Rough Country

higher land, and a man running from guns instinctively took one of two paths—he ran through gullies or along creeks that concealed him from view, or he ran along the high ground, so he could see what was happening, could see the pursuit.
    Or, if he was smart, he ran just below the crest of a ridge, so he could move up, make a quick check around, and still be out of sight with a step or two.
    But higher ground was involved in all of it—either as concealment or for the view. Virgil was headed for the only nearby higher land. That ridge would also bring Slibe back past his acreage, while still in the deep woods—probably the land he knew best.
    Virgil could set up on high ground, he hoped, and catch Slibe as he went by.
    Because the cops weren’t going to get close, not unless Slibe was on a suicide run. If he was, the cops wouldn’t need Virgil to help handle that. . . .

    VIRGIL MOVED up the hill; the brush was thick, mostly small aspen, cut maybe ten years earlier, and he couldn’t see fifty yards. At the top, the land sloped away, and though he couldn’t see it, he sensed wet ground that way—there was more light coming through the trees than there should be, if it was all solid forest, which meant the trees ended somewhere downslope. The lake, probably, or a marsh.
    He backed up the hill, trying to find a spot with good sight lines. None of it was really open; he finally found a root hole where an old aspen had been blown over, and eased down into it, and sat on a chunk of rotting log. He was wearing his gray rain jacket, which wasn’t bad; he shouldn’t be too visible.
    Then settled down and listened, heard nothing, except some distant shouting. Not even squirrels—thought he’d probably spooked the squirrels himself, and they wouldn’t start bashing around again for another ten minutes or so.
    He’d turned the radio down when he got out of the truck, and now put it to his ear, picking up the electronic whisper of shouts and calls: this guy was moving left, that guy was moving left, the other guy didn’t see anything, nothing was moving out there, this guy was going to make a move farther around, that guy had come down to a swampy area and couldn’t go any farther.
    Virgil couldn’t quite picture it in his mind, because he didn’t know the ground well enough, but he got the impression that the deputies had pushed well out to Slibe’s left, and they now had a line that extended from the pasture down to the lake. So Slibe couldn’t go that way without shooting somebody. The deputies thought they had him pinned against the lake.
    Maybe they did; and maybe they didn’t. Slibe had known where he was going, and was moving fast.
    Virgil put the radio down and listened . . . listened . . .
    Listened for gunshots. Or footsteps.
     
     
     
    SLIBE CAME SNEAKING along the right side of the high ground. Virgil thought first that it might be a squirrel, because there wasn’t much sound. But it had been raining, a little, enough to wet the leaves, and mute the usual crinkle and thrash. When he heard a stick break, he thought it must be Slibe; squirrels don’t break sticks.
    Slibe could have been quieter, if he’d moved more slowly, and he probably knew that; but he couldn’t afford to. Virgil listened to him coming in, and wondered what was going through his mind. Where did he think he could run to? Was he going to kill somebody else, somebody back in the woods, somewhere—at a cabin, steal the car and an ID, maybe some money? He could be in Canada in a few hours, and that would slow down the search. . . .
    Kill somebody there, in another cabin, head north and west. Get up north of Calgary, in the oil fields. There were people from thirty countries up there, it was the Wild West.
     
     
     
    SLIBE WAS CLOSE, picking his way through the trees.
    Virgil peeked, thought he saw movement, lost it, but had an idea where he was. Saw it again; nothing was exposed but his left eye, and he tracked the other man coming in. Slibe was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, was wet, had a scoped rifle in his hand. Stopped, fifty feet out, looked around, looked back along the line he’d come, back where the deputies were.
    Listened, then came on, his face grim, his hair wet and stuck to his forehead, the rifle loose in his left hand, his right hand pushing through the trees.
    When he was close, Virgil said, not too loud, “Don’t make me kill you.”
    Slibe froze.
    Virgil said, “I’ve got a twelve-gauge