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"Looks like they kept to the bottomland. Easier to move, if more obvious," Gator muttered.
"Probably running wild. I don't think he's a planner." Flick kept close, the two of them hurrying in the tracks of their prey.
"But he got the jump on you guys. Look for a way up, in case they doubled back." Gator scanned the higher dunes around them. His phone buzzed.
Monty: Up and running, finding a parallel route.
:Copy that
Gator let the phone dangle in its silicone holder. "Truck's coming. We gotta move."
"Eleven o'clock." Flick indicated direction with his rifle. He winced a little. His arm looked puffy, and clearly didn't respond so fast. What was the first aid for scorpion stings? Who even knew, expect maybe Flick did. On the other hand, Flick didn't complain, Gator wasn't gonna bug him about it if he didn't think it was a problem.
A few more rocks emerged from the sand in that direction, providing something like steps going up. Long as the target hadn't gone ahead of them, and even if he had, he wouldn't last long. Even the woman, despite the headache she'd given him, couldn't do much against a long gun already in hand.
"I'm going up, you stay on it," Gator ordered.
"Copy." Flick moved past as Gator mounted the stone outcrop.
He charged upward, leaning forward to keep his balance on the rough, sloping stones. The dune sank away underfoot, but Gator kept an eye on the tracks below. From the signs Gator read in the sand, Rowe and his woman kept heading roughly south-south-west, turning past the dunes in that direction.
The sound of the truck's engine grew in his hearing, to his four o'clock and circling toward noon. Good. Either they'd cleared the critters, or taunted each other into going anyway. Kinda liked the idea of Monty and Smitty's ankles getting jabbed at while they tried to stomp their tormentor. Served 'em both right.
Gator dragged his gaze higher, then his jaw dropped and he shut it with a click. The ship. Dead ahead, still—as he'd figured—mostly buried in the sand, but that prow couldn't be anything else. The spar had broken off a long while back, sticking out like a broken tooth, and, if he squinted a little, he could imagine the shape of the rest: high at the stern and bow, low in the waist, riding high in the water, but lower with cargo, its hold full after a successful trip. He was salivating, and not just because his stomach growled. That wasn't all he could imagine.
Movement to his two o'clock, a glint of metal as the truck grew louder. He took up the phone and tapped out: Head for the level, then straight south. Half mile or less.
Down below, Flick rounded the final barrier and paused, then retreated a half-step to his best cover. He pointed to his eyes, then around the corner. He'd seen the ship, then he indicated the tracks continued toward it. Could it be their quarry went to ground right there? Pocket gophers indeed.
Gator prepped his rifle, training the sight on the shadows that lingered to the south of the wreck. The truck arced into view, gaining speed as it hit firmer sand. His boys rode in from the north, with Flick on the ground to flush out their prey. Gator hunkered down topside on the ridge, as if he were in the crow's nest, watching for the first glimpse of their payday.
Gator's finger slid along the trigger. One squeeze at the right moment, just like pulling the arm of the winning slot machine, and they'd be caught in a rain of gold.