Endangered (A Sam Westin Mystery Book 1) Page 18

  “Sam?” His voice was thin, scratchy—it sounded like they were connected by tin cans and string. “Sam, I can’t raise HQ. I need HQ.”

  “I can barely hear you, and I’m a lot closer than park headquarters. Where are you? Over.”

  Heavy breathing. “Milagro Canyon . . . near Ghost Stack.”

  “Monument Ridge is between you and HQ. They can’t read you. You’ll have to climb up to the mesa.”

  A brief pause and a crackle of static. “Can’t climb. I need help. Need HQ.” He sounded disoriented.

  Her knuckles whitened on the radio. “Talk to me, Kent. Explain your situation. Now!”

  An intake of breath. “There’s been a shooting.”

  “Who’s been shot, Kent? Over.”

  A burst of static. Or was it coughing? “Mountain lion . . . here in front of me . . . still alive.”

  “Someone shot a lion?” So the cracks had been rifle shots, not distant thunder.

  A loud exhalation. “Me, too.”

  Her chest tightened. “Say again, Kent?”

  “Hunters . . . three guys. Shot a cougar.” A ragged cough. “And me.”

  A surge of adrenaline shot through her bloodstream. “Are the hunters there with you?”

  A gurgle. “Just the cat and me.”

  “Hang on—I’m on my way, Kent. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Clear.”

  She tried to raise headquarters from her radio. As she expected, the signal was blocked. She sprinted to her pack, pulled out her phone, and then speed-dialed the number for park headquarters.

  “Heritage National Monument Ranger Station.”

  “We need a medical rescue helicopter at Milagro Canyon—a ranger’s been shot.” She grabbed her knapsack and threw it over a shoulder.

  “What? Who is this?”

  She was already running down the trail. Breathlessly, she identified herself, then yelled, “Kent Bergstrom’s been shot! Get that helicopter up there. Milagro Canyon! Now!”

  15

  The muscles in Sam’s legs were screaming. Would this nightmare never end?

  She had her phone pressed to her ear, listening to Tanner, who was telling her that the Civil Air Patrol choppers assisting in the search carried only rudimentary first aid and weren’t insured to treat patients.

  “I don’t give a damn if they’re insured or not!” she huffed. “They can land, they can pick him up, they can take him to the nearest hos—”

  Tanner interrupted. “We have liability issues.”

  Kent had been shot and his boss was worried about liability issues? Tanner told her that the St. George Fire Department agreed to send their helicopter, but they’d have to stop at park headquarters to pick up a ranger to guide them to the exact position.

  How long would that take? If she ran all the way, she could reach Kent in forty-five minutes. As a ranger, her friend had been trained in first aid. She prayed he was in condition to minister to himself.

  Perez’s footsteps pounded steadily behind her. They reached the turnoff point to Temple Canyon, skidded down a cliff-hugging series of switchbacks, and flew past the Anasazi ruins. Did Perez notice the stone buildings crowded under the dark overhang? Probably not. No doubt his eyes were focused on the rocky trail, as were hers.

  Her breath was coming hard; that was the altitude. Behind her, Perez was huffing, too. As they neared Milagro Canyon, they passed two missing posters, hung by Kent as he had made his rounds.

  After what felt like days of lung-bursting effort, she and Perez pounded across a shallow creek on an ancient log bridge, climbed a small rise, and finally reached the narrow walled-in area known as Milagro Canyon. The cross-country sprint had taken them forty minutes.

  She stumbled to a stop, holding her side, trying to catch her breath. Sweat ran down her backbone and trickled from her scalp over her cheeks. Beside her, Perez hunched over, still wearing his backpack, his shirt and face similarly soaked, his hands on his knees, gasping. Then she saw it. Amid the shadows and cracks in the stone surface, a wide swath of crimson gleamed wetly across the canyon floor.

  The trail of blood led them to the shade of a rock overhang where Kent lay. She fell to her knees beside him. The front of his shirt and right sleeve were soaked with blood. Her heart pounded in her throat. They’d arrived too late. All that blood—

  She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath. Get a grip, Westin. Now. Opening her eyes, she focused on her friend. Kent’s face was pale and shiny with sweat. He blinked. Thank God. Still alive.

  Kent’s backpack rested against a nearby rock. While Perez checked Kent, Sam dug out her friend’s first-aid supplies—a ranger would have more than the basic Band-Aids and pills she carried. She burst the plastic encasing a metallic rescue blanket, shook it out, and covered Kent from the waist down, tucking it around his legs and feet. After two tries with shaking fingers, she used her teeth to rip open a package of sterile pads.

  “Went right through the arm,” Perez reported, “but there’s no exit wound from the chest. Probably the same bullet.”

  The injury to Kent’s right forearm had almost quit bleeding, but his chest wound was a red well of blood. She pressed two of the gauze squares to the ragged hole beneath the right collarbone. Blood soaked through the cloth, welled up between her fingers. She added two more pads, pressed harder, using both hands now.

  “Hey,” Kent wheezed. “How’m I s’posed to breathe with you squeezin’ the life outa me?”

  She was leaning on his chest to keep the life in him. She forced a smile. At least she hoped her expression looked like a smile. Her face felt paralyzed. Tears blurred her vision.

  “Guess . . . should’ve escorted those hunters out,” Kent choked out. “Never should’ve trusted ’em to leave—” His blue eyes had the glaze of someone in shock.

  “What happened?” Perez asked.

  “I was . . . watching him come down . . . from up there.” Kent directed them with his eyes. About fifty yards away and twenty feet above them in elevation, Sam spotted a splash of blood on a narrow rock ledge that cut diagonally across the cliff face.

  “Oh Sam, he was . . . so . . . beautiful.” His shaky smile slid into a grimace. “Then . . . dogs . . . behind me.” He coughed, his forehead creasing in pain. “I stood up . . . blam! Next one got him.”

  Sam followed Kent’s gaze. A hundred yards across the canyon, a cougar crouched in the patchy shadow of a ponderosa. The big cat glared at them, panting heavily as though the air was too thick to breathe. The sinews in its neck stood out as it strained to lick the blood leaking from a ragged hole high in its hindquarters.

  She scanned the area, envisioning the whole episode. The hunters, low on the trail, training their sights on the cat on the hillside. They hadn’t realized that Kent was sitting just over the next rise. He had stood up at the crucial moment.

  Kent’s eyes were on her. “Bad timing, huh?”

  “What happened to the hunters?” Perez asked.

  “Took off.” Kent closed his eyes. “Bastards . . . Eagle Tours.”

  “What? What about Eagle Tours, Kent?” she asked. “Was it Buck Ferguson?”

  He opened his eyes again. “Just saw . . . Eagle Tours . . . black cap.”

  Nodding, Sam glanced at Perez. “It might be Buck Ferguson. He’s been caught here with a rifle more than once.”

  Kent lay his head back against the stone. A bubble of blood formed at the corner of his mouth.

  “Sam.” He grasped her sleeve. “Save the cougar.”

  “I will if I can. Right now I’m more worried about you.”

  Kent coughed. “Save the cat.”

  Perez knelt beside her, placing his hand over hers on Kent’s chest. “I’ll take over if you want to check the cat.”

  Her eyes met Kent’s. His chin dipped in a single nod. “Please.” Then his eyelids closed.

  She slid her hand out from under Perez’s. Her palm and wrist were slick with blood. She wiped the wetness away on her pants and then push
ed herself to her feet.

  Perez said, “Hang in there, Kent. There’s a helicopter on the way. It’ll be here any minute now.”

  She walked toward the cat. Its yellow eyes widened. As she neared, the cougar spat and tightened its muscles to stand, but it wasn’t able to lift its hindquarters from the rock. A growing pool of blood stained the stone beneath the animal. Each agitated stroke of the cougar’s tail painted a fresh stripe of red in the dust.

  “Take it easy, boy,” she murmured, standing still. The cat was a large male. Leto’s mate? His fur had the same gray tinge as Apollo’s.

  He raised a massive paw, claws extended, and snarled, his eyes wild now. Sam backed away slowly and returned to the men.

  “He’s been shot in the hindquarters,” she reported. “I can’t tell how bad it is. He can’t walk, but he’s still pretty feisty. That’s a good sign, Kent.”

  Her friend’s eyes were closed. She couldn’t tell if he’d heard or not. Perez had rolled up his windbreaker and placed it beneath the ranger’s head. Even with the roughness of two days’ worth of whiskers lining his cheeks, Kent looked so young.

  The faint sound of a distant helicopter drifted up the canyon. Thank God! It had made the trip sooner than she’d expected.

  Perez placed a gentle hand on Kent’s good shoulder. “The copter’s arrived. We’ll have you out of here in a few minutes.”

  Surprising them both, Kent opened his eyes and said distinctly, “I’m not going without the cat.”

  The helicopter neared, the thunder of the blades echoing in the narrow canyon. They’d have to land on the plateau above and bring the stretcher down.

  “I mean it,” gasped Kent. “I’m still pretty feisty, too.” He raised his left arm, his fingers curled into claws, and wheezed out a weak imitation of a snarl.

  “Knock off that crap,” Sam ordered. “I’ll see what I can do about the cat, but you’re going regardless.”

  “Dart him. Tranq pistol . . . my pack.”

  “I’ll dart you, too, if I have to, to get you on that copter.”

  The slapping of helicopter blades gave way to a low whine, then blessed silence. Sam ran to meet the two men who were struggling down the steep slope from the plateau above, bearing a stretcher with an emergency pack and oxygen tank lashed between the poles. Both men wore the navy uniforms of the St. George Fire Department. One sported a baseball cap with super fly embroidered on the front.

  “How many people can your chopper carry?” she demanded.

  “Six adults, tops. That includes the three of us.”

  “Do you have more than one emergency?” The other fellow touched her pants leg where she had wiped Kent’s blood off her hands.

  Park Superintendent Thompson, his face beet red from exertion, skidded down the slope in a shower of gravel to join them. He studied her bloody clothing with concern. “You okay, Westin?”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped, swatting the medic’s hand away from her leg. “It’s Ranger Bergstrom who’s been shot.” She pointed toward Perez and Kent. Then she gestured across the canyon. “And a cougar.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said the pilot, staring at the animal. The cat had managed to pull itself up into a crouch. It snarled at the new intruders.

  Kent’s face now had a blue tinge she’d seen in her nightmares. Sam tried to take comfort in knowing that Kent was a fighter.

  Thompson stood by Sam’s side, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief, staring doubtfully at the wounded cougar. “We should probably just dispatch him.” He glanced toward Perez, who already had a hand on his pistol.

  “No way,” Sam warned.

  Thompson’s head swiveled back, his expression showing surprise at her tone.

  “Kent has darts. I’m a wildlife biologist, too, remember? I know how to use them.” Sam unzipped the lower compartment on Kent’s pack, found the tranquilizer pistol, darts, and a vial of clear liquid.

  “I’m estimating the cat at about a hundred and thirty pounds,” Sam said, praying she remembered the right proportions for the tranquilizer.

  “Looks about right,” Thompson agreed.

  After measuring the dose and loading the dart syringe into the pistol, she walked to within twenty feet of the cougar. The cat sat up, its whole body shaking now. It growled. She raised the pistol. The cougar spat, its muscles rippling with tension. Its ears were folded back against its sleek head, its amber eyes on fire. How could anyone aim a bullet at such an incredible creature for sport? Not for self-defense, not to save livestock, but just to put out the light in those eyes.

  She aimed at the cougar’s hindquarters where the needle could lodge in thick muscle, and squeezed the trigger. The gun fired with a loud pop. The cat lunged to its feet with an outraged snarl.

  Startled, she tripped over her own feet, came down hard on her backside and had to scramble backward like a crab. The cat’s teeth snapped together a few inches shy of her calf. “Shit!”

  She pushed herself to her feet, thankful that she hadn’t wet her pants. “Well,” she said, “I guess it’s a good sign that he can stand up.”

  “You didn’t get him.” Thompson pointed to the ground behind the cat.

  He was right. The dart was embedded in the base of the tree. Even worse, she’d dropped the gun when she fell. The pistol now lay three feet from the cougar’s new position.

  “We’re ready,” the fire department medic shouted. “We’ve got to get going—this guy’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “We’re out of time,” Thompson growled. “Agent Perez, can I borrow your pistol?”

  “I’ll do it.” Perez reached for his automatic.

  The fire department team picked up the stretcher. “Put me down,” Kent wheezed angrily. “I’m not going without the cat!”

  Sam studied the cougar. The animal tried to touch his injured leg to the ground, wobbled for a moment, then sat down. His tongue slid in and out of his mouth as he panted. The effort of lunging at her had cost him severely.

  “He’s coming, Kent.” She lowered herself to her hands and knees and crawled toward the pistol.

  “Don’t—” Thompson hissed.

  She sprawled full length on the rocks, stretched her hand out as far as she could toward the pistol. The cougar snarled and raised a paw. The cat reached out at the same time she did but missed her arm by inches. Her fingers curled around the handle. She rolled back over the rocks, the pistol clutched in her fist.

  Her hands were shaking so hard that she had difficulty loading the second dart. Thompson shook his head and reached for the gun.

  Sam grabbed the tranquilizer pistol away. “No, I’m going to do it right this time.” She clutched the weapon in both hands and strode toward the cat.

  “She’s a little hardheaded,” Perez grumbled.

  The superintendent nodded. “No kidding.”

  The cougar stood, wobbling on its feet. Sam stopped her advance ten feet away and braced herself, her legs spread, clutching the pistol with both hands. One more chance. She aimed at the middle of its right rear haunch and fired. The cat snarled and lunged, stretching out a muscular paw with razor-sharp claws extended. She jumped back.

  Perez ran to steady her as she staggered backward. “Did he get you?”

  She pulled aside the ripped flap of her canvas trousers. Three red stripes gleamed against the skin, beads of blood beginning to ooze out. “Barely. Just a scratch.”

  The cougar stumbled, fell back onto his haunches, then collapsed on its side. The dart extended from its flank, the syringe moving in rhythm with the cat’s harsh breathing.

  “We’re loaded,” the pilot shouted from above.

  “Wait!” she screamed. “We’re coming.”

  She gingerly prodded the cougar with her foot. “Is anybody going to help me carry this mountain lion or do I have to drag him up by his tail?”

  Her belt and Thompson’s were used to secure the big cat’s feet. It took Sam, Perez,
and Thompson to carry the animal up the slope, slipping and sliding with the limp burden in the loose gravel.

  They slid the cat onto the helicopter floor beside the stretcher. It was painful to see both Kent and the cougar reduced to broken bodies to be carted around like so much baggage.

  “Call Dr. Stephanie Black in St. George about this cougar.” In the past, the vet had donated her services to help injured wildlife: she’d been instrumental in healing Leto and her cubs.

  The medic anxiously regarded the lolling head beside his foot. Saliva drooled out between the cat’s jaws. The animal’s eyes were open but glazed and unfocused.

  She tugged on the medic’s sleeve. “Dr. Black. Can you remember that?”

  The man nodded, his eyes still fixed on the tranquilized cougar. “Black,” he repeated. His eyes widened as a patch of skin on the cat’s back shuddered as if a fly had landed there. “Are you sure he’s completely out?”

  “He’s paralyzed but not unconscious. He’ll start coming out of it in about forty minutes.”

  The medic shot a glance toward the pilot. “Dave, go.”

  The pilot started the engine. Thompson clambered into the passenger seat, puffing.

  “Damn!” Perez interjected. “Wait!” He trotted down the hill toward the canyon, yelling, “FBI business!” back over his shoulder.

  The pilot’s hands clenched on the controls. “No more than two minutes,” he warned.

  The medic inserted an IV into Kent’s arm. He coughed wetly, but his eyes were open. He clenched his free hand into a fist with his thumb pointed upward. “I’m okay,” he rasped.

  “No talking,” ordered the medic. “And no more moving.”

  Sam returned Kent’s thumbs up sign. “Hang in there.”

  Perez galloped up, jerked open the passenger door, and thrust the USGS map and a page of notes into Thompson’s lap. “Get this to Agent Boudreaux ASAP and tell her to get a Crime Scene team to this location on the double.”

  “Crime scene team?” Confusion warred with annoyance in the superintendent’s expression.

  A flicker of anger crossed Perez’s face. “Just get the message to Boudreaux. And see what you can dig up on Coyote Charlie.”