Page 13 of Backtrack

Lafayette Johnson gazed longingly at the stock trailer. A manhunt on horseback was the stuff of every Texas lawman’s dream.

“How about we let the kid ride,” Cutter said. “I don’t mind posting up at a roadblock.”

“Nope,” Smith said, matter of fact. “I want your eyes on the trail.”

“Got it,” Cutter said, all too happy to sit a horse.

“Anyhow, I told DPS I’d loan ’em LJ for a bit,” Smith said. “They need someone to ride shotgun on their helicopter.” He leaned in, as if to confide a secret to Cutter. “Get a load of this: Their plan is to leapfrog from farmhouse to farmhouse by air. LJ and Trooper Teague will bail out and clear each place while the chopper hovers overhead. They’ve got a Texas Ranger sharpshooter totin’ an M16 on board to pop our outlaw if he flushes out the other end with bad intent.”

Cutter took off his hat and ran a hand through his stubble of blond hair, moist with perspiration in the morning heat. “Has anybody actually identified the suspect?”

“If they have,” Smith said, “they haven’t told me.” He looked at Johnson. “You think you can keep from shooting some poor farmer who decided to skip church this morning?”

“I won’t let you down, Chief,” the young deputy said.

Smith chuckled, swinging open the gate to his stock trailer.“Sure you will,” he said. “Everyone lets me down at some point.” He stepped up and patted the big gray on her rump, smooching to let the animal know it was time to unload, then he climbed out of the trailer and turned to face the young deputy. “Just refrain from shootin’ anybody who doesn’t need to be shot. Can you do that for me?”

“Wilco.” Johnson nodded, smiling like a puppy.

Cutter had done more than his share of jumping out of choppers during his time with Special Forces, but if anything came close to a manhunt on horseback, it was deploying house-to-house from a helicopter.

Ten minutes later, while Cutter was adjusting the stirrups on his saddle, sheriff’s posse volunteer wives showed up with sandwiches and more insulated jugs of iced tea. Cutter topped off his canteen and grabbed a ham sandwich. He wasn’t particularly hungry but didn’t know when he’d have the opportunity to eat again, so he stored the sandwich where he’d been taught to store food—in his belly. A greasy ham and mayo stuffed in sun-heated saddlebags all day was only slightly less dangerous than getting shot.

Fed and watered, Cutter checked the chamber on his old lever-action Winchester rifle and then slid the .30-30 into an empty saddle scabbard on a stocky little grulla tied alongside Chief Smith’s stock trailer. He threw a box of twenty extra rounds of ammunition in his saddlebag. The lawmen were sure to be bushwhacking at least part of the time, especially if Cutter found any tracks. He grabbed a can of bug dope from the trunk of his car and hosed himself down. Everything in Texas seemed to stick, stink, or sting.

Ready to go, Cutter pulled the quick release bank robbers knot on the lead rope and walked the stocky grulla away from the trailer. The mouse-colored horse was one of the more cantankerous of Smith’s string, but there was trotter blood somewhere in its pedigree. Cutter’s back and knees would appreciate the smooth, ground-eating gate by the end of the day.

Smith turned in his creaking saddle with the resigned groan of an older man who knew exactly what he was getting into. He gave Cutter a nod.

“¿Listo?”

“You bet.”

“Better if you take point,” Smith said. “Me and the others will flank you and sing out if we cut anything that looks like sign.”

Cutter led his horse from the spot where Trooper Teague had seen the last definitive track.

Chief Smith rested his arms on top of the saddle horn and smirked. “You planning to walk all the way?”

“Our guy fled on foot.” Cutter passed him the grulla’s reins. “If you don’t mind leading him for a skosh. I need to follow on foot for a few minutes at least.” He pointed south with an open hand. “Teague has the last-known track pointing this way. Our guy could have juked right or left into that brush, but he’s pressed and not likely thinking things through. The terrain will likely dictate which way he goes.” Cutter took a few steps, looking for anything that might be a track—bruised grass, overturned stones with moisture beneath, crushed insects not long dead. Where there were tracks, they were too many. He found nothing of value.

He took the grulla’s reins from Smith and speared a stirrup with the toe of his boot to swing into the saddle. The horse gave an overly melodramatic groan at Cutter’s added hundred and seventy-five pounds.

Sheriff’s posse volunteer Willard Hansen wheeled his horse, a skinny bay mare that huffed and puffed like she was severely annoyed at carrying the potbellied rancher. “Town Creek runs through that line of big cottonwoods,” he said. “Dixon Branch is due north, but it forks all over hell and back.” He stood in the stirrups and got his bearings, drawing another impatient whoof from his mount. “The creek will box us in on three sides. Pretty much the same thing on the north side of the road. Couple of forks go nearly to the Interstate. It’s been awful dry since May, but all that rain we had this spring will give us plenty of pools to contend with.”

Cutter pushed back his hat again and wiped his forehead with a bandanna. “Boss,” he said to Smith. “It’d be a good idea to have a couple of guys ride the creek beds to the north. They should work their way from that side of Bankhead to the Interstate while we check these creeks to the south. If there is any sign, one of us will come across it.”

They rode for another two hours. The ranches were large enoughthey only had to cut barbed-wire fence twice. Willard, himself a rancher, had a handful of loose staples and a pair of fence pliers in his saddlebags. He hung back to mend the cuts each time.

Stands of live oak and prickly pear cactus gave way to tall cottonwood and briar patches as they neared the water. Cutter couldn’t help but feel a bunch of lawmen on horseback would be fine targets if their outlaw decided to make this his Alamo.

He paid attention to his horse’s ears—good radar for hidden dangers—and pushed on toward the creek.

Gnarled mustang grape vines, some as big around as a horse’s foreleg, trailed from the treetops. Cutter had spent hours fishing and hunting in just such bottomland as a boy. Insects hummed and clicked, buzzing in clouds amid the humid shadows of the woods. Squirrels chattered. Deer bolted through the brush—all good news when it came to not getting ambushed. Bad news when they were looking for an outlaw.

No human had come through here recently.

Cutter led the way, charging into the thick of it. He dipped his head now and again to keep from getting his hat knocked off by hanging vines.