Abandon

SEVENTY-ONE

T

hey struck out south toward their campsite, choosing a route behind the buildings in an effort to remain unseen. Despite his wound, Scott moved quickly through the snow, and soon they’d left behind the row of false-fronted cribs at the end of town.

Up-canyon, Abigail spotted the boulder standing on the outskirts of camp. “I recognize that rock,” she said. “The tents are just beyond it.”

As they passed the boulder, Scott said, “Where’s our stuff?”

He went out ahead of her, moving in frantic circles through the area where the tents had been. “I’m not believing this,” he said as he dug in the snow. “Quinn must’ve taken our gear. Everything’s gone. Even Gunter and Gerald.”

“Who?”

“The llamas. Fucker better be packing a fucking arsenal if he touched my boys.”

“You’re sure the tents aren’t just buried? The snow would’ve covered them, right?”

“See this?” Scott knocked the powder off the top of a pyramid-shaped boulder that barely jutted out of the snow. “Lawrence put his tent up right here, by this rock, so he could lay his things on it. Now all his stuff’s gone. But cross your fingers and your toes.” Scott waded over to another boulder, this one capped with four feet of snow. “I never set my tent up Monday night,” he said. “I was too busy fixing supper, helping everyone else get settled into camp. I was gonna do it when we got back from photographing the ghost town. What I’m hoping is that by the time Quinn found our camp, enough snow had fallen to bury my big pack, which I left beside this boulder.”

Scott ducked under the snow. A moment later, he popped up, hoisting his internal-frame Dana Design backpack like a trophy above his head.

Abigail worked her way over to him. “What do you have in there?”

“Everything. My tent. Extra clothes. First-aid kit. Sleeping bag. More bottles of water. A gas stove. Food. I don’t think we’d have made it without this.” He brushed the snow off his solid-black pack and loosened the compression straps.

“Please tell me you have a cell phone.”

“Hate the fuckers.”

“So we’re hiking out.”

“Seventeen beautiful miles.” He dropped a big compression bag in the snow. “But no worries. I’ll whip us up a meal before we go.” He reached into the bag, emerged with two packets of Backpacker’s Pantry freeze-dried dinners. “What’s your pleasure? Paella with saffron rice and chicken, or turkey Stroganoff?”

Within the hour, they were on the move again, heading toward the Sawblade, swaddled in ashen clouds.

After a half mile, Quinn’s tracks branched off from the canyon and climbed the slope toward Emerald Basin.

They pushed on, taking turns breaking a trail through the deepening powder.

By the time they reached the ruins of the Godsend, the drifts came to Abigail’s chest.

“Let’s take a breather,” Scott said. They collapsed near the stamp mill at the foot of that steep white slope that swept up two thousand feet into the clouds.

“What happens if Quinn sees our tracks?” Abigail asked.

“Yeah, I’ve been worried about that.”

“I mean, he will eventually see them, right?”

“Probably. And you’re exhausted. I’m hurting. He won’t have to travel that fast to catch us, and he has one hell of an interest in our never leaving these mountains. I’d feel a lot better if it was snowing like a bastard. We’re target practice out here in the open.”

“You got a gun in your pack?”

“Jerrod kept the pistol with him.”

Abigail squinted down-canyon, subconsciously searching for a tiny figure plodding toward them through the snow. “I’ll bet Quinn has a gun,” she said.

“What we have to do is get as much of a head start as we possibly can. I was listening to my weather radio in the hotel last night, and it sounds like it only snowed above eighty-five hundred feet. If we can get down that far, we should be safe. He won’t be able to track us. But as long as we stay in the snow, it’s just a matter of time.”

Abigail struggled to her feet, gave Scott a hand up. “Then let’s get going,” she said. “I’ll lead for a while.”