skyward, watching the hawk.
Then one of the other men spotted him, shouting something that swung around the attention of Lund and the other man, and they
all saw him then, which is what he had waited for.
He whirled, lunging back into the shadowy interior of the half-lit world at the base of the pines that made the mountains
a carpet of crisp green.
Lund shouted something at him from below back there but he could not discern the words.
He heard nothing but his own footfalls along the rocky trail that had been here when he bought this property. He did throw
one look over his shoulder to make sure Lund and the others were after him.
They were, the Company men hoofing up the incline in hot pursuit.
He poured on the steam, his legs pumping, following the trail for several yards to where it dipped beneath the lip of a wrinkle
in the terrain, losing him from the line of vision of the men dashing after him.
They had not opened fire on him, and that decided him on what to do next.
He jogged a dozen more long paces, then darted to his left, positioning himself behind another tree trunk amid a thick growth
of conifers that would effectively block him from sight of the men giving chase; the reason he had chosen this exact spot
fourteen months ago when he had gone about securing his hideaway.
His erstwhile employers were the least of his worries, he had known all along. A man made enemies working for the Company
and the many Cody had made would hardly be expected to give up the chase to even up old scores just because he had declared
himself out of the game.
So far, no one from his past had managed to track him down.
Until now.
They came over the ridge at the dead-heat gallop, Lund in the middle, the rifle toters evenly spaced from each other, not
bunched together.
Lund topped the lip of the ridge and Cody saw he toted a snub-nosed .38 revolver, as the three charged along the trail coming
past where Cody knelt in the milliseconds it took before the three Company men had time to pull up with the realization that
they had lost sight of him.
The first man trotted by his place of concealment, the one in the lead, starting to slow when he realized Cody was not up
ahead on the trail as they must have expected him to be.
Lund and the third man slowed their pace.
Cody waited until Lund was where he wanted him, then he leaned forward to a taut length of clear rope and he severed that
rope with one swift cut, causing the trap to be sprung.
The loop of the nearly invisible line snapped around Lund’s ankles while the tree limb it was attached to sprung up, released
by the line severed by Cody, the loop tightening into a knot around Lund’s ankles and whisking him upward, head-over-heels
upside down, the .38 flipping from his fingers.
Too caught by surprise to even emit a shout of alarm before he was dangling upside-down like bagged game ready to be skinned,
Lund ended up with the top of his head five feet from the ground.
Cody bounded out from cover, the knife already unsheathed, the Weatherby swinging around in a punching arc, used as a club.
The first man, in front of Lund, came around with a snarling oath at the commotion of Lund being hoisted topsy-turvy, but
the guy walked into the sharp smack of the Weatherby’s ventilated rubber recoil pad buttplate across his right temple. His
knees buckled and he went down.
Cody pulled the Weatherby around, down into firing position on the third man before the first had fully collapsed upon the
ground.
Lund swung lazily back and forth, a human pendulum, cursing vividly, attempting to pull himself up and around, reaching up
toward the knotted line around his ankles, but he could not bend himself back up far enough.
The third man had his rifle nearly around in target acquisition, but abruptly ceased all movement like a robot with its juice
cut when he found himself looking into the Weatherby’s muzzle.
This one know weapons, thought Cody.
Then one of the other men spotted him, shouting something that swung around the attention of Lund and the other man, and they
all saw him then, which is what he had waited for.
He whirled, lunging back into the shadowy interior of the half-lit world at the base of the pines that made the mountains
a carpet of crisp green.
Lund shouted something at him from below back there but he could not discern the words.
He heard nothing but his own footfalls along the rocky trail that had been here when he bought this property. He did throw
one look over his shoulder to make sure Lund and the others were after him.
They were, the Company men hoofing up the incline in hot pursuit.
He poured on the steam, his legs pumping, following the trail for several yards to where it dipped beneath the lip of a wrinkle
in the terrain, losing him from the line of vision of the men dashing after him.
They had not opened fire on him, and that decided him on what to do next.
He jogged a dozen more long paces, then darted to his left, positioning himself behind another tree trunk amid a thick growth
of conifers that would effectively block him from sight of the men giving chase; the reason he had chosen this exact spot
fourteen months ago when he had gone about securing his hideaway.
His erstwhile employers were the least of his worries, he had known all along. A man made enemies working for the Company
and the many Cody had made would hardly be expected to give up the chase to even up old scores just because he had declared
himself out of the game.
So far, no one from his past had managed to track him down.
Until now.
They came over the ridge at the dead-heat gallop, Lund in the middle, the rifle toters evenly spaced from each other, not
bunched together.
Lund topped the lip of the ridge and Cody saw he toted a snub-nosed .38 revolver, as the three charged along the trail coming
past where Cody knelt in the milliseconds it took before the three Company men had time to pull up with the realization that
they had lost sight of him.
The first man trotted by his place of concealment, the one in the lead, starting to slow when he realized Cody was not up
ahead on the trail as they must have expected him to be.
Lund and the third man slowed their pace.
Cody waited until Lund was where he wanted him, then he leaned forward to a taut length of clear rope and he severed that
rope with one swift cut, causing the trap to be sprung.
The loop of the nearly invisible line snapped around Lund’s ankles while the tree limb it was attached to sprung up, released
by the line severed by Cody, the loop tightening into a knot around Lund’s ankles and whisking him upward, head-over-heels
upside down, the .38 flipping from his fingers.
Too caught by surprise to even emit a shout of alarm before he was dangling upside-down like bagged game ready to be skinned,
Lund ended up with the top of his head five feet from the ground.
Cody bounded out from cover, the knife already unsheathed, the Weatherby swinging around in a punching arc, used as a club.
The first man, in front of Lund, came around with a snarling oath at the commotion of Lund being hoisted topsy-turvy, but
the guy walked into the sharp smack of the Weatherby’s ventilated rubber recoil pad buttplate across his right temple. His
knees buckled and he went down.
Cody pulled the Weatherby around, down into firing position on the third man before the first had fully collapsed upon the
ground.
Lund swung lazily back and forth, a human pendulum, cursing vividly, attempting to pull himself up and around, reaching up
toward the knotted line around his ankles, but he could not bend himself back up far enough.
The third man had his rifle nearly around in target acquisition, but abruptly ceased all movement like a robot with its juice
cut when he found himself looking into the Weatherby’s muzzle.
This one know weapons, thought Cody.
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