He walked the rest of the windy road and when he came to the cabin he stopped at a distance to get an idea if the place was occupied.
The shack sat at the edge of the woods like it had something to be ashamed of. The bent tin roof, the cockeyed porch, and the low hanging beams made Bear feel sorry for the place. One strong wind and the walls might cave in.
This was definitely a place a man would go when he didn’t want to be found.
The golden light in one window meant a light was on.
Bear went to adjust his Stetson but came up empty. He’d left it back in the truck.
Bear had tracked Clark out there in the middle of nowhere. If Bear could do it, whomever Clark was running from could too. It was only a matter of time.
He loaded his gun with a fresh magazine and checked the safety with practiced calm. He slid the Glock back into its resting place at his waist. It didn’t appear Clark had any idea that he’d been found because there was exit activity in the cabin.
Bear wasn’t sure why Clark had gone to the trouble of faking his death and running unless he was afraid his death would end up reality.
Taking a more subtle path into the grass, his boots sunk into the wet earth as he moved through the trees. Every branch seemed to be swaying in the wind. Every shadow had him on edge. His pulse stayed steady though. He was built for this. He’d spent most of his life learning to navigate dangerous situations without as much as a flinch or wince.
At the porch, he paused, getting an idea what he was up against.
The door was partially open.
Not a good sign.
Bear withdrew his weapon and gripped it with both hands, aiming at the ground, as he stepped up to nudge the door.
The smell of mold and damp wood accosted his nostrils…and something else that made the hairs lift on the back of his neck. Gunpowder.
Standing at the threshold and using all his senses, he checked out the dimly lit surroundings. The place was sparsely furnished. A cot in one corner. A battered duffel bag sat on the end.
Bear silently made his way inside. On the table sat a cup of cold coffee and maps spread out with locations circled in red. A radio buzzed from a kitchen windowsill. On one chair was a smear of blood. Had he made it too late?
He moved through the small space and came up empty.
Then he heard a shuffling sound outside.
The back door swayed in the wind.
Before Bear even made it through the exit, he saw legs.
Keeping his gun steady, Bear slowly and carefully pressed his back to the wall and peered through the gap between the door and frame. He heard a low moan.
“Clark? Texas Ranger. Put your weapon down and surrender.”
“I-I don’t have a weapon,” came a weak response.
Bear stepped through the opening. Clark, bearded and a feral expression, was half sitting, his legs spread out wide in front of him. He had a hand clamped against his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers.
“Shit! Where is the shooter?”
“Gone. Long gone,” Clark said.
Bear darted back inside, grabbed a towel off the bathroom rack and raced back outside. He dropped to his knees next to Clark and pulled his hands away from the gunshot wound high on his abdomen. Bear pressed the towel against the spot where blood leaked hot and dark. There was too much of it. Clark looked up at Bear through a half-dazed gaze. His face had gone gray, his lips blue, and his breathing came in small gasps. He wouldn’t make it long. “Who are you? Ranger, you say?”
“Who did this?”
“I-I didn’t see...”
Bear shoved the towel hard against the wound.
