Chapter 9

"A spokesperson for the Department of Justice said today they are scaling back the manhunt for Miles Underwood, the suspected rapist and killer of a young woman in San Antonio, Texas. At the same time the United States Marshal Service has announced a one million dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the fugitive who fled Texas rather than face prosecution for his alleged crimes. Underwood escaped from a posse composed of state police and local sheriff deputies early this spring and has not been seen since. Despite the lack of any contact with Underwood, Department of Justice officials remain confidant they will find him." The camera switched from a head-on view of the anchorman to a previously taped interview segment.

"We just can't do it in the winter," remarked the trim, confidant spokesman. "The snow can get twenty feet deep up there in the dead of winter and we don't want to get any of our guys killed," he explained. He turned his head slightly to look directly into the lens. "But we came here to find Mister Underwood and we'll only leave when we get him."

World Information News Network
"National News Tonight"
Oct 19

There was a crust of ice in shallow pools near the river three mornings in a row before the weather broke and Indian summer returned to the valley. The ice was gone from the river, but a white dusting remained on the mountain peaks.

Miles was forced into a decision to leave the valley, at least temporarily. He was happier here than he could recall ever having been before in his life and the going wouldn't be easy. But he had to get out and find some source of supplies to carry him through the winter, though. He wasn't equipped to survive months of poor hunting and no wild vegetables.

The backpack was ready. It had been ready for a week now while he delayed as long as possible. He'd rationalized the postponement with a suggestion that he needed to finish off the last of the smoked and jerked venison from the summer ... he didn't want to waste it ... but that wasn't the real reason. The truth was he hated to even think about what waited for him outside. That world hadn't been very friendly the last few months he'd spent in it.

Finally, there were no more reasons--no more excuses--to delay any longer. The backpack waited near the front door, filled with small but surprisingly heavy sacks of gold and quartz nuggets, while he roamed the stone house trying to decide what else to take with him.

He'd found Zeb's stash entirely by accident. A canny old man Zeb had been--hiding all that gold in a wooden box buried in the corner under the table. Miles would probably never have found it if he hadn't moved the table out into the middle of the room to repair the split in the corner.

When Miles' weight came down on the floor near the corner, the old box buried below the surface had creaked a little. Even then, he'd almost not noticed ... until it occurred to him that a rock floor should never creak. It turned out that most of the stone floor under the table was a false covering that could be lifted away with concealed handles. There was a small fortune hidden there.

The gold had slipped Zeb's mind or he'd have shown it to Miles before, Zeb apologized. Afterwards the discovery in the stone house, he took Miles to several of the gravel bars on the river where gold nuggets were abundant. They'd dug shallow holes in a couple of the bars and picked up handfuls of nuggets of varying sizes with little difficulty. The heavy gold settled in the gravel; the deeper they dug, the more concentrated the gold became. In a deeper hole, the mud had literally sparkled in the sun from all the gold flecks lying at the bottom.

Zeb had remarked the mother lode for all this gold couldn't be too far upstream because the nuggets showed little wearing caused by long exposure to water and friction with other rocks. Zeb had looked at the needle pointed peak southeast of the valley and wondered aloud whether the source lay up there somewhere. He hadn't had the time to look, he said. He'd died before he got around to it, he said wryly.

Miles was taking only six dozen or so of the small but heavy leather sacks with him. Most of the bags Zeb secreted beneath the floor were still there. Gold, near as Miles could remember, had been selling for nearly fifteen hundred dollars an ounce when he'd fled into the mountains.

Nuggets, though ... particularly some of these big ones in Zeb's cache ... were worth a lot more as jewelry and souvenirs. He'd seen adds on the Internet selling smaller ones than his for several thousands of dollars. What he was taking out would keep him in fine style over the winter.

Even for as short a trip outside the valley as Miles planned, he needed to hike to the ancient city to say good-bye. Except for the Wolf Clan warriors who actively scouted distant regions for possible enemies, few of the People had been more than a few miles from the city where they'd been born. Even the Wolf brothers seldom traveled half the distance he intended to walk.

Almost everyone in the city was an old friend and the good-byes were strained and difficult. All the clans came out to wish him well on his journey. There was much feasting over several days. On his final day with them, the clans assembled at the front of the cavern to wish him a good journey. All of the warriors gripped forearms with him and it seemed one or two who had fought beside Miles against the invaders may have been developing respiratory problems in the cold cavern. They choked and coughed for much of the ceremony, their eyes watering frequently.

Old Zeb stepped forward to shake his hand in the way of the Europeans. Then he broke the handshake in favor of the forearm hold of the People and clapped Miles on the shoulder.

Many of the women scorned their more stoic men folk and wrapped as much of their arms as they could get around Miles. A couple of the younger women who had claimed many of his evening hours said good-bye to Miles with hearty kisses.

The People had not known of the touching of lips before he came but the practice was catching on like wildfire. Zeb had been disgusted. He didn't particularly liked kissin' and huggin' and such. He'd kept knowledge of that particular expression of affection to himself until Miles arrived.

At the Wall of Remembrance, the portal to the city, the elder who had greeted Miles when he first found his way there presented Miles with a pendant strung on a length of rawhide to go around his neck. He told Miles to always keep it close and the People would be with him wherever he roamed.

The symbol of the thunderbird was etched into the middle of the polished blue-green stone. Beside each clawed foot, delicate spirals generated outward in opposite directions. The wings were outstretched as if the hunter was ready to take to the sky at any moment. The strong beak was ready to defend or impale prey with equal expertise. The symbol for the sun was etched in the upper right corner where it would hang nearest the heart. A tiny representation of the moon stood out in the upper left. It was a beautiful, powerful talisman.

A hole had been drilled completely through the stone at the top and a length of rawhide threaded through the hole. When the elder placed it around Miles neck, the amulet lay warm against his skin, throbbing minutely with the beat of his heart.

The elder was caught by surprise when Miles pulled the heavy-bladed hunting knife and scabbard from his fanny pack and ceremoniously handed them to the old man. The old one blinked in the strong sunlight, saying the mighty weapon would be kept in a place of honor in the city. In this way, he said, Miles would be with the People also.

Miles bowed slightly and turned to leave. He marched away, perhaps a little too quickly for proper respect. He waved, but didn't look back. The sun was making his eyes water too.

He ate a cold meal of leftover cattail roots and smoked venison, not wanting to make another fire in the old rock hearth he'd just have to put out again. He pulled on the backpack with its load of gold nuggets, a little food, and most of the clothing he'd brought with him. The hiking boots were lashed to the outside of the pack in favor of the deer hide moccasins he'd grown accustomed to wearing. He had another set, plus materials to repair worn-out moccasins, inside the pack. The set of straight razors that had belonged to Zeb's father was on top of the pack's contents. They were the only things from the old stone house he was taking with him.

The spare combat boots he'd brought with him remained in a corner of the cabin with a covering of bear grease to protect them. Most of the survival tools and gear he'd thought necessary at the beginning of his journey had been discarded also, stored on shelves inside the little house. He didn't need them any more. When the jerky ran out, he would devise a snare to catch an unwary rabbit or bird for a meal.

Once outside, he closed the cabin door carefully, making sure the new latchstring hung outside should another traveler come by needing shelter while Miles was gone. He banged the butt of his spear/walking stick on the rock floor of the courtyard. He nodded at the solid, reliable thump. He was ready.

Crossing the river, he turned south and that afternoon, southeast, along the base of the high eastern mountain. A brisk stride put the miles behind him as he aimed at the low saddle between two mountains where Zeb said he'd crossed the mountain chain into the valley the first time he'd come here. The rising sun was warm on Miles' face as he tramped through tall grass made brittle with frozen dew.

The trek south and east was a quick one. At the end of the valley, he climbed the bare shoulder of another ridge projecting north from a range of mountains further south and then descended into a dry canyon that led northeast. When the canyon petered out, he found an old trail heading vaguely in the same direction that wound through the mountains along the steepest, roughest ridges.

A few weeks later, passage would have been impossible. The passes would be blocked by deep snowdrifts and scoured by frigid blasts of wind. As it was, he needed to seek out places protected from the wind to huddle inside his sleeping bag.

Eventually, he managed to work his way back down to lowland valleys for a while, then he found a high pass between two towering peaks and walked almost due east for most of six days. Fourteen days after leaving the valley, and after much hiking up one side of mountains and down the other, he struck the Continental Divide Trail.

A few more days walking north brought him to U.S 50 near where he'd first set foot on the trail in the early spring. The first time he heard a car's laboring motor he'd stopped dead in his tracks, wondering what it was. He hadn't heard an internal combustion engine for months.

He pressed on, marching north until he came to IH 70. The wide expanse of concrete ran west from Denver all the way to a rendezvous with Interstate 15 in southern Utah. It was a landmark he couldn't miss. Retreating into the trees away from the big highway, he made his way west and then north again through the higher mountains.

There were a number of small towns along the interstate. Surely he could find a place in one of them to sell some of the nuggets. He wanted a town that was large enough for him to not stand out, but small enough that news of a group of law enforcement people coming into town would spread quickly.

The tall, still-faced man sat quietly in the big waiting room. Spurning the magazines and newspapers spread neatly on the massive coffee table, he watched everyone who came and went without reacting visibly to any of them. His eyes flicked toward new arrivals and closely examined each one.

Once inspected and determined to be of no interest, he dismissed that man or woman and returned his gaze to the wall opposite his chair. There was no evidence he saw the wall though.

When the secretary came to tell him the Deputy Attorney General would see him now, the man looked in the young woman's eyes for a moment longer than was comfortable for her. Generally, people summoned by the second-ranking officer in the Department of Justice leaped to their feet in varying degrees of flustered excitement.

The intensity in this man's gray eyes disconcerted the woman. She wheeled and strode quickly to the door to the inner office and held it open for him. When she closed the heavy oak door, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She couldn't wait for the end of the workday when she would meet with her friends and tell of her encounter with Deputy United States Marshal David Owens.

The community of Santa Anita Springs sits at the junction of IH 70 and a state highway that wandered north and south through the mountains. If you drove north, it eventually connected with U.S. 40 to wind its way across northern Colorado. If you knew the way, one of the side roads leading off the state highway in that direction would take you northeast to U.S. 34 and eventually to the Rocky Mountain National Park. South, the state road struggled over high passes deep into the mountains to some prime hunting country.

In the spring and summer, Santa Anita Springs was a picturesque stop on the interstate for a fill up or a quick meal before heading down into Denver or a nice respite for travelers headed in the opposite direction after climbing up the long slope from the big city. Knowing tourists stopped overnight or several days to take advantage of the magnificent scenery. Small motels, restaurants, and some bed-and-breakfasts could be found a short distance away from the noisy Interstate.

In the fall, the motels were filled with hunters wanting a night between clean sheets and a hot meal or two at the beginning or end of a hunting trip. The winter season saw skiers stopping by to fill their tanks and bellies before heading further "up the hill" to Aspen or the other ski resorts.

When heavy winter snows closed the passes, the motels and bed-and-breakfasts filled with stranded motorists of all kinds. Yuppie skiers mixing with truckers whose big rigs couldn't stay on the icy roads even if the Colorado Highway Patrol would allow them.

In short, there was a brisk movement of people in and out of town throughout the year. One more quiet man in residence for a while wouldn't stand out that badly and if he was careful, he could blend in well enough that no one would notice. Miles intended to be very, very careful.

Chris and Jeanette--there hadn't been any last names offered--dropped him off at the western edge of town in the motel parking lot. Miles stared after the aging Volkswagen bus. When Jeanette twisted in her seat and leaned out the window to wave good-bye, he lifted a hand in reply.

Miles had thought all the flower children from the Viet Nam era reconciled with society and busied themselves producing new generations long ago. Chris and Jeanette, still in their early twenties, were apparently throwbacks to an earlier time. They seemed determined to carry on the old ways as best they could, including a garishly painted van. They drew the line at "oldies" music though ... they couldn't stand it.

Miles had one clear rule for music--it had to be something you could hum or whistle. The original hippies had developed music that was imminently "hum-able" and most of it could be whistled ... assuming you could whistle in the first place.

The clashing, banging, and other discordant noises to which this couple listened would never be music in Miles' estimation. He shook his head again to clear it as the vehicle rounded a curve and disappeared.

Picking up the backpack he'd dropped on the ground just off the pavement, he turned to inspect the little motel where he'd been let out--or set free, depending on your viewpoint, he mused. The dozen little cottages, constructed to resemble log cabins, were positioned well off the road and inside the threshold of the forest.

The sign hung on a post in front of the slightly larger office identified the establishment as the 'Timber Inn' but there was no indication it was part of a big motel/hotel chain. The older man in rumpled clothing peering out the picture window in the office encouraged the idea the place might not have an connection to a network--heck, they might not even have a computer to keep records. It looked perfect.

Miles pulled the screen door open and stepped inside to find a balding, short man smiling cheerfully at him. Sitting on a barstool behind a heavy counter that gave the appearance of having been there since the beginning of time, the man seemed friendly enough and perhaps even glad to see him.

"GOOD AFTERNOON, YOUNG FELLER!" Miles stared at the man for a moment, surprised at the volume. He could have heard the man across the highway outside with an eighteen-wheeler passing by. Moreover ... it had been a long time since he'd been called "young," or "feller" for that matter. The old man's grin widened.

"Howdy," Miles voice was a little steadier than his first words with the couple in the van. They'd thought him painfully shy when they stopped to give him a ride. Miles had blamed an incredibly dry throat for the croaks that came out initially. The real reason was that it had been a long time since he'd had to speak aloud. He hadn't had any contact with other humans in so long...

"I'm hoping you've got a vacant room for a tired man," Miles ventured, clearing his throat with a small cough. "I've been hiking down the trail for so long I don't know what it's like to sleep between two clean sheets."

He'd already decided his story would be that he was hiking the 'trail' from north to south. He was on a sabbatical from his job as a consultant with a computer firm in Dallas and wanted to get away from it all for a long while. He'd only get specific about what trail and which computer firm if he had to. Santa Anita Springs was close enough to the main 'Continental Divide Trail' for it to be inferred but far enough away that other paths in the vicinity might also be the one he meant.

"Sure thing," confirmed the little man--he wasn't as loud as before. Miles spotted the hearing aid perched behind the left ear when the man adjusted something there while Miles was talking.

"We got lots of room." The clerk had already taken a blank registration card from the stack on the shelf below the counter. The card and a ballpoint pen were waiting on the counter top. He tapped it with a forefinger to draw Miles' attention.

"Fill this out for me, would you." He pushed the card a millimeter or two in Miles' direction. Miles filled it out carefully, making sure he didn't inadvertently use any of his real personal information. He'd told the two hippie-wannabees his name was Kyle, but hadn't given them a last name. He figured Kyle was close enough to "Miles" that he could respond naturally to someone calling out that name, but different enough to not raise a flag in a computer search.

He'd decided his last name was Brown. It was plain and simple, easy to remember, and no likelihood of raising suspicions by misspelling it sometime. He filled out the card quickly, using the actual street numbers of his deceased parent's house on a street he concocted on the spot ... Timber Lane ... in a city ... Dallas ... where his parents had never lived. The zip was one he remembered as having been his credit union's when he lived in Austin. A postman in Texas would have known it was invalid, but he was betting no one in central Colorado would.

Each set of numbers was something he could remember from one day to the next and duplicate correctly every time he was asked. They were harder to recall than city and street names. He wrote in the little box that he'd stay for three nights. He nudged the completed registration card back over the nicked wood surface to the motel manager.

"Timber Lane, eh?" The man's eyes had been drawn there quickly.

"Yep, when I saw the name of your place, I knew I had to stop here," Miles explained. "Gotta be a good omen, right?" He gave the older man what he hoped was a winning smile.

From there on, things went smoothly. When asked what credit card he wanted to use, Miles asked if U.S. dollars were still good. He'd overestimated the cash, he said, that he'd need on the long hike and he'd like to use up some of his cash, if that was all right. It was.

The man put away the old tabletop machine used to take an impression of credit cards and accepted Miles offer of two one-hundred dollar bills from a wallet in which Miles had used a thumb to conceal everything from casual view that might identify him. Happy to have the cash, the old gentleman allowed Miles to choose the cabin he wanted. He never did ask Miles for identification, which was just fine with the fugitive.

The five-dollar bill and some coins the desk clerk refunded Miles from the two hundred dollars weren't going to go very far, but that was okay. Most of the cash he'd set out with from San Antonio had been spent in the spring's evasion from the authorities but he expected to sell some of the gold nuggets in his pack soon.

He'd been lucky, though. He'd almost forgotten the little stash of money he'd tossed on a top shelf in the rock cabin. If he hadn't remembered at the last minute, he'd have had to scramble to sell a nugget or two to find somewhere to stay.

In the small room, he sat on the soft double bed and sighed. It's been many a month since he'd last slept on a real bed. He bounced for a while, listening to the springs rustle under the thick mattress. He peeked out the window into the parking lot. He'd chosen this cabin because it was the closest to the forest that rose behind the motel and because it had a commanding view of the parking lot, office, and a long stretch of the road leading north down into Santa Anita Springs proper.

There was a blind spot; he couldn't tell what was happening on the Colorado highway to the south, but you couldn't have everything. He pulled the heavy curtain closed, leaving a tiny slit at the end he could peer outside without being seen himself. He sat in the surprisingly solid and comfortable easy chair between the window and bed and unlaced his hiking boots.

After months of running around the valley in moccasins, the boots were confining, clumsy, and hot. He kicked them off and settled himself in the chair. He sighed with relief, wriggling his toes against the carpet. He could hear Old Zeb laughing at him. Having fled from city life where he'd been forced to wear heavy, crudely made boots himself, Zeb sympathized with Miles' plight.

Grabbing the remote, Miles turned on the television. It had been a long time since he'd watched the magic box. The afternoon game shows were at least as boring as they'd been before he went into the wilderness and the soaps seemed not to have progressed at all.

Someone was still having someone else's baby while married/engaged/seeing another someone who was the long lost daughter/son/nephew/niece of some patriarch/matriarch/mayor/governor/gangster who was starting/returning/recovering from an African safari/world cruise/aircraft accident/U.N. sponsored peace mission/murder attempt after having met a new wife/husband/life partner who was much younger/older/of the same/opposite sex to the surprise of the entire neighborhood. Even the villains had done little but swap names. Zeb was fascinated with the shows and protested when Miles tuned to the World Information News Network to see if he could catch up on what had been happening in the world. It looked like the Middle East was heating up again.

Two days later, Miles was more than content with what he'd accomplished. Selling his gold had been as easy as walking in the door of the first souvenir shop he'd found. He found later he'd gotten fantastically lucky with his first choice. He might have started at the other end of the street and missed this store completely or wasted a lot of time in others.

Wandering through the narrow aisles for a while, he'd watched the clerk behind the tiny jewelry counter deal with a variety of customers. He was well into his sixties but he was active and sincerely cheerful. The man's only physical problem Miles could detect was a bad knee that gave way from time to time.

After a while, Miles decided the proprietor was that rarest of human beings--a naturally courteous and polite man. Miles decided almost immediately he liked the guy.

The owner, manager, and sales clerk--Charles was his name--had been excited at the size and quality of the nuggets Miles had. Miles had intended to sell only a couple to him and then find another store, but the man had insisted he had buyers for everything Miles could provide. Miles left one of the leather sacks with the store on consignment.

Charles had been almost as excited about the little pouch containing the nuggets as he was about the gold itself. It was one of Zeb's that the old mountain man had decorated with some Blackfoot sign. He'd learned the symbols when he'd wintered with the tribe for a couple years. Hidden in the airless crypt beneath the stone house's floor, the leather had survived superbly. Charles was disappointed when Miles had to say he didn't have a large supply of the pouches.

When Miles pedaled his bike to the little shop two days after his first visit, the owner met him at the door and fussed a little while Miles parked the bike. Miles had found the little town was a little more spread out than he'd thought so he got a used bicycle with large, tough wheels suitable for rough terrain from a store specializing in such transportation. Because it was the off-season, he'd gotten an excellent deal.

With Charles fairly dancing from one foot to the other, Miles perversely took his time locking a long chain through the frame struts and around the parking meter. He figured it would take a thief with real balls to cut it free from the chain in front of the shop.

He wasn't certain he needed to take these precautions though. Would anyone actually steal a bike that particular shade of purple? Measuring Charles's obvious excitement for a second, Miles filled the meter with a handful of coins. It appeared he would be here for a while.

Charles escorted Miles behind the counters with ill-concealed excitement and sat him in a chair in the cramped office. On his computer, he showed Miles what he'd gotten for the quartz-encrusted nuggets and went through some of the e-mail inquiries he'd received.

Dramatically, he counted out the twelve thousand dollars and change that was due Miles after the jeweler took out his percentage. The stack of bills did look pretty sitting on the desk, all green and crisp and new. The man was fairly dancing in his seat as Miles stuffed the fat envelope full of money inside his jacket.

How many more nuggets like that, he asked, did Miles have? When Miles countered with a suggestion that what he'd already given the man would be considered a fair summer's haul by anyone who regularly panned gold, the poor man was dejected. Smiling, Miles relented and asked how much the jeweler thought he could handle?

The head cocked to one side and expression of pleasure on the man's face seemed genuine--Charles was motivated less by greed than by the desire to have a quality product to sell. Miles took a chance and admitted he had about forty pounds worth.

They hadn't said anything to each other when Charles got up to close the door. His hands shook as he poured both Miles a cup of coffee from the urn in the corner.

Eventually they concluded a deal for the jewelry shop to handle all the gold Miles could bring in. It would be sold on the Internet as well as in the store. The commission for the store would drop to ten percent--a distinct improvement on the twenty percent Charles had charged for the initial consignment.

Charles lifted his cell phone to call his lawyer and instruct her to prepare an agreement in writing but Miles stopped him. Instead, he asked if they had a deal, holding out his hand as he spoke. The jeweler hesitated for a long moment. Then he smiled and shook Miles' hand firmly. He told Miles he'd never regret this and Miles assured him he didn't think so either. His voice had a little edge that hadn't been there before.

Looking into the man's eyes, Charles froze. For a tiny instant, something ancient and implacably violent had looked back at him.

Not many in town knew ... Charles didn't spend a lot of time talking about it ... but he had served two tours of duty in Viet Nam. A third had been cut short by shrapnel from an RPG that cracked his left kneecap. His wife had a shoebox full of medals and citations mixed with letters from old buddies that spoke of more valor than was officially known.

With the 101^st Airborne and later the 1^st Infantry Division, Charles had met a lot of men who were tough, hard fighters. Among them, he came across a very few--he could total them on one hand--who were true warriors ... solitary fighting men who slipped into Viet Cong held territory on missions no one ever explained.

He recalled one in particular from a single meeting. The man was so dangerous and destructive to their side the VC had an enormous bounty on his head. Curiously, the man carried firearms only when in garrison. When he was in the field, he was comfortable with a modified K-bar and its seven-inch fighting blade.