the trail he'd seen from a distance. It took a while to realize the trail he was looking revealed itself only as a series of long, bare patches where the earth had been pounded into concrete hardness and where grass still could not take root. He walked south along the ridge, shading his eyes and looking into the distance to find the next segment. He needed all his concentration just to stay on course.

The trace led through a low saddle between two hills and changed direction until he was hiking more east than south. Then a tall cliff forced a detour all the way back around to the west to avoid steep inclines.