As soon as Garrett hit the tree line, he threw his back against a thick elm and slid down until his butt smacked the ground. Chest heaving, he sucked in frigid air, straining to hear the gunshots, barely detectable given the shriek of the gale. Trying hard to slow his breathing, he glanced around the trunk, finding that his field of vision was even worse than before.
Thick wooded areas tended to be a rarity in the Texas Panhandle, with the exception of a few creeks and riverbeds, which were both few and far between. In a place as vast as his homeland, being surrounded by trees made Garrett a bit claustrophobic—maybe even unnerved. With the eerie darkness and soft falling snow, it reminded him of the hedgerow maze from The Shining.
Praying that he’d fare better than Jack Nicholson did at the end of the movie, Garrett struggled to his feet, took an arrow from the attached quiver, and nocked his bow. He gave another quick glance around on both sides then dashed over to a clump of cottonwoods. When no shots rang out, he rested a little easier, got his bearings, and moved to the banks of the river.
As Garrett snuck through what concealment he could find in the crumbling brush, he couldn’t help but think of the area’s tragic history. Only about thirty miles to the east was the Washita battlefield where General George Armstrong Custer led his 7th Cavalry troops against an encampment of sleeping Cheyenne. In actuality, it was more of a massacre than a fight, a truly sad affair that had ultimately boiled over after years of broken treaties, deep-rooted mistrust, and horrific atrocities committed on both sides. But such was the violent history of spilled blood in the region. And after all these years, they were still out there spilling more.
When Garrett arrived at the water’s edge, he found that the river was little wider now than what most people would consider a stream. And what did exist was frozen across, with a thick layer of pristine white powder covering it, all the way to the other side, where the woods picked up again. He followed along the riverbank, careful to stay within the tree line for cover.
When he was nearly at the ridgeline, he saw Cloutier’s tracks, and considered it a good sign. The guns hadn’t fallen silent because Kai was down. They’d stopped shooting because the Frenchman had escaped. Keeping a careful aim on the thicket across the ice, Garrett backed away and turned to return to his truck. But he’d not even made it more than a few steps through the woods when gunfire opened up and rounds cracked overhead.
Ducking and taking cover behind a leafless pecan tree, Garrett took a knee and peered around the trunk. The woods were so thick he doubted Cloutier’s rounds had made it past the first couple of bushes. He rose, kept low, and darted through the thicket, using what cover he could find in the waist-high tufts of brittle buffalo grass. Spying tracks, Garrett eased nearer to the river’s edge.
Maneuvering through the dense thicket, he searched the opposite side of the riverbank. Spotting a little hunting cabin nestled in the woods, he dropped to his knees and threw his back against a felled tree.
A quick scan across the frozen river sent him diving for the ground, as the muzzle flashed from around a stack of firewood along the right side of the cottage, and rounds zipped overhead. Bullets shredded the top of the log, sending snow puffs and splinters raining down atop him, then stopped suddenly.
Assuming Cloutier was reloading, Garrett sprang from his hide, sprinted closer to his adversary, and dove behind a shredded stump. He moved a few feet over and took a quick peek above the rim, but immediately regretted it. The machine gun rattled and bullets churned through the rotten wood.
Rolling right, Garrett rose, took hasty aim with his bow, and let loose an arrow at Cloutier, if for no other reason than to buy a little time. Now all he could do was wait.
Simon couldn’t believe his luck. The arrow that came at him had only clipped his left bicep—a flesh wound at best. Six inches over and he’d be lying there dead. His elation from having survived the attack was only short-lived, as the bad news was that he’d not a bullet to spare. Between the shoot-out with Stoddard and the battle with Kohl, his supply was nearly spent.
The key to taking out this cowboy was to lure him into his trap. And to do that meant taking a risk. It meant showing himself. He clambered to his feet, sprinted through the woods, dodging trees, hurdling downed limbs, and then veering back to the riverbank.
Dusted with fresh powdery snow, it took a moment to locate the detonator within the brush, but the wires were still connected to the bomb he had planted and it was ready to go. All he needed now was the hasty cowboy to make his move.
Garrett tore a path back to the Frenchman’s trail and found the place on the river where Cloutier had crossed. Taking a calculated risk that the ice was dense enough to hold his weight, Garrett took his first timid step. But no sooner had he set his boot down than he saw a silhouette on the other side. He let loose an arrow that pierced the Frenchman in the right shoulder.
Although Cloutier went down without firing back, Garrett didn’t rest easy. Craving a kill shot to finish the job, he threw caution to the wind and sprinted across the ice. He’d taken only a few steps when the explosion came from behind and rocked him forward. His knees hit first, the rest of him followed, then his forehead slammed against the ice.
Almost immediately he felt the water begin to soak through his sleeve. Gunfire erupted again but there was nothing he could do to counter. His bow had slid through a crack in the ice and, in all likelihood, sunk to the bottom of the river.
Garrett rolled to his back and looked up, watching and waiting as the dark figure approached. Singed, battered, frozen, he willed himself to rise, but his body would simply not obey.