Uncertain Justice

The two nodded but Walker wasn't terribly reassured. What he wouldn't give for a squad or two of Marines right now. He shook his head and took a deep breath.

Surging to his feet, he ran past Peterson and threw himself to the ground below the crest of a little rise. Peering over the iron sights of the automatic rifle, he rose to his knees and swept the muzzle in a fast arc from left to right. There was nothing there.

After a moment of listening to the sounds of the forest and watching the field of view in front of him, he knew there wouldn't be anything to see. What had happened here was finished.

Sighing, he got to his feet and walked back to the young Corporal's body. He motioned the other two up beside him. Thumbing the selector to the safe position, he leaned his rifle against a tree and knelt beside the wounded man.

Rolling the injured man on his back brought forth a groan and Peterson's eyes opened. It would have been much better if he'd stayed unconscious. As he was moved, the shattered bones in his right shoulder ground against each other and he almost passed out again from the agony. When he took a deep breath, the splintered ends of his demolished left collarbone knifed into soft tissue and he screamed. The two sources of pain merged and overloaded his system again. He fainted.

Opening the man's body armor and cutting the bloody BDU blouse and tee shirt from his body with the Marine's bayonet, Walker searched until he located the little blue-edged entrance wound dimpling the skin under the left arm. Blood was dripping from the entrance wound in a slow, but dangerous flow.

On the upper chest, brilliant white bone penetrated the skin where the bullet had broken Peterson's left collarbone. Blood had filled in the channel bulldozed by the bullet on its way across the chest and a dark line outlined its path just under the skin. Probing gently, the Gunnery Sergeant felt loose bone fragments grinding against each other in the right shoulder. He grimaced. The boy's shoulder was wrecked and he couldn't do a thing about it.

Holding Peterson's right arm tight against the man's rib cage, he motioned Randall and MacPherson to turn the hurt man on his side. They did it as gently as they could. Peterson groaned deeply but didn't rouse. Walker sucked in his breath as the Kevlar vest fell away and he got his first sight of the exit wound behind the shoulder.

He bit his lip and poured water from his canteen over the lemon-sized hole where the mushrooming slug had torn its way out of his subordinate's body. Blood flowed freely from the open wound but there was no heavy, pulsing fountain pumping from a cut artery. It was encouraging. Maybe the boy wouldn't die before his sergeant could get him off the mountain.

§

While the Marine tended to the wounded man, Cal walked forward until he found where Underwood ... he didn't doubt it was the fugitive ... had fired. The tracks led down the side of the hill. After negotiating an initial steep section, the footprints passed carelessly through brush where broken twigs and bent leaves made it easy to follow. The prints of the man's feet were shallow and not far enough apart for him to have been running hard. Before he'd gone fifty yards, the fugitive had slowed, almost casually, to a slow walk.

MacPherson followed the traces through the undergrowth, glancing often to his front and flanks. Across a small meadow, the vague markings passed into more thick bushes and trees. Then the trail vanished ... abruptly and completely.

The Nez Perce stopped at the edge of the brush and shook a worried head. The tracks were an invitation to follow--their disappearance a warning. He would much prefer a quarry afraid and racing away from the scene of the gunfight. He climbed back to the path and walked quickly to where Peterson lay stretched on the ground.

When he got to the puddle of blood slowly soaking into the forest floor, MacPherson pursed his lips in a silent whistle. He'd counted seventy-three paces. He'd seen the depressions where two bullets had struck the Marine's Kevlar armor. The fugitive was one hell of a marksman. MacPherson wasn't sure he could hit the broad side of a barn at that distance ... from inside ... and Underwood had hit Peterson three times.

§

Working fast, Walker ripped open the first aid pack he always carried. Scanning the contents, he put it to one side. The bandages and other items inside weren't designed for this degree of damage. He pulled off his BDU blouse and tugged his tee shirt over his head. Wadding the olive-green material into a thick pad, he pushed it into the gapping hole in Peterson's back to stop the bleeding. Peterson groaned louder and stirred, then became completely limp as he dropped into deeper unconsciousness.

Walker pressed the clean handkerchief offered by Randall against the entry wound. Bandages from the kit were wrapped around Peterson's body to secure the stuffing in both wounds. He tore Agent Randall's tee shirt into strips to bind Peterson's arms to his side as best he could to immobilize the broken bones. The Marine NCO leaned back to survey what he'd done.

Most of what he'd done wasn't using sterile, or even clean, clothing but if he didn't use them, Peterson would bleed to death quickly. The doctors could deal with cleaning out the wounds when, and if, he got the young man out of the mountains alive and to a hospital. He looked up when the Nez Perce guide rejoined the group.

"We're going to need your jackets, gentlemen. Cal, we need two reasonably straight branches ... couple-three inches thick and seven/eight feet long." MacPherson nodded and dropped his Army surplus field jacket to the ground near the two Marines.

He selected a sapling a couple yards off the trail and a branch from a parent tree nearby. He pulling his big knife out of its sheath and attacked them vigorously. The FBI Agent was a little slower pulling off his BDU jacket, but he quickly figured out what the other two had in mind. Obviously, Peterson wouldn't be able to walk even if he regained conscious.

In a few minutes, the Nez Perce guide had two poles of roughly the same length and was hacking off small branches and twigs. Walker had taken both field jackets and spread them out on the ground, front side up, near the wounded Marine. He zipped them closed and fastening all the buttons and Velcro tabs. When MacPherson finished the two poles, they were slipped inside the bottom of each jacket and rammed out through the sleeves. The stretcher--such as it was--was finished.

Walker checked the wounded man one last time before they rolled him onto the litter. He was still breathing slowly but his pulse was fast and hard to find. Walker had needed to check the artery in Peterson's neck when he couldn't get a pulse in his right wrist.

"I went down there to see what I could see. Found where the shooter was." MacPherson pointed to the oak where he'd found Underwood's footprints. "I followed his tracks for a little way, but lost 'em in some thick undergrowth. He wasn't in any hurry gettin' away." He took a mouthful of water from his canteen and rinsed his mouth.

"Can we follow him?" Randall was excited for the first time since Peterson had fired his first shot in the early afternoon. The Nez Perce turned to the agent.

"Mister, this feller Underwood has already been shot at and missed twice today. This time he shot back and--just between you and me, God and the gate post--I'd druther follow a pissed-off mountain lion into that brush. But you want to go after him, Mr. Peterson, you go right ahead. I'll wait right here for ya." There was no expression on MacPherson's face.

"We don't have time for that," interjected Walker. "We've got to get Peterson to the camp and get him some help in the morning." He looked at the two men standing above him. "Okay, let's get to it," he ordered. We got a long way to go and I want to get as much as possible done while we still have some light."

MacPherson helped Walker rolled Peterson over on his left side while Randall hurriedly slipped as much of the stretcher pole under the injured man's body as he could. Once he had the stretcher in place, all three men rolled Peterson onto his back. Though they handled him as gently as they could, Peterson roused enough to groan loudly before relapsing into unconsciousness. They tucked the big Barrett sniper rifle beside him.

Without discussion, Walker took position at his wounded comrade's head and MacPherson took the foot. Both were bigger than the FBI Agent and in better condition. Randall didn't comment though his face flushed a little in the shadows and he resolved to himself that he was absolutely ... positively, no ifs, ands, or buts, going to hit the gym and get into better shape.

He checked Walker's M-4A1 to make sure the safety was on and loosened the strap a little so he could slip it over his shoulder. He took the lead position, watching both sides of the trail as closely as he could for a fugitive who was suddenly an aggressor.

Frequent qualification on FBI firing ranges with the standard issue automatic rifle and the Berretta 9mm holstered on his hip had made the weapons seem familiar, but he had no training that would help him defend himself out here. He was badly out of his element.

With his attention fixed on the bushes and trees in the woods, he stumbled even more often that he had on the way up. The dim light made him lose his balance too often and he staggered drunkenly along some sections. Frost heaves grabbed at his boot heels to trip him and hollows dropped away unexpectedly where there should have been level ground. Apparently, someone was also snaking tree roots over the trail for him to bump against too. If he stubbed his toe just once more, he knew he would break something.

That malicious 'someone' was also pulling on the other end of the path to stretch it--he felt like he'd already hiked ten miles. Special Agent Randall began to think longingly of his comfortable little cubicle in the Denver field office.

§

It took the better part of three hours for the mile and a quarter journey. By the time they staggered into the camp, they'd established four days earlier, all three men were in the final stages of exhaustion.

Randall came to envy Peterson his ability to escape into unconsciousness when the pain became unbearable. The FBI agent had no such option.

The three had swapped positions every hundred yards or when the agony of stretched shoulder muscles became too great. Randall had surprised the two bigger men by continuing to hobble along the trail carrying the litter long past when they'd expected him to cave in. He'd been on the lighter end, of course--MacPherson or Walker had to take the end with Peterson's upper body but, still, he managed to garner a little respect from the two other men.

§

None of the three noticed the figure kneeling in the deep shadows just off the trail and silently watching the trio stumble along with their heavy load. Miles was pretty sure that near the end of their trek, he could have walked among them and they wouldn't have noticed, much less been able to react. '

Miles watched as they lowered the wounded man to the ground in a clearing bounded on the east by a featureless rock wall fifteen or twenty feet high. Above, a series of ledges and steep inclines stair marched up a steep ridge. The small man at the rear almost lost control of one of the poles in the process of settling the litter down beside the low cliff and the jolting caused the man in the stretcher to moan.

Undergrowth and trees hemmed in the little campsite; in one place the brush came right up to the edge of the small open space. Detached, Miles noted there was no field of fire and no cover for the campers ... no way to escape an attacker. Conversely, the brush offered a way for him to get within yards of the ring of stones that served as the fire pit without being seen.

Miles tentatively identified the biggest man as a soldier or former soldier from the way he handled himself and gave orders. Without wasting time trying to catch his breath, the soldier had busied himself pulling aside a big, flat-sided rock that hid the small opening to a cave. More a crack in the rock than anything else, it was apparently spacious enough to act as a cache for equipment they hadn't wanted to carry with them. The soldier dragged out a couple of camouflaged backpacks and other assorted gear and set to work on the wounded man.

Pulling out the tee shirt stuffed into the exit wound he dumped a packet of antiseptic powder into the open wound and packed it with gauze. After doing the same with the entrance wound, he slipped the wounded man's arms into slings and bound them across the man's chest. Satisfied he'd done what he could, the big soldier backed away from the injured man and wearily stretched out on the ground using one of the backpacks as a pillow. He never looked out into the darkness where Miles watched.

Another of the trio showed no inclination to be a leader, but he kept going until the job was finished. Not wearing BDU's with pants tucked into combat boots, the man slouched comfortably against a convenient tree and drank most of a full canteen before he did anything else. After a while, he rose to rummage through one of the packs and tossed an MRE--Meal Ready to Eat--food pack to each of the other two. He knelt by a well-used fire pit and built a small fire. As they ate, a pot of coffee boiled in the coals. Miles' mouth watered at the aroma that floated out to him fifty yards away.

The smallest of the men puzzled Miles. That man's first act on getting to the camp was to crawl over the rock wall near the cave and sit there with his chin on his chest while he gulped air and water in large quantities. When he got control of himself, he burrowed into one of the backpacks to pull out a big satellite phone.

He made a long call with lengthy pauses and several bursts of animated conversation from the other end of the conversation. He kept referring to an unfolded map. Finally finished, he stabbed a button on the set and spoke briefly with the other two, his finger marking a place on the map they studied closely.

Miles supposed that was where a rescue team would meet them ... probably ferried in by helicopter. He'd thought the big soldier was the leader, but perhaps the one with the phone was. He shrugged ... it really didn't matter.

At length, all three pulled sleeping bags out of the cave and dropped them on thin pads spread over the softest ground they could find. Spreading a pad under their wounded companion, they covered him with his unzipped bag. Miles watched until the three unwounded men had pulled off their boots and thrust themselves into their heavy sleeping bags and became still. He withdrew a hundred yards and found a hiding place in a thick stand of trees.

He put his backpack under his head and watched the stars for a while. He debated whether to back off and give the four men at the cave free passage out of the wilderness or not.

An image of the tree stump splintering next to his head crushed that impulse. He still had questions and they still had answers. He slept until the intense darkness of predawn.

§

The three men were still in their sleeping bags at sunrise. Miles watched, vaguely contemptuous, though he understood they were exhausted after carrying the big one all the way to the camp. They hadn't even tried to set a guard as far as he could tell. Certainly there had been no one watching when he crept close to the campsite in the vague light of dawn. He wondered if he should be pissed off at the lack of respect or glad they hadn't thought it necessary.

Stepping lightly and slowly, he slipped through trees and brush concealing the campsite until he stood behind a screen of young pine saplings watching the four men. The one he'd shot groaned softly every once in a while but the others were used to it now and none of them roused.

Miles carried the pistol ready for instant use, his forefinger resting on the trigger and the hammer fully cocked. He glided silently into the camp. Lifting each foot carefully from the ground, he placed it down just as cautiously. The outside of his foot contacted the ground first to test the surface. If he felt no twig to snap or pebble to scrape against the ground, he rolled the rest of his foot into the stride; his heel barely brushed the earth.

He'd learned these things from the People, mimicking the way they slipped into an enemy's camp. Stalking deer, elk, and the occasional black bear for meat required a great deal of stealth or he'd have gone hungry over the last year. Instead, he had absorbed lessons from each hunt. He was well fed.

Bent almost double and pulling his knees up high to step soundlessly over obstacles, he threaded his way among the sleeping bags and appropriated the M-16 near one man and an M-4A1 from another. He took the two pistols he could see, lifting them carefully from their holsters, and eased a K-bar from a sheath in the boot of the biggest man, the one he thought was a soldier.

The long rifle that had been used in the attempt to kill him with was pushed part way inside the cave and other gear piled on top. There was no way to reach it. After last evening's encounter, he wasn't particularly concerned about the ungainly weapon at close range anyway. It was much too clumsy and prohibitively slow to get into action.

He placed the weapons he'd collected on the outside of a fallen tree trunk near the fire pit. All of the men had chosen to sleep on the other side of the fire, near the rock wall, in order to gain the most benefit from the heat it reflected back at them. It accomplished that function so well they were sleeping with their bags only partially zipped shut, their arms and shoulders exposed.

Miles slowly stirred the coals from last night's fire with a stick held in his left hand and added a few more branches from a nearby pile. When the fire was going well, he carefully set the pot on the flames to warm the leftover coffee. Locating a cup in the pack propped against the log where he sat, he poured himself a cup of the black, oily mixture. It tasted great.

Yesterday's rage had cooled a bit as it aged and the cup of coffee muted it even more. He was still mad, but the one who'd apparently shot at him was himself badly wounded. Some punishment for the ambush had already been exacted. It took the edge off his anger.

The first to wake was the one who wore his hair in braids. He was dark skinned with prominent cheekbones and Mile took him to be an American Indian. The worn, run-over heels on the boots only an arm's length away from the man's sleeping bag marked him as the one Miles had labeled in his mind as the tracker. Dollar to doughnuts, Miles thought, there was a cut on the inside of the right heel.

The man woke all at once. One moment he was sound asleep, the next he was staring at Miles with eyes wide. He lay still.

Miles took another swig of coffee, looking at the awakened sleeper over the brim. The man came up slowly on his left elbow, careful to keep his hands in plain view. He didn't try to unzip the sleeping bag any further. A quick glance told him his handgun was missing.

"Walker?" The strangled call from the man's dry throat wasn't strong enough to rouse the sleeping man. "WALKER!" he called again, louder this time. Miles waited, curious to see which of the sleeping men replied to the summons. It was the bigger of the two--the one Miles had decided last night was a soldier.

"What?" The sleepy answer wasn't accompanied by any activity.

The Indian guide tried again. "WALKER!" he snapped, "we got company."

The black Marine's eyes opened. His hands darted downward to open the warm bag. Catching sight of the motionless man sitting across the fire, he aborted the move. The big pistol held casually in the man's right hand was cocked and ready.