The law officers had been tracking steadily for three hours. Several times Blackney dodged them by crossing the river just below a set of rapids, using the spray of the rushing water to confuse the scent. In such instances, Mike and Grant would take Mike’s hounds downstream, as Chief and Moss lead theirs upstream. When the scent was re-discovered, the dogs called their pack together and the men regrouped. The going was agonizingly slow.

“How long has it been?” Mike asked Chief after rejoining from downstream.

Chief checked his watch. “It’s three-fifteen,” he stated. “At this rate we’ll be in the woods after sunset.”

He turned to Mark. “Someone needs to go back and bring the truck around. I think he’s headed just outside of Berritts. Near the Grange. He used to trap there and he knows the area.”

“Well don’t look at me,” retorted Mark.

“You’re the only one that can’t handle the dogs,” Chief pointed out. “If we’re going to keep on this trail, we need trackers experienced in handling these hounds. Especially if we need to split up.”

“But this is my case.”

“In case you haven’t been paying attention,” broke in Moss. ”We passed out of Springdale two hours ago.”

Mark stared at him.

“Look, Sergeant,” continued Chief. “I don’t relish being stuck out here after dark. If Blackney doubles back on us, I doubt we’d see him in time.”

“There are four of us with guns,” jeered the sergeant. “What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t take anything for granted, Mark. I suggest you do the same.”

The dogs were growing impatient at the hold up. The scent was flat at best, and the delay would make their jobs even more difficult. Bailey started baying.

The dog’s barking startled Mark into jumping back. It was apparent to all, that the dogs made him nervous. Mike smiled to himself.

“I’ll go, boss,” he told Chief. His eyes held Chief’s a little longer than usual, so Chief stifled his protest.

Mike dragged his hounds to Mark, who noticeably stepped back. Mike handed the leashes to the other man who hesitated in taking them. The dogs, sensing his hesitation, and already being impatient, took off. When Mark didn’t follow, they jumped on him and knocked him to the ground. Gaylord, still not satisfied, proceeded to stand on the man’s chest and bray into his face.

“Get it off!” screamed Mark. “For God’s sake, get it off of me!”

Mike took hold of Gaylord’s leash and pulled him back while retrieving the leash of the second dog. Mark stood when the dog had been pulled off, and brushed the dirt from his trousers. When he looked up, Chief was handing him the keys to his truck. Nobody bothered laughing.

Mark took the keys. He looked angrily at Mike then returned his attention to Chief.

“Can you find your way back?” Chief asked.

“Yes. I grew up around here. I know where I am.”

“There’s a road that cuts through the Berritts, its about three miles down 101 from Gables. Its called Track 303. Take it about six miles, until you get to the north service road. Do you know it?”

“Yes. It’s the one that circles Middleton.”

“That’s the one,” agreed Chief. “Turn right, go about a quarter of a mile where it intersects a footpath. The path is marked by two intersecting planks. You can’t miss it. Just park there, we’ll find you.”

Mark nodded. He turned around and waved over his shoulder as he continued through the woods and out of sight. Without all the backtracking he would reach the truck in less than two hours. The spot of the rendezvous was twenty minutes driving time. If he didn’t get lost in the woods, he should be there well in advance of them.

Moss turned to Mike after Mark was well out of sight. His face broke up into an ear-to-ear grin.

“Good move, deputy,” he said.

Mike smiled back, but deep down he felt bad about mortifying the other man, even if Grant was a jackass.

Chief said. “Let’s go.”

The three men followed the dogs once again into the brush. Their path led them along a small creek and in the direction Chief had expected. They had been working their way steadily towards Berritts for over an hour when they heard a gunshot. It resounded off to their right, perpendicular to their progress. All three men stopped at once.

“It’s in the wrong direction to be Mark,” Moss said. “Unless the idiot got himself hopelessly lost.”

“If it is Mark, it sounds as if he could use some help,” answered Mike.

Chief, whose eyes never left the direction of the shot, spoke next. “It sounded more like a rifle, than a hand gun.” Chief looked at his deputy. “Mike, keep to the trail we’re on now, Mort and I will investigate the shot. It doesn’t sound far, maybe fifteen minutes tops–barking distance for the hounds. If it turns out to be a live trail, they’ll let each other know. If we don’t reconnect before dusk, head for the truck ... and Mike,” Chief's eyes held those of the deputy. “Be careful.”

Chief and Moss made their way towards the gunfire. Ten minutes later the hounds crossed an incredibly fresh scent that sent them into a wild excited chant. Bailey howled into the air after the others. Gaylord less than a mile away answered the howl. Once answered, Bailey took off following the scent with the other hounds pulling Chief after her.

The path brought the two men and the dogs into a small clearing Chief recognized as one of Fred’s Trap fields. Moss and Chief pulled their dogs along the perimeter, but the dogs dragged their handlers straight to the blood soaked clothing placed unceremoniously near one of the large boulders in the middle of the clearing.

Chief tied his dogs up to a tree to get a better look at the area and to keep the dogs from fouling the scene. Moss did the same and the two men again fanned out looking for clues. Other than the clothing and a small sack there was nothing around the boulder. Chief scanned the face of each rock and noticed the blood at the bottom of one of the smaller rocks. He bent down for a closer look. Then he called Mort over.

Chief said, “Looks as though someone fell against the rock. There’s blood and hair down there.” He squatted closer and noticed a hand print in the soil. Chief placed his own hand next to it. “There’s a handprint in the dirt where he tried to catch his balance. Too small for an adult, especially one Fred’s size.”

“Tracks over here,” Moss pointed to the other side of the boulder. “They lead to the edge of the clearing.”

“Size eleven hunting boots,” he whispered. “Christ.”

The two men followed the tracks until the line of trees at the clearing’s edge. After investigating the area of brush, Chief retrieved a shell casing of a .22 caliber bullet. Mark had a .38 handgun. He held it up for Moss to examine as the trees across the clearing parted. Chief looked up at the sound and had his gun out before Mike emerged. After recognizing his deputy, Chief holstered his Colt.

“What do ya have?” Mike asked as he crossed the clearing.

“.22 cartridge, shot from a rifle,” answered Chief. “Some blood by those rocks over there. Hair suggests somebody fell and hit their head. But no blood leading away from the spot to suggest the individual was shot. Handprint of a child. Not Blackney. However I’d recognize the prints leading over here anywhere.”

“Size eleven boots?” suggested Mike.

Chief nodded.

“Then he must have met Huey here.”

“That’s my guess...” Chief broke off and stared at the casing in his hand.

“What is it?” Mike asked noticing his concentration and the worry that seeped into Chief’s expression.

Seconds crawled by before Chief looked up, his eyes making contact with the deputy’s–the fire in them making Mike uncomfortable.

“Mike...” began Chief slowly, “did you and Kelly discuss what happened yesterday?”

“Somewhat. She was very upset and worried over you, sir. I tried to calm her down,” answered Mike. “Why?”

“Was Joe around?”

“You don’t think Joe–”

“Federal .22’s, Mike. I bought a case for Joe.”

“A lot of people use that brand, Chief.”

“Maybe. But Blackney was meeting someone–the person who brought that sack over there. Brought him a new set of clothes. The only one I can think of that would do that, and have a hand the size of that print would be Huey. If Joe over-heard what Huey did yesterday ... he’s very protective of his little sister, Mike. He’d follow him out here.”

“What about Hank? He’d do the same thing.”

“Hank owns a 30-06. He’d bring that for a confrontation with his father. And then there’s the blood on that rock. And the hair. Suggested either Huey was pushed or fell against that boulder...” Chief was lost in concentration as he worked out the position of the blood and the location of the bullet casing. He looked down and noticed another patch of blood near a few broken branches. He reached down and retrieved the branch. “Joe got away,” Chief mumbled. “Or we’d be looking at his body...” Chief swallowed. He looked around the area. No other evidence was forthcoming. “Jesus,” Chief said to himself. “Let this blood belong to Blackney.” He looked at the others. “Let’s get the dogs together. The trail is fresh. Let’s get him before he gets my boy.”

* * * * *

Joe had been moving steadily south, keeping the setting sun on his right. It was an arbitrary decision to go south, but a decision had to be made to keep him from moving in circles. The shadows were growing long and thinning. The woods became deathly silent. Now and again a rogue breeze strayed through the trees rustling the branches eerily. Joe continued, looking in all directions. His progress was slow, but full of caution. Several times he stopped to listen to the woods. On the last occasion he heard footsteps.

They stalked him over to the right. When he turned to look he saw nothing but the dark shadows of the tall trees. Wind rustled the leaves on the forest floor, nudging them up and down. The noises they made– could they be the footsteps he heard? Joe gripped the rifle firmly and walked slowly on, keeping his ears alert for any unnatural sounds.

A twig snapped to Joe’s right. Joe paused and again turned. His scalp tingled with the feeling of being watched. But no one was there. Above him branches clicked against each other, tapping in rhythm. Joe trudged on.

Eventually he came to a small creek. The sound of the water masked the sounds of the forest. It was dangerous to remain so close to the water. But the stream flowed down hill. Eventually it would hook up with Crawford Creek as all the streams did in the Berritts. If he stayed close, he would be able to find his way home. But if he stayed close, he wouldn’t be able to hear the person that stalked him; would be unaware of the moment of attack.

Joe elected to cross the stream and follow it from the other side. If he kept a keen eye behind him he might see someone crossing after him.

A quarter of a mile later he saw the tiger cross. A dark shadow itself, it moved within the other shadows almost undetectable. It was a mere hundred yards behind. Joe acted as if he didn’t notice and continued on his way. So far the tiger hadn’t rushed. It must have been wary of Joe’s rifle. As long as Joe had it and was ready to use it, he had a chance.

Joe ducked into the shadows of the trees that outlined the stream. He listened for the rush of the water to continue in the correct direction, while concealing himself in the brush at the same time. Behind him he could make out the tiger’s movements. It was another fifteen minutes when he heard the dogs.

The hounds were off in the distance, probably following the tiger’s trail. Joe knew that if they continued on the haphazard and disorganized trail he and the tiger had left, it would take them longer to reach him. And by that time,, the tiger would be finished with him. But if he made an attempt to alert his father to his location, thus cutting down the distance considerably as well as the time it took his father to reach him, the tiger might decide to rush him earlier. It was a tough decision with a high price for a mistake.

Joe spied a large outcropping near the bend in the creek. A massive bank had been cut into the solid limestone eons ago when the creek had been a formidable river. Joe made his decision. He crossed the creek once more at a shallow stretch of water and moved to the bank. The rock wall was thirteen feet tall. It would protect him from assault from behind. He leaned his back to it and regarded the water. The sun shone red on its surface, dancing like a field of poppies. To either side, the woods were dark. The veil of trees blocked the diminishing sunlight, keeping it from penetrating the shadows.

Joe cocked the rifle and shot into the air. He repeated the procedure twice more, signaling for help. He still had a dozen shots left. He aimed the gun across the creek keeping the line of trees in sight. He cocked the rifle one more time and pointed the gun, ready to pull the trigger.

But the movement didn’t occur across the creek where he was aiming. Through the corner of his eye he caught a flash of red–grayed by the dying sun. He turned quickly to his right and saw the movement of shadow duck behind a nearby tree. Joe pulled himself away from the rock only slightly to include that direction in his aim. Pebbles slid down over-head and Joe heard the movement of rough boots on the surface of rock. More pebbles and he was certain the man was just above him. Joe pressed his back tighter against the side of rocky embankment.

He waited, keeping his gun in front of him. Upstream the sound of dogs broke over the surface of the water; their barking carried effortlessly towards the boy. Above him the footsteps moved off, away from the stream. Joe took a deep breath and called to his father. He was too frightened to move from the rocky embankment. He waited for his father to come to him. Chief had Mike and another man Joe did not know with him when he rounded the bend in the river. The men were running full out after the dogs, water splashed violently as they crossed in front of Joe.

Chief handed his dogs to Mike and went to his son who was still cowering against the limestone embankment.“Are you all right, son?” he asked.

Joe nodded. Tears of relief escaped from his eyes as he put the safety on his gun and set it down. He pulled himself free of the stone and wrapped his arms tightly around his father’s neck. Chief returned the hug; grateful his son was still alive.

“I’m sorry,” Joe whispered, his voice was thick with tears.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Chief answered after pulling away to look at his son. “Just as long as you’re all right.”

Joe nodded. “He was over there.” Joe pointed to the tree the shadow hid behind. “Then he moved up there.” He pointed above the rock. “He went down behind me when you came... when he heard the dogs.”

Chief nodded. “We’ll get him tomorrow, son. It’s getting too dark. He has too much of the advantage now.”

During the exchange of father and son, Moss turned to Mike. There was a look of disbelief on his face.

“How do you explain that?” he asked the deputy.

Mike took a deep breath and shrugged. “He knows his family,” he finally said. He offered Moss a reassuring glance before speaking to Chief. “We’d better hit it, boss. Sun’s almost down. It’ll take us well over an hour to get back to the service road.

Chief turned from his son and regarded the deputy. He looked at the setting sun and nodded before returning to his son. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

Chief helped the boy up. Joe retrieved his weapon and joined the men at the edge of the creek. Together they made their way through the darkening woods, dragging an exhausted group of hounds behind them.

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