Chapter 10

"The Department of Justice has announced renewed efforts to apprehend escaped fugitive Miles Underwood with the return of good weather to the mountains of southern Colorado. Speaking on condition of anonymity, officials are reporting the alleged killer of a college coed in Texas last year may finally have been located in the Rocky Mountains somewhere south of Interstate Highway 70. A spokesman for the Department of Justice said investigators are studying reports of sightings and are trying to identify an area in the high mountains where Underwood might be hiding.

"Locals, though, are generally unsympathetic with the investigators and say the federal agents are badly out of place and only fooling themselves if they think they will find a woodsman in the rugged mountains. Sympathy has been building for some time in the high country for the lone fugitive as even more federal officers arrive daily. Ordinary citizens are beginning to wonder at the enormous effort being expended to capture a relatively insignificant criminal.

"Our Middle East Correspondent reports...
World Information News Network
"Overnight Desk"
Mar 16

The winter was unusually mild in the valley. Protected on all sides by tall mountains, the harsh winds had been muted and the snowfall light. Ice had formed in the shallows of the fast flowing stream and stayed there for most of the season but the entire surface had never frozen over.

The fishing had been excellent; the trout had been ravenous with most of their source of food cut off by the icy shores. There had been only the one time, when a blizzard swept down from the north to deposit a thick blanket of snow throughout the valley, when hunting became a problem. When it died down, though, he'd been able to track and kill enough deer and elk to last until spring.

Zeb's wisdom in orienting the front of the stone house as far south as he could was thoroughly demonstrated. The sun shown into the cabin, warming it and giving light for much longer than it would have otherwise. The light gave Miles plenty of time to devour the stack of books he'd brought in with him. He'd bought one on farming, trying to determine if he could plant a garden in the spring. He knew the People raised beans and corn here but he had no idea whether other vegetables could be grown at high altitude or not.

Rocking back in his chair, he almost overbalanced and had to throw himself forward to avoid falling backwards on the hard rock and adobe floor of the courtyard. He examined the book he'd been reading, aggravated to see he'd torn a page as he scrambled for stability. Pressing the ripped portion back into place, he sat back down and thumbed through the book, trying to compare widely separated passages that discussed climate, altitude, and growing season.

Nothing seemed to match up and, exasperated, he slammed the book shut. It was beginning to look like the best thing he could do was to just bring in some seeds from his next trip to Santa Anita Springs and experiment himself. He would do exactly that, he decided. In fact ... he nodded in sudden decision ... he would leave tomorrow.

Rising, he hurried into the stone house. There were good-byes to be said, horses to be rounded up, and packs to be organized ... lots to do and not much time to do it.

The conference room was tucked away at the end of a long hallway deep in the bowels of the Justice Department. It was seldom used because the circulation of air from the huge cooling units behind the building wasn't very good and because it was too small for any significant meetings.

It was good enough for the fledgling group U.S. Marshal Owens was putting together though. Besides, it was the only one he could find that wasn't already reserved for something else. He tapped his slowly warming can of soda on the table's hardwood surface.

"Okay, let's get this started so we can get out of here and find a place cool enough to support life." His opening remark elicited appreciative smile from everyone around the table and a chuckle from more than one. They were agreeably surprised at the humor coming from one of the country's most celebrated manhunters.

There was a three-inch scar on his left cheek where a Colombian drug dealer's knife had nearly taken out his eye. It was an ever-present reminder for others the marshal was someone acquainted with violence on a close and personal basis. Rumor had it the law officer had dispatched the criminal with a nine-millimeter pistol pressed against the belly of the knife wielder.

The marshal allowed one corner of his mouth to twist upward in a brief flicker of a smile. "For the record," he said, "I'm United States Marshal David Owens and this is the first meeting of the taskforce whose sole purpose is to seek out and apprehend Miles Underwood." He stopped and looked around the oval table, making momentary contact with everyone's eyes before continuing.

"You have been selected to participate in this discussion by the heads of your respective agencies and, as such, you are their direct representatives. During this meeting, and the ones we will have in the future, you may express your opinion of any facet of the operation--or your agency's formal opinion--at any time and without worrying about attribution. I like a lot of ideas going back and forth across the table so don't ever hesitate to bring something up you feel is necessary.

"But," he continued. "Some of you may also be part of the force that accompanies me into the mountains to do the grunt work in finding this fugitive. Out there, people, there will be no discussion, no doubts, no opinions. Is ... that ... clear?"

He tapped the soda can on the table in time with each of his last three words. The emphasis was completely understood. Law enforcement agencies are thought of as paramilitary organizations. The marshal was telling them that in the field, the hunt would function in a thoroughly military manner.

"Good." The marshal opened a folder in front of him and nodded to the young deputy marshal stationed near the light switch. The room darkened and the overhead projector came up to cast an image of an organizational chart on the wall to the marshal's left. The chart was replaced a moment later with one showing the makeup of the field force.

FBI Special Agent Jack Randall stifled a sigh and tried to find a comfortable position on the hard chair. The second chart was labeled number two of forty-six. They had a long way to go.

Hugh Phillips was tired and more than a little frustrated. The stocky National Park Service Ranger was charged with enforcing Federal Law and Department of the Interior policies over a huge portion of Colorado's Gunnison National Forest. A twenty-eight year veteran of the NPS, he was about ready to take his pension and do some of that traveling he'd been promising himself he would do for a long time.

He stopped the big gelding in the shade of three closely grouped Lodge Pole pines. It was hot in spite of the patchy snowdrifts still evident here and there. Dropping the reins across the saddle pommel, he pulled off a battered 'Smokey Bear' hat to mop a nearly bald dome with a red-checked bandanna.

The horse sidled to his left away from the tree and back out into the sun.

Surprised, Phillips dug in his boot heels to stop his mount. The animal wasn't happy, but held still. Phillips reined the horse back into the cool darkness again.

He shielded his eyes with the hat to look over the broad, shallow valley. The brassy sunlight created stark shadows and reflected from the open ground in front of him; he couldn't see much of anything. He took off the glasses he'd been forced to start wearing a few years ago and polished the lenses with a dry corner of the bandanna.

The horse shied again, moving sideways several feet.

"Dang it, Sunday, stay put will ya?" Phillips wasn't in a mood to take much of anything from the headstrong mount today. Taking up the reins, he let the left one touch the left side of the horse's neck and slapped his heels into the horse's side to let him know his rider was serious.

"Reckon that's my fault," the pleasant male voice remarked. "Sorry 'bout that."

The ranger's head snapped around to find the man who'd just spoken. He couldn't find him at first but then saw the horse's right ear cocked in the direction of one of the trees. Following that line, he found the source of the words sitting on his haunches in the dark shade.

"Didn't mean to spook 'im," the man apologized as he rose to his feet and walked toward the ranger and his horse.

Phillips saw a tall man with thinning hair. That spoke of greater age than would be guessed from his tanned face. He wore tan pants and a dark green shirt under an open leather coat lined with sheep wool. A big canteen sat propped against the tree trunk behind him but the ranger saw no other gear.

That was unusual. Hikers were scarce this deep in the wilderness, particularly this early in the year, but the ranger had seen any number of them in his time. Normally they hauled around huge backpacks filled with tents, equipment, and food.

The knee-high moccasins on this man's feet and the gun belt around his waist were even more abnormal. Most hikers favored heavy-duty boots that laced up over their ankles for stability.

Also, it wasn't illegal to carry a weapon in national forests, but most people didn't. The butt of a big pistol in a holster was on the man's left front, conveniently close to hand when sitting.

As he came close, the man nonchalantly hitched the holster around to his right hip. The rawhide strap designed to loop around the hammer to keep the weapon from getting jarred loose was tucked back out of the way so that the man could pull the gun out in a hurry if that was needed.

Phillips wanted badly to check the Government Issue nine-millimeter semi-automatic he wore but he kept his hand on the pommel. He'd never used the weapon in anger and the stranger's casual handling of the pistol spoke of much greater familiarity.

"Oh, no problem," Phillips responded, watching the man closely. He couldn't figure out where this stranger had come from ... nor did he know if this guy was alone. Setting the hat on his head and adjusting it until he had it positioned to his satisfaction, he shot glances in every direction. He wondered how many other people were close by that he hadn't seen yet. Since 9-11, everyone was just a little more suspicious about strangers and Rangers weren't immune from worry. He couldn't find anyone else in his immediate area, but that meant nothing. There could be someone on the hogback ridge behind him with a high-powered rifle aimed at him right now. The skin on the back of his neck crawled.

Sunday shied away from the stranger as the man walked toward the horse, holding still only when Hugh stopped him with rein and heels. When he was closer, the man held his right palm close to his lower rib cage, the fingers curled comfortably inside. He wasn't quite looking at the horse. The unknown man stopped far enough away for the horse to examine him with his right eye. The man turned away at a forty-five degree angle to avoid the impression of confrontation with the animal.

The stranger's actions showed a familiarity and respect for the animal the ranger seldom saw. A moment later, the gelding was stretching his neck to sniff at the man's shoulder. Phillips watched in surprise. Sunday was friendly but he didn't usually take to folks that quickly. The horse was definitely making friends with the same man who had made him nervous only a short time earlier.

With the man close enough to touch, the ranger's eyes found the beautiful turquoise pendant on the leather cord about the unnamed stranger's neck. There was something carved into the blue-green stone, but the bright sunlight kept Phillips from deciphering it. More easily seen were the two big animal claws that flanked the ornament on the leather thong. They neatly framed the pendant, their curved tips almost meeting beneath the turquoise amulet.

"Grizzly," drawled the man laconically. He'd been watching the mounted ranger's eyes. "Did his best to rip me apart last year. Thought I'd keep these as a reminder how close I came to being his afternoon snack."

The corner of the man's lips twitched in a small grin. Phillips saw nothing in the stranger's eyes except the little joke in which he was clearly invited to join. His neck hair began to lay flat for the first time in several minutes. He nodded and smiled in reply. Then his eyes narrowed.

"A grizzly? Around here?" The closest point in the lower forty-eight states where the ranger knew grizzlies were regularly seen was Yellowstone National Park and that was hundreds of miles away. Hunting them was strictly illegal. The Ranger was skeptical.

"Nah," replied the stranger, "was a long way off there and way back in the wild country." Nonchalantly, he made a careless sweeping gesture with his left hand from northwest around to the east. Ranger Phillips saw nothing in the man's attitude to show he might be feeling guilty at having killed a bear illegally.

"Yeah, they can come up on ya before you know they're about," Phillips agreed. "Lots of things happen out here to folks who aren't real careful."

He pulled his right boot out of the stirrup and kicked it over the horse's hindquarters to dismount. Dropping the reins to the grass in a ground hitch, he stumped deeper into the shade and dug fingers into lower back muscles cramped by hours of riding.

The two men talked for a time, swapping stories of their experiences out here in the wilderness. They were unaccountably glad to have encountered each other, though each had been surprised at the meeting. There weren't many opportunities to chat with someone else in the deep woods. There weren't that many people. But the Ranger had somewhere to go and a colleague to meet with when he got there.

A little regretfully, Phillips turned to take up the reins he'd dropped on the ground a short time earlier. When the rider threw his right leg over the horse's back, Sunny took the opportunity to move closer to the man who had so quickly made friends with the animal. Almost unseated, the ranger hauled on the reins sharply to bring the horse up short.

"Whoa, dammit! What the heck's gotten into you lately, boy?" inquired the ranger. "Never seen you act so darn weird." He looked at the man he'd found miles from the nearest outpost of civilization.

"Goodbye Ranger," Miles said. "Glad I meet ya ... you too, Sunday." He divided a grin between the horse and his rider.

"You bet," Phillips replied. "No, wait! Who... ?" The rest of whatever the forest ranger was going to say was cut off.

Miles had wheeled to face the horse directly and made a curious gesture with his right hand, lifting it quickly from his waist with the palm out and fingers splayed. Sunday reacted immediately to the clawing gesture, abruptly changing direction and dancing sideways away from the stranger. Phillips suddenly had his hands full of uncooperative horse.

Miles walked a few quick paces into the brush, grabbing his canteen off the ground en route. Behind the big trees, he ducked into a fold of land that led to a dry gulch that, in turn, wandered crosswise up the ridge. Broad and shallow where he dropped into it, the ravine got narrower and deeper as it mounted the hogback. In seconds, he was completely hidden from view.

Stepping carefully to avoid disturbing pebbles or marking his path with a cloud of dust, he moved quickly until he disappeared over the rim. The moccasins left little trace of his passing. A few seconds after Sunday began his strange antics, it was as if Miles had never been there.

In a small clearing on the other side of the ridge that was hidden on all sides, he gathered up his four horses and got back on the trail north to the little defunct ranch east of Santa Anita Springs. The packs held heavy loads of gold nuggets for delivery to Charles and he was running behind his self-imposed schedule.

"Damn it, what is the matter with you?" When Phillips got control of the animal, he looked for the man he'd been talking to. He wasn't there. The ranger couldn't find any trace of him ... couldn't see where he might have gone either. A gently bobbing branch on the pine no longer held the gear he'd seen earlier.

"Shit," he breathed. Leather creaked in the silence as he twisted in the saddle and scanned all the places where the man might be. He frowned as he examined the valley for any movement without success and then glanced into the shade under the tree again. The man couldn't have disappeared faster if he'd been a ghost.

He caught sight of the stick the man had stabbed into the dirt once as they talked. It reassured him to find something solid to hang on to. Otherwise, he'd be tempted to say the whole thing had been his imagination.

Ranger Phillips reined Sunday around to face the ridge, hoping to see the stranger. There was no one there. He gave up.

Clucking to the horse, Phillips kicked his mount into a walk and then urged him into a fast trot. When the horse tired, he stopped in a big meadow a long way off from the nearest clump of trees. Before doing anything else, he checked every rock and bunch of grass to make sure it wasn't concealing anyone. Satisfied he was alone, he fumbled the strap of his canteen from around the pommel, unscrewed the cap on it, and took a long swallow.

A few minutes later, he touched Sunny in the ribs with his booted heels to put the horse in motion again. He had a dozen miles of his circuit left to ride before his day was through and he was wasting daylight.

The man walked backwards across the sidewalk until instinct warned him he was about to fall off the curb into the street. His head was tilted back looking at the new sign advertising "Gonzales Bail Bonds" that had just been lifted into place over his new office. A block and a half from his old storefront operation, the new place was on a major road through the heart of town and a tad closer to the Bexar County lockup.

He smiled happily and patted his belly where only this morning he'd tightened his belt one more notch. Steve Gonzales had finally found a diet that worked for him and the doc was more than a little pleased with his progress. The bail bondsman hadn't had to slip a nitro tablet under his tongue for close to three months now.

Yes sir, life was good. It had been touch and go there for a while, but things were looking good these days. He gave the workmen a thumbs-up signal and scurried back into his office while the men started bolting the sign securely into place. The racket was distracting, but it was a good noise.

A half hour before his night man was due in, the bell over the door tinkled. He looked up from with a smile pasted on his face to find a man striding confidently toward the railing that separated the bail bondsman from the tiny waiting room.

"Good afternoon," Gonzales said amiably. "What can I do for you?" The new arrival didn't bother to return his host's smile but advanced to the rail and opened the swinging gate without being invited inside. He settled himself in the straight-backed chair beside the desk and scooted his western style hat underneath his seat before looking up at the still standing bail agent.

"You're the guy who was holding the bond on Mr. Miles Underwood when he skedaddled out of town last year, right? Lost the whole three-hundred grand, right?" Gonzales's face flushed a bright red and the smile dropped away instantly. His eyes narrowed as he examined the seated man.

Strictly speaking, he hadn't lost the surety bond ... he'd received a cashier's check in the mail at the end of last year from someone who wanted to remain anonymous. He didn't know who'd sent it, but the check--made out for fifty percent more than the original bond--had been clearly annotated as to its purpose.

It had saved his company, his home, and probably his marriage ... but it had done nothing for his reputation. None of his colleagues believed he'd actually gotten reimbursement.

"Yeah," he said flatly, still looking down at the unpleasant little man sitting at his desk. "What about it?"

"Got a proposal for ya," came the confident reply. "I want you to take me on as a bail enforcement agent." The man's voice grew louder and quickened at the refusal evident on the bail bondsman's features.

"Hear me out before you start shaking your head," he snapped. "I'm Harry Kehoe." He waited briefly for some sign of recognition and was bitterly disappointed to see none on the bail agent's face. Suppressing a surge of irritation, he continued.

"I'm a retired Special Forces officer ... I've attended every survival school in this country and in Europe. I wrote the book on 'escape and evasion' and I know every trick in that book or any other." He leaned forward and tapped a forefinger on the desk in front of the bail bond agent. "I can find Underwood and bring him back," he said forcefully. "No one but me can promise you that."

Before Gonzales left the office that evening, the bail bondsman and the strange man in forest green camouflaged pants and red checkered shirt had a working agreement. The bondsman agreed to give the case to the applicant and pay him twenty percent of the original surety bond if he brought Underwood back. Gonzales would fund Kehoe's travel to and from the search area, pay for equipment and supplies during the search, and incidental expenses encountered along the way.

The ex-soldier walked out, digging the heels of his combat boots into the floor to create as forceful a noise as possible. He was well pleased with the negotiations he'd had with Mr. Gonzales. With the delegated arrest authority from the bondsman, he could now go anywhere in the country to grab Underwood and no one could stop him. He could kick down any door to get at the fugitive without warning, secure him at gunpoint, and carry him back to San Antonio in handcuffs across state lines.

Better yet, he would be reviving a reputation that had suffered in recent years. There were those who didn't believe the story told by a chest full of medals or the two books he'd written about his exploits and the search for missing POWs in Vietnam. He snorted.

That damn fool computer geek who thought he knew so much had posted a solid dozen articles on the internet saying his medals hadn't been earned. A lot he knew! Just wait until an humbled, cowering Underwood was brought back in chains. He walked faster down the sidewalk to his car, contemplating the words he would use in the national TV interviews where he would announce the fugitive's capture.

Sitting at the picnic table behind the little grocery a few miles from the defunct dude ranch, Miles enthusiastically gulped down the remains of a big bottle of soda. He'd chanced to get there as a fresh pan of fried chicken was being slid under the heat lamp. The hot meal was a welcome change from his normal diet and he enjoyed it for its own sake. Beside his plate, the big slab of apple pie beckoned.

He'd delivered a little more than five hundred pounds of nuggets, carried on the backs of the four packhorses, to the jeweler in Santa Anita Springs. Knowing from the previous fall that more gold was coming, Charles had had a big vault built onto the back of the jewelry shop. He'd helped Miles carry in the load, his eyes big as saucers when the packs had been emptied onto the vault's floor.

Charles reported internet sales over the winter to have been brisk as ever. Miles had progressed to 'comfortably wealthy' in Charles's estimation, and he'd be 'stinking rich' before too long if he wasn't real careful.

Charles was getting there too and he was mildly ecstatic. He thanked Miles profusely. Miles told Charles to find a good investment counselor somewhere and put the rest of his share to work ... he didn't particularly care how.

Charles broached the subject of taxes carefully. Seeing the tightness that came to Miles' lips, he proceeded even more cautiously. While he talked, he was acutely aware of how sharply Miles' eyes were examining his face. He kept his hands flat on the desk in front of him, just in case.

"Friend," Miles said finally. "I don't really care about taxes, to be frank with you. What have you been doing about them up 'til now?"

"Payin' them as if all the income was mine," answered Charles. Miles nodded.

"You losin' any money that way? If you are, just take the excess from my share of the profits."

Charles shook his head. With the amount of money involved, the taxes on two individuals earning that much were the very nearly the same as if it was all one income. Both the state and federal governments were getting their full pound of flesh. He cleared his throat, wondering whether he should satisfy a curiosity that had become an itch he couldn't scratch lately ... or whether he should let well enough alone.

"You want to know why," remarked Miles before Charles could open his mouth. It hadn't been a question but Charles nodded anyway. Miles looked at him a moment longer, trying to gauge the impact his words were sure to have.

"I'm a wanted man, Charles," Miles said bluntly. "In Texas ... for rape and murder, attempted murder, and arson, and ... well ... other things I don't recall off the top of my head."

Charles watched to see what the other man was going to do next. No rabbit cut off from his hole ever watched a grinning coyote more carefully. His chest was tight; it was hard to breathe.

"Didn't do any of it," Miles said tersely, "but I can't prove it." Charles hadn't said a word so far and he didn't feel he needed to interrupt now.

"Didn't feel like I should go to prison for something I hadn't done," Miles continued, " ... so I ran and got up into the mountains. Been up there ever since ... I don't bother anybody and I don't think anyone has any right to bother me."

The front legs on his chair banged back down on the floor and he leaned forward to meet Charles's eyes directly. The sound was loud and sharp; the movement was quick and precise.

"So what do we need to do about that?" Miles asked softly.

Charles didn't answer for a long moment as he studied the man across the desk from him. Then a small smile quirked one corner of his lips. His shoulders lifted in a shrug.

"Not much," he replied. He made his fingers loosen themselves and fumbled a pipe from the stand to his left. There was no trembling in his fingers as he backed the bowl from a half-empty can of Prince Albert. Both men relaxed as the smell of a rich cherry blend filled the office.

"Best I can figure from an old diary my mom found in an old trunk of her father's," Charles remarked, "her great-grandfather, couple times removed, got drunk one night in Dodge City and 'borrowed' a horse tied up in front of a saloon." He stopped and sent two more fragrant puffs toward the ceiling.

"From what the old man wrote, he got sobered up real quick when a crowd gathered with a rope in their hands. He raced them outa town on that borrowed horse and managed to outdistance them out on the prairie. After a while, he sneaked back to where his own horse was stabled, turned loose the 'borrowed' mount, and then he rode back out of town 'like a scalded cat' as he put it." Charles smiled at the rings of smoke as he envisioned the long past events. His eyes came back down to look frankly at Miles.

"Thing is, Great-Great Granpa made his way into this part of the country, started up a small ranch and lived a 'good Christian life'--those are his words again--from then on." He took puff on the pipe.

"I don't reckon one mistake makes a man any less than he is ... and if he didn't do anything a'tall, there's no call for me to get involved in the thing." Miles looked at the jeweler for a long moment and then nodded. Neither said anything for a while.

"Well?" Charles asked. Miles' eyebrows crooked in question.

"You gonna tell me who the hell you are?" demanded Charles cheerfully, his grin taking the sting from the words.

Miles relaxed. He had his friend back. He felt like a tumble into the dark abyss had been narrowly avoided. He told him the whole story, most of it over a delivery pizza they ordered an hour later, and they talked companionably long into the night.

In the end, they could find no way to change the way they'd been doing things all along. Charles would claim all of the income for tax purposes and pay those taxes scrupulously. If his CPA found he was being penalized financially from not splitting the money into two incomes, Miles would absorb the penalty from his share. He trusted Charles to tell him ... if and when.

By the end of Miles' stay in town, they were both comfortable using Miles' assumed name in public and his real name in private. They were careful to distinguish between privacy and public before they spoke.

Miles swallowed the last dregs of the diet cola and carried the debris from his lunch to the waste can. He pulled the straps of the nearly empty backpack over his shoulders and grabbed his new hiking stick. The new one featured a metal, eight-inch hollow cap that clicked into place over one end to hide the metallic spear point from curious passers-by and inquisitive police officers. Having a hard metal point made him feel a lot better than the fire hardened tip he'd fought the grizzly with.