Mountain Mayhem: A Doctor Cooper Series Novel

By Warren Stucki

When Dr. Lawrence A. Cooper (Coop) and two friends, Harvey Peck and Mack McGeary, saddle up for a wilderness fishing trip, they have no idea what mayhem lies ahead. While searching for a legendary trout lake, not only do they manage to get themselves hopelessly lost, but they also have a bloodied sixteen-year-old girl stumble into their camp. She is severely beaten, sexually assaulted and barely alive. Though Coop does everything to save her, she dies twenty-four hours later. Now they have a body and big problem. It is uncommonly warm for the mountains, and they have no idea how long it may take to find their way back to civilization. Reluctantly, Coop decides to perform a field autopsy to collect and preserve vital forensic evidence before the body decomposes. When he finishes, it is nearly dark and too late to break camp. The next morning they awaken to discover the body and all the forensic samples are missing. Now they must somehow find their way back to civilization, then convince the authorities of a grisly murder, but with no body and no evidence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sunstone Press
• Release date: Jan 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781611393767

Warren Stucki

Warren J. Stucki is a native of southern Utah and along with his wife and Chocolate Lab enjoys life on a small horse ranch. Following graduation from the University of Utah Medical School, Dr. Stucki specialized in urology and is the founding partner of Southern Utah Urology Associates. At Dixie Regional Medical Center he has served as Chief of Surgery, Chief of Staff and member of the Hospital Governing Board. In addition to Mountain Mayhem, Dr. Stucki is also the author of Hemorrhage, Boy’s Pond, Hunting for Hippocrates and Sagebrush Sedition. Two others, beginning with Hemorrhage, and Mountain Mayhem followed by The Death of Samantha Rose, are all part of his Doctor Cooper series of novels. A fourth book, Town Bell, is a prequel to the highly popular Boy's Pond.

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Mountain Mayhem

© 2015 by Warren J. Stucki

All Rights Reserved.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stucki, Warren J., 1946-

Mountain mayhem : a Doctor Cooper Series novel / by Warren J. Stucki.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-1-63293-061-3 (softcover : alk. paper)

I. Title.

PS3619.T84M68 2015

813’.6--dc23

2015009174

www.sunstonepress.com

SUNSTONE PRESS / Post Office Box 2321 / Santa Fe, NM 87504-2321 /USA

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dedication

As usual, my wife Linda was my first line of defense against the horde of punctuation and grammar mistakes that seem to shadow me. She kindly put up with my defensive attitude when she pointed out errors or weak passages. I dedicate this book to her.

A friend, Dana Korn, was also invaluable for the same reason and special thanks go to Nick Adams for a final edit.

Also I would like to thank Uinta Rodger and Diane Bland for the excellent cover photograph.

BOOK ONE

FISHERMEN

1

HARVEY

You sure we ain’t lost? Worry flushed across Harvey’s face like drops of blood diffusing through clear tap water.

How the hell could we be lost? Mack shook a fistful of maps in front of Harvey’s thin stubbled face.

The rustling paper made the horses skittish. High stepping, they scooted sideways, nervously trying to dance away from the chafing sound.

Sounds like a rattler to them, Mack shrugged, still struggling to unfold his map.

I—I just wished you’d let me bring my GPS, Harvey whined as he fought to control his high-stepping horse.

No, God damn it! Mack’s face turned angry. No GPS’s and no friggin’ cell phones. I said you could bring a compass. That should be enough.

Cell phones don’t work up here anyway, Doc muttered from his saddle. Have to be a satellite phone.

"I’ve got U.S. Forest Service trail maps; I’ve got U.S. Geological Survey topographical maps, and I’ve even got this damn Best Hikes of the Boulder Mountains book, Mack fumed and shook the map in their faces. No way we’re lost."

But, Harvey persisted, if we had a GPS—

—Damnit Harv, If we can’t find our way by the sun and the Big Dipper, then we don’t even belong up here. I ought to throw these god damn maps away too.

But—but we haven’t seen anyone in days. Harvey knew he ought to shut up, but he couldn’t help it. No hikers, no fishermen, no ranchers, not even any mountain bikers and they’re everywhere.

That’ why we’re up here, ain’t it? Mack demanded, still trying to unfold a map while in the saddle. The crackling sound set off the horses again. To get away from them friggin’ tree huggers and them sissified Spandex cowboys.

W—who? Frowning, Harvey looked first at Mack, then at Doc. Doc just smiled and let his horse dance. Whirling horseflesh didn’t seem to bother him and it certainly didn’t bother him they were lost.

Who? What? Mack asked absentmindedly. Holding the lead rope of the packhorse in his left hand, he dismounted gracefully in spite of skipping horses. He tied the packhorse as well as his riding horse, a black and white paint, to the slender silver trunk of a quaken aspen.

W—who are the Spandex cowboys? Harvey stumbled off his edgy prancing roan mare. Ye—ow! He screamed as the roan’s steel shodded hoof crushed his left foot. Dropping the reins like live electric wires, he held up his foot and danced with the horses. Hopping around till pain stopped, he then walked a few feet away from the other two. Pensively, he pushed back his already soiled hundred-dollar Stetson and scanned the horizon, looking—looking for what? Something—anything.

They were in a long slender valley flanked on both sides by steep upslopes carpeted with dense forests, mostly a sea of blue spruce, limber pine and Douglas fir with an occasional island of coin-leafed quaken aspens. Down on the valley floor there was a smattering of purple sage and rabbit brush, and the deer, grama and rice grasses were knee high. A dry creek bed of coarse gray granite sand, peppered with slick-polished granite rocks, essentially bisected the little cigar-shaped valley. It could have been a picture postcard, Harvey suspected, under different circumstances—if they weren’t lost.

Spandex cowboys, Mack spat out the words, almost contemptuously, as he spread the forest service map on top of a table-size granite boulder. The light glinted off its waterproof coating, like noonday sun off a glassy mountain lake. Them’s them friggin’ mountain bikers. Someday the Fish and Game will have open season on them faggots.

That’s one hunt I surely wouldn’t want to miss, Doc laughed.

Harvey blanched. He hated it when Mack and Doc talked like this.

Wouldn’t hurt to thin ‘em out some, Mack continued. Seems they breed like rabbits, ‘specially around them highways and horse trails.

Still, they’re not as bad as the ATV’ers, Doc insisted, resting easy in the saddle. His bay gelding snorted one last time, apparently decided there was no snake, then grabbed a mouthful of already headed grama grass.

Come down here, Doc, and take a look at this, Mack motioned as he continued to study his map.

Doc swung down from his big bay, trailing the reins behind him. Reluctantly the bay followed, snatching another clump of ripe grass.

Right here, Mack declared, jabbing a calloused forefinger on the map. We’re right here, don’t you think, Doc? That had to be Moose Creek we crossed a ways back.

Bending over the rock, Doc studied the map. Nah, don’t think so, Mack. He plunked a manicured forefinger at the right upper quadrant of the map. Blue Creek. That was Blue Creek we just crossed. We’re right here—Swain’s Hollow.

Can’t be, Mack gnarled forefinger traced over a broken red line. This here is the Great Western Trail. We’ve been following it all day.

Nah, Doc slowly shook his head. This trail’s not been kept up in years. It’s nothing but a deer trail, a game trail. Too vague and too much downed timber for the Great Western.

Damn right, this is the Great Western, Mack voice raised a couple of decibels. With all them government cutbacks, the Forest Service has no budget for trail maintenance. Not that them lazy bastards would even if they did.

Well, I hate to disagree with you, Doc remained skeptical, but this is not the Great Western. Anybody with one eye can see that. See here on the map, the Great Western runs due north. Were about fifteen or twenty degrees east of north. Holding his palm vertical, like it was a cutting instrument, Doc sliced out true north, then did the same in the direction they were now headed. At least twenty degrees off, he concluded.

Sorry to inform you of this, you old quack, Mack snorted, but you’re full of shit. Your internal gyroscope is off by that same twenty degrees, maybe even more.

Some twenty feet away, Harvey listened to them argue. He tried to suppress a shiver from emerging, then racing down his spine. He couldn’t. Almost from the start, they had been arguing about direction and trails. Their goal was Purple Lake, located in a remote, roadless and trackless section of the immense Boulder Mountain Wilderness. Now it was three days later and they should have been there yesterday.

Purple Lake was the largest in the cluster of color lakes, which also included the nearby siblings, Blue, Green and Yellow Lakes. According to legend, it was so remote it hardly ever saw a fisherman’s pole or fly, and consequently was teeming with native browns, some up to two feet in length. Just put your fly in the water, Mack had promised, and they will literally fight to get onto your hook. All you have to do is reel ‘em in.

With fear biting at his throat like a respiratory virus, Harvey glanced at them again, then quickly looked away. Were they going mad? Believe it or not, it was a valid question. He suspected they were both a little unbalanced to begin with, then add all the stress of—

Trying to take his mind off being lost, he glanced up at the horizon. The forest and sky created a monotonous green-blue interface for literally three hundred and sixty degrees around the valley. Suddenly, he saw a flash of white. White? What was that? Squinting, Harvey tried to bring it into focus. Maybe, a rider on a white horse. Maybe not. If it was, it would be the first person they’d seen in three days. Was it his imagination or did he seem to be staring directly down at them. Harvey shivered again. He didn’t know why, but lately he seemed to be shivering a lot. Perhaps, he ought to tell Mack. Maybe, they could get some directions from him.

Hey, Mack, Harvey shouted, trying to interrupt the ongoing argument.

Mack grunted, but didn’t look up.

Hey, Mack! Harvey shouted again. There’s something white on that ridge.

Mack looked up. Where?

Harvey pointed, but it was gone.

Probably an elk, Doc suggested, turning back to the map. This time of year their coats are pretty light.

You’re full of shit once again, Mack countered. Maybe down in low country in the sagebrush, but up in the high country they’re a darker buckskin.

Mack, Doc said curtly, this would be a good technique for you to master: don’t speak unless you know what the hell you’re talking about. But then again, you wouldn’t have anything to say. That wouldn’t be all bad.

Last night they had camped at McGath Lake, or Sawmill Lake, depending on whom you believed. To Mack it was McGath, to Doc, Sawmill. Or was it the other way around?

After they had set up camp, Mack had fished till dark, didn’t catch a thing. As Doc cooked the last of their once frozen, now thawed, meat in his aluminum Dutch ovens, he’d advised if they were to have protein again on this trip, someone better start catching fish.

That night was another sleepless one for Harvey, he still hadn’t gotten used to sleeping in the small claustrophobic tent and on rock hard ground, but it was the next morning when he’d nearly lost his life.

They had an egg burrito breakfast, then packed up. As usual Mack had been in a hurry, constantly looking at his watch and barking out orders. He made Harvey nervous. Throwing his personal gear in his saddlebags, Harvey tried not to hold everyone up. But just like the other two mornings, he had held them up. Once again, he’d had to have Doc’s help saddle the roan mare. When he thought he had the cinch pretty tight, he had Doc had checked it. Doc shrugged noncommittally, told Harvey to mount up, then walked away. Putting his left foot in the stirrup, Harvey grabbed hold of the horn and stood up. The second he had full weight in the stirrup, the saddle slipped, rotating completely under Roanie’s belly. Unfortunately, Harvey’s downward momentum also carried him under the horse’s belly just as she started to buck. The slashing steel-shodded hooves, like medieval maces, missed his head by mere inches. Hands on hips, Doc roared in laughter and Mack cussed out loud. Finally able to control his mirth, Doc helped him settle down the frightened horse, straighten the saddle and properly tighten the cinch. They always blow out their chests, Doc belatedly explained, squeezing in one last chuckle. At first there’s no way you’re going to get the cinch too tight. Pull the strap as hard as you can, then always check it again in a few minutes.

That’s when the fighting began in earnest. Mack and Doc argued for thirty minutes on which way to go. Harvey honestly thought they would come to blows. He’d never seen anything like it. But Mack would not budge, so here they were, wherever that was.

Harvey, for one, had already given up on Purple Lake. And he would be just as happy if he never sat on another horse or ever saw that damn, uh darn, lake. Recently, Harvey had sworn off cussing, even if it was just hell or a damn—another stab at repentance. And for the hundredth time he wondered why he had accepted Mack’s invitation to go on this ill-conceived trip and also for another hundredth time he wondered why Mack had invited him.

Even though they were complete opposites, Mack was actually his brother-in-law. They both had married sisters. What a bargain for the Mendoza sisters!

He’d married Angelina while he was still a law student at Brigham Young University and Mack married Rosalie a year later. As it turned out, both he and Mack had graduated the same year, even the same month, he from law school and Mack from the Utah State Police Academy. Of course it wasn’t even remotely the same, even though the Mendoza family acted as though it was. Mack’s schooling had taken only a few weeks, his four grueling years.

Okay, now just shut up and listen to me, damnit, Doc. He could hear Mack braying loudly over at the table rock. If we ride hard up this valley for a couple more hours, we’ll be at Blue Lake by dark. We’ll camp there and make Purple Lake easy by tomorrow.

If we do that, you pig-headed son-of-a-bitch, we’ll be two more hours further out of our way. We need to backtrack to Sawmill Lake right now, look around till we find the Great Western.

You mean McGath don’t you? Mack snapped back. And for your information, this is the Great Western Trail.

After graduation, Mack had taken a position with the St. George Police Department and he with the Salt Lake City law firm of Coffey, Keely and McKenzie. They were a legal defense firm specializing in both criminal and malpractice law.

Over the years, Harvey had proven to be remarkably bad at litigation. He’d lost nearly every case he’d been assigned first chair. Instead of making partner, he was consistently demoted and now he almost never appeared in court. Instead, he functioned more like a law clerk, sequestered away in a legal library doing research and building a case for those who actually did litigate. And as it turned out, he was quite good at that, thankfully. He supposed it was his quick mind, attention to detail and his knack for sensing legal weaknesses and devising possible strategies on paper. He just didn’t think fast on his feet, present well in public or do well under fire. And he supposed he could have done that forever, if it hadn’t been for the other thing. That’s why when Mack called he was able to go. He was presently between jobs, a situation not at all pleasing to Angelina. At least they did have some savings, but unbeknownst to her Harvey had cashed in one of his 401K’s to finance this trip. What a colossal mistake that was!

Mack, on the other hand, had faired no better. After three or four years on the force, he did make Sergeant, just before things began falling apart. Harvey still was not sure if he’d quit or was fired, but Mack no longer worked for St. George P.D. There was rumors Mack liked kids, but then again there was also gossip of an affair with a female suspect. Scuttlebutt had it she was a city employee, accounting department in the Parks and Recreation division, if he remembered right, and was accused of embezzlement. Some say Mack went soft on her, even tried to whitewash things, but Harvey did not know for sure. But Mack’s temper was legendary and it was possible he may have just quit. Certainly he’d quit almost everything else he’d started. Anyway, he and Rosie were still together and Rosalie was not one to put up with philandering.

Since leaving the police department, rumor had it Mack had fallen on hard times, at least financially. Apparently he was in debt to everyone, the bank, the utilities companies, friends, family, gaming institutions and even Las Vegas loan sharks. Allegedly, Mack was a notorious gambler and was in real danger of losing his house. And though she would never admit it, Harvey suspected his Angie was surreptitiously slipping money to Rosie. Then things suddenly turned around. Mack got a job out of town, some say with a private investigation firm, but nobody knew for sure. Anyway Rosie was happy, and he was again bringing home a paycheck.

Goddamn it, Doc, Mack was saying. You may be smart at some things, but you’re sure as hell dumb in others. I’m telling you—

—Ranchers graze along the Great Western, Doc interrupted, vigorously shaking his head. I know cause one of them Griffin boys used to be my patient, and there hasn’t been a cow up here for years. Look at this grass. Doc grabbed a handful of waist-high grass.

Don’t mean shit, Mack countered. Just means they don’t come up this far. They’d lose all their gain, trailing cows this far.

Mack, Harvey knew, had always been an outdoorsman and a bit of a rounder. He lived for hunting, fishing, backpacking, expensive tequila and fine cigars, and only worked, now apparently as a professional sleuth, to support his habits. His church, he often bragged, the real temple of God, was his own handiwork, the great outdoors. But sometimes, Harvey had heard Mack say, I wondered about God and the way he protects his masterpieces.

Harvey on the other hand had always been more cerebral, more spiritual. In his spare time he enjoyed reading, usually non-fiction, often the Book of Mormon. Most fiction, in his opinion, was nothing more than carnal unabashed voyeurism into a forbidden world brimming with sex, violence and drugs. Without question, he considered fiction a waste of time. But he did enjoy a good game of chess, nowadays usually computer chess, as live breathing opponents were becoming harder and harder to find. And he and Angie did belong to a bridge club, which met every Friday evening, but Sundays were always reserved for church. So to say he and Mack socialized outside of Mendoza family functions was grossly inaccurate. They never did. That’s why this invitation for a backpacking fishing trip was so puzzling.

Even more puzzling, when Mack called, why had he jumped at the chance? Deep down, he supposed he’d always wanted to be accepted by Mack, like the schoolboy nerd always secretly wanting to be a part of the jock’s inner circle.

Almost the second he’d hung up the phone, he’d had signed up for riding lessons at a stable in Dameron Valley and hired a fishing guide from Mammoth River Expeditions to teach him the mechanics and nuances of fly fishing. Lastly, he had spent well over a thousand dollars they didn’t have on fly fishing equipment, rubber waders, and outdoor apparel including this ivory felt Stetson, hand-tooled cowboy boots, leather riding britches, western shirts and a khaki fishing vest.

Meanwhile Mack and Doc were dressed in faded torn blue jeans and denim shirts, scuffed boots, and mangled sweat-stained straw cowboy hats. Straw hats are cooler in the summer, Mack said wry grin, while complimenting him on his beautiful Stetson.

For crying out loud, look at the topographical lines, Doc bellowed, look how close they are together. That means this area is one steep one son-of-a-bitch. If we continue on down this trail we’re going to have to lower the horses over a cliff with ropes. He paused for a moment, obviously counting lines. One, two, three, four—over four hundred feet.

Put your glasses back on, Doc, Mack brushed Doc’s hand aside. The trail turns right here, then zigzags. He tapped on the spot three or four times for emphasis. Bet’cha a Cuban there’s a way down—and without ropes.

Harvey had no idea why they wanted a Cuban. Maybe for yard work.

Zigzags, my butt’ Doc’ voice was heated. It comes to the edge right here and stops!

Doc, on the other hand, was even more of an enigma than Mac. It was obvious he was well educated and just as obvious he was comfortable around horses, rednecks and the great outdoors. So far on the trip, Harvey learned Doc grew up on a small ranch in southern Utah and still had a stable of horses. In fact the bay, whatever that meant, and packhorse were his. The roan mare, was that a color or a breed, he was riding and the paint belonged to Mack.

Talk about the original odd couple. Obviously Doc was in a tax bracket several rungs above Mack, and had years more schooling, but regardless they seemed comfortable around each other and got along extremely well. Sure they argued a lot, but it was more like brothers than bitter foes. Regularly, they’d verbally abuse and call each other names, never taking offense. Harvey was envious; he’d never had a friend like that. But today was different. Today they sounded like they really meant it.

There were rumors about Doc as well. Of the three of them, he was the only one still single. Apparently, he had been married, more than once, but it didn’t last. Harvey wasn’t sure why. So far on this trip, Doc had been pretty close-lipped. He didn’t talk much about himself, his medical practice or his past. His favorite subjects were fly fishing, horses and of course women. Harvey was pretty sure right now he was between lovers. Apparently, his last companion had left some months ago. It was obvious Doc had a hard time with commitment. Over the years, apparently there had been a literal revolving door of lovers, but for some reason, they always left him, or was it the other way around? Either way, his relationships didn’t last. Harvey couldn’t help but wonder why?

Nowadays, apparently Doc literally shared his bed with a dog, Malachi, a chocolate lab. He was the final, and maybe most congenial and the least blemished, member of the fishing party. Malachi, it seemed, had nothing to hide and seemed totally unconcerned with their present dilemma. Panting, he plopped down in the shade of a half-grown spruce, his long pink tongue hanging out the left side of his mouth. A big affable brute, Malachi was always in a good mood. Once Doc had remarked with a laugh, that if he’d found Malachi sooner it would have saved him a ton of money in alimony.

Then there were other rumors about Doc’s past. Of this, Harvey knew very little. Doc had shared nothing, but Rosalie had said some things to Angelina. It seems Rosalie was a little bit jealous of Mack and Doc’s close relationship and from time to time complained about it to Angelina. Then when Angie found out they were all going on a horse-backpacking trip together, she filled Harvey in on what details she did know.

As he was packing, Angie informed him Doc had been in serious trouble a few years ago. There were several simultaneous malpractice lawsuits and maybe even a criminal charge of negligent homicide. Furthermore, he apparently had lost his medical license for a time. She had not been sure of the details, but Harvey made a mental note to Google Doc when they got back. Anyway, all of that information should be public record and easily accessible to a veteran researcher like him.

Finally Angie had told him about the breakdown. Or at least that Doc had been, and maybe was still, seeing a psychiatrist. Apparently once a week, he drove all the way to Salt Lake City for psychotherapy. Why Salt Lake City? So it could remain anonymous. So his patients wouldn’t know their doctor was seeing a shrink. For God’s sake be careful, Angelina had warned him as he walked out the front door, Rosalie doesn’t know how stable he is, or Mack either for that matter. Especially under stress! Then she added as a final parting admonition, and you know Mack; he has the common sense of a two-year-old.

Harvey turned back and looked at the two of them. They were still bent over their maps, very animated and very loud. What had he gotten himself into? Two unstable people, one crazy, and the other a classical Peter Pan complex. Involuntarily, he shivered again. Unfortunately, it looks like Angie was turning out to be something of a prophet. She’d warned him they might not be stable under stress and being lost, certainly constituted stress. He’d better be careful, very careful, but what could he do? He was no woodsman, no Moses in the wilderness. There was no way he could lead them back to the Promised Land.

Okay! You persistent prick, Doc shouted, his voice now angry. We’ll do it your way. But you damn well better be right.

Don’t go and get yourself so friggin’ heated up, Mack refolding the map. We’ll be at Blue Lake by dark. Fishing by tomorrow at Purple. You’ll see.

Yeah, well, you’re damn right I’ll see, Doc muttered, taking the reins he was still holding and looping them back over the bay’s back mane and chestnut brown neck. We’ll all see. Then I’ll lead you back to the real Great Western Trail.

Mount up, Mack commanded, looking ever bit like Napoleon as he untied his two horses from the slender quakie. We’re burning daylight.

Harvey looked around for his roan mare; she was nowhere in sight. He swallowed hard, then quickly looked around again. Nothing.

Doc turned away and was already mounting up.

M-a-c-k! Harvey cried out.

My God, Harvey! Mack cussed from somewhere behind him. Where’s your damn horse?

2

MACK

Jesus, Harvey, Doc shook his head.

I thought I told you to always tie her tight, Mack fumed, that she has a real habit of running off.

I—I forgot, Harvey blubbered, then started stumbling down the trail. I—I’ll go find her.

No! You damn well stay put, Mack ordered. God, how he hated whining, especially in grown men. That’s all we’d need is two lost critters running around.

Which way do you think she went? Doc turned the bay around and nudged him back over to Mack.

Horses on the loose always backtrack, Mack replied, pointing down the trail they’d just come up. She’s down that-a-way somewhere. I just hope she ain’t moving too fast.

Nah, Doc said, shaking his head, not in this heat. She’ll head for shade, the cool of the forest. Munch on some grass.

Doc, you never cease to amaze me, Mack planted his left foot in the stirrup and swung easily into the saddle, how damn little you know about horses. Come on, we’ve got to move fast, if we’re going to catch her. Otherwise, we’ll be chasing her all the way back to McGath.

Sawmill Lake, Doc corrected, and she won’t go that far.

You want to bet? Mack said. Goddamn, sometimes Doc was hardheaded to the point of unreasonableness. Put your money where your mouth is.

You take two horses helter-skelter back over that trail and you’re going to destroy her sign, Doc argued, his jaw set. Be much better if we take our time and track her.

How are you going to track her? Harvey blurted. With all the other tracks we made.

Now why don’t you think about what you just said, Mack said sarcastically. I ain’t even goin’ to dignify that with an answer.

Harvey bit his lip and looked like he might cry. Mack looked away and also bit his tongue so he wouldn’t say any more. When Harvey looked like that it made him want to smack him.

Well, Doc explained, taking pity on Harvey, it’s like this. The roan’s a mare. Her feet are smaller than the other horses. They’re geldings. Also, she has a hitch in her gait from a tendon injury she got years ago when she tangled with some barbwire, so always drags her left rear a bit and it always makes a slightly askew print. And lastly, hers should be the only horseshoe prints headed opposite all the others, due south down the valley.

Oh. Harvey said sheepishly.

I thought you said she wouldn’t backtrack, Mack growled.

Nah, I said she wouldn’t move fast, Doc countered. Not in this heat.

Well, if you’re goin’ to track, you’d better do it damn fast, Mack nodded to the southeast. Looks like them clouds is bringin’ rain.

Doc looked surprised. Huge gray/black cumulus clouds had suddenly appeared on the far south horizon. Well, I’d say they’re still a couple of hours off.

Take my word for it, it’ll be raining within the hour, Mack declared, jaw thrust forward. He knew this time of year storms usually boiled up from the southeast and the Gulf of Mexico, the so-called Rocky Mountain monsoons. Other than this time of year, in the mid to late summer, storms always came from the west off the Pacific Ocean. That’s another bet I’ll take.

Then we best get going, Doc countered. Either way it’s going to rain. It’s just a matter of when.

Okay, Mack agreed, maybe for the first time all day. You track and I’ll lope on down the valley. I’ll try to stay off your damn trail so as not to ruin your precious tracks and then by God, we’ll see who’s right.

I really don’t care what you do. Doc shrugged indifferently. Just don’t mess up my tracks.

Calling to Malachi, Doc leaned low in the saddle, searching for hoof prints. After circling for a minute or two, he apparently found what he was looking for and nudged the bay forward in a southerly direction.

Here, Mack snorted, handing the packhorse’s lead rope to Harvey. You watch ole Diesel here and don’t go nowhere.

He spurred the paint into a lope and headed back down the valley. Staying away from the trail, he rode up close to the tree line, dodging through hip-high sagebrush.

Riding fast in open range was not as easy as it looked, but the paint did an admirable job of cutting, jumping or simply crashing through the brush. He would have made one-hell-of a cutting horse, Mack thought, as he stood up in the stirrups, balancing his weight and using his slightly flexed knees as shock absorbers. No question about it, the paint was bred to work cattle, though he wasn’t half bad as a trail horse either.

Mack had never had another horse quite like him. He was a fine animal, very pretty and very athletic. Standing fifteen hands high, his coloring was a beautiful brown and white patchwork. He had broad chest, which contrasted perfectly with his fine facial features and narrow forehead, and sported the sleek torso of a thoroughbred and the rump of a barrel racer. There was not a command he wouldn’t do his best to execute, even if it was sliding down a seventy percent grade talus slope or swimming a lake. And talk about papered; he was the great grandson of the immortal General Pepe!

When he’d first bought the little colt, just a two year old, he had christened him Colonel Lee. Doc had scoffed at him, breed in the color, breed out the brains. But now even Doc would have to agree, he’d turned into quite a horse. Certainly a hell-uv-a-lot more horseflesh than that plodding bay Doc rode.

Though Mack would never openly admit it, he loved that horse almost more than anyone or anything, even his wife or Doc. And that was saying something; he and Doc went way back.

They’d first met some ten years ago. Mack’s PSA was high normal at 3.5, but Doc had maintained even that was not normal for a man his age and insisted on a biopsy. Mack had fought it, because right on the lab slip it said the normal range was from 0-4.0. So 3.5 was normal in his book. No point in biopsing something that was normal. That was the first argument he’d ever had with Doc and they’d been arguing ever since. But somehow Doc, with Rosalie’s help, had prevailed and he’d grudgingly submitted to the humiliating biopsy. Talk about having a red hot poker shoved up your butt. And Doc just grinned and said, if you enjoyed that we could set up a standing appointment. Do it once a week. The son-of-a-bitch!

Anyway, it was a good thing he did, because it was cancer. Doc said he was the youngest man he’d ever seen with prostate cancer, age 41, and recommended a radical prostatectomy. Again, he’d fought against it, the risk of incontinence and impotence being almost more than he could bear to think about. He could just picture riding Colonel Lee, sloshing up and down in the saddle with a wet diaper. And the limp dick thing; he’d rather die. But again Doc and Rosalie had prevailed and now here he was almost ten years later, and no sign of cancer. And further more, no diapers and no limp dick. He owed his life to Doc; he’d done one hell-of-a job.

Sure, he’d heard all the rumors about Doc, the malpractice suits and the womanizing. He didn’t know all the particulars, but he was sure they were all blown way out of proportion. Apparently some, or maybe all, of the malpractice suits were not his fault and were dismissed. Something about two or three patients hemorrhaging to death, but apparently they’d been taking some herbal treatment and had not told Doc. The negligent homicide charge was for operating impaired, inebriated, but that also was dropped. Either Doc had one hell of a lawyer or they’d all been what in the law enforcement business are called Velcro suits. Sue everybody for