The Horsemen Come

By R.D. Runnels

The mountain is a place for adventure, excitement, and beauty. It is a place where campers, hunters, and hikers alike would congregate to behold the grandness. But now, the trees and grass were being painted bloodred.

The Lincoln National Forest was being terrorized in unlikely places by an even more unlikely source. Rankin realizes that to stop the bloodshed, he would need to do it himself with very little outside help. With rifles in scabbards and sidearms on hips, the tandem mount their best horses and set out to correct what the government was failing on, fully knowing that death and mayhem awaited.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984548719

R.D. Runnels

R.D. Runnels is an avid outdoorsman, spending the majority of his life in the very mountains he writes about. He currently resides with his wife in Hobbs, New Mexico.

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Copyright © 2018 by R.D. Runnels.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/21/2018

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

For Marty, you make everything possible.

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

Chapter 1

He was well hidden in a makeshift blind built out of logs and limbs, and the wallow was only fifty feet in front to the west. The camouflage clothing and face paint blended well into the surroundings. If the bull elk came back this evening, it should make for an easy shot. I was hoping to be doing some serious packing of meat and antlers the next morning.

Kenny, I’ll see you after dark, I whispered. Remember, don’t walk out until it’s too dark to see. Don’t turn your flashlight on until you get down the canyon a ways and around the bend. I’ll have your vehicle waiting for you at the barricade, keys behind the tire. It was all stuff that I had gone over with him before, but I found it best to try to reiterate whenever I could when dealing with a paying hunter as they tended to stay in a constant state of excitement and relied too often on forgetting the simple things as well as what they had been told.

He nodded and looked back toward the spring where the bull elk would hopefully get a drink and roll around in the mud if he didn’t see or smell the hunter waiting in ambush. It was hard to do, but archery hunting didn’t afford many other opportunities in that the season was always too early. After decades, the game department still hadn’t figured out what everyone else knew. The bulls wouldn’t go into full rut for at least a few more weeks, and the big ones were next to impossible to call up before then which made archery hunting even more difficult.

I grabbed my rifle, Betsy, which I had had since I was a small child and started walking down the ravine toward the main canyon. Betsy was a Model 70, pre-1964 Winchester .30-06 that was given to my dad when he was a child and then given to me when I was old enough to start hunting on my own at the ripe old age of nine. Her barrel had been trimmed down with a pipe cutter to better fit in a gun scabbard, and a hacksaw had shortened her stock so that the shorter arms of a child could get the proper eye release on the scope. A horse had fallen with me many years ago on a patch of ice and had cracked the stock near the butt. But a fresh wrapping of electrical tape held that part of her together. Duct tape would have worked better, but the silver was too shiny and conspicuous.

I made a point of putting new tape on the stock every year as Betsy had never let me down, and it was my way of dressing her up for the big dance. She certainly wasn’t the prettiest with her black tape on the gouged, scarred and scratched stock, and patina-riddled barrel, but she would turn a head or two, and she almost never missed. If she did, it was most certainly operator error.

I headed down Rooster Fish Canyon, a place the government didn’t have a name for it but my grandfather did. He said the old miner who panned for gold and silver in the canyon was an old cocksucker. Thus, the name.

The downed logs and steep walls of the draw made the going precarious. The slick soles of my boots were slipping on the loose rocks, and the jingle of the spurs pierced the otherwise silence and made a unique and inappropriate sound for the area. The blue sky overhead was riddled with small opaque clouds that held no real moisture. The sun had already passed over the ridge to the west but still had a few hours to go before calling it a night and leaving the Lincoln National Forest in south central New Mexico blanketed in darkness.

Once around the bend in the canyon and several hundred yards below where I had left my archery hunter, the horses were waiting. I put my rifle in the scabbard and stepped up, way up and on Big Willie, my half-Belgian that weighed close to 1,500 pounds and grabbed the lead for Pete, my best hunting horse, who was tied to the nearby tree. In just a few minutes, we were on the government- closed road—one of the few things the government got right—in Bear Canyon and travelling in a long trot down the rocky and rutted two-track path that went along the bottom next to the creek that ran all year round.

The canyon was wide, and the grass was green in the meadows. The aspens were starting to show a hint of change as the green leaves were starting to fade into soothing yellow before completing the journey and finishing in a fiery red later to come. Winter would be upon us in no time, and with it came the snow. It was always nice to have moisture, but snow brought cold or vice-versa. Either way, they always seemed to be conjoined companions.

I came out at the barricade that prevented motorized vehicle travel from entering the wilderness area of the forest a short time later. My pickup with my four-horse gooseneck trailer was parked on the side of the road. There were a couple of other vehicles, most likely hunters, parked on both sides of the road as well. I continued trotting on past them and toward the cabin, which was just a little over two miles away. There was some road traffic, and the dust was hanging thick in the bottom of the canyon without any breeze to carry it away. The creek in the bottom of Bonito Canyon was running well after all the monsoon rains, and Willie crossed it easily, splashing water on my chaps as we got on the road down the main canyon of Bonito.

Coming up the road in his issued Forest Service off- lime green truck was Will Trucker. He was a kindly gent who had worked for the Forest circus for over forty years, and one of the very few Forest Service employees who I actually liked and very much respected. He still understood what Teddy Roosevelt meant by stating, The greatest good for the greatest amount of people. Recognizing me, he pulled up close and stopped, and I rode over to where he was rolling down his window.

Well, hello, Mr. Trucker. What brings you out this way?

Howdy, Rank. Just doing some looking around and making sure the campers and hunters aren’t going to set the woods on fire.

Yep, happens every now and then, but we’ve had some moisture this year. Not much danger I don’t figure. Probably having a dickens-of-a-time just trying to build a campfire since all the wood is pretty wet.

He said, I know, but it gives me an excuse to get out of the office and mingle a bit. Got any bow hunters this year?

I got one. Pretty good fellow, dropped him off in an ambushing spot in Elk Waller Haller.

Elk Waller Haller? I don’t know where that’s at. Up in Turkey?

Mr. Trucker didn’t know that it was just a name I used to describe a place that I didn’t want anyone to know where. Something like that, I responded.

He nodded like he thought he knew exactly where I was talking about—up in Turkey—and said, Did you hear about the hunter from El Paso shot with a rifle day before yesterday over by the cabin in the head of Spring?

With a rifle? I hadn’t heard. Kill him?

Yeah, some backpackers walked up and saw him, still alive though, shot in the belly. They got cell service from the top and called 9-1-1. They sent up the medevac. Had to chopper him out.

Damn, I heard the chopper buzzing around but figured it was just the damn game department trying to spook some elk since it was hunting season. Did the feller know who shot him?

He shook his head. Nope, just said he was hunting and got hit by a bullet. Doesn’t remember the sound of a shot or anything. The backpackers were not far away when they heard the shot and said they immediately headed that direction because they thought it weird to hear a gunshot since there wasn’t supposed to be any rifle hunts going on.

Well, there is always bear with a rifle, but that sure do seem awfully strange to get shot there. Was he hunting alone?

That’s what he said. At least that is what I heard.

I nodded and started turning Willie back down the road. Mr. Trucker had told me about everything, and about everything was more than I really cared to hear. Well, all righty, I reckon I better get to feeding horses and such. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for fire starters and gut shooters. Good talking to you, Mr. Trucker.

Good to see you, Rank. And he put his truck in gear and continued on his way up the canyon.

I rode off down Bonito Canyon with the full creek making its gurgling noise as it paralleled the road. At the mouth of the next canyon to the north, I turned onto the road that went up Tanbark and was back at the cabin in short order. Willie had not even broken a sweat.

The cabin sat at the mouth of Skull Canyon where it intersected with Tanbark. My younger brother, Bum, had built it out of logs that he had sawn himself. It was a simple square shape with a porch that ran the full length in the front. The railing was made out of oilfield tubing and served quite well for a hitching post. I had four individual horse pens that I had welded up in the back that had cover over part and a wind break from the cold northern wind. I had built a small barn with metal skin that was just large enough so I could back in to unload hay from my pickup. The barn served as a saddle shed as well along with being a respite for the many welfare cats that had now claimed it as home. I really didn’t mind their presence as they tended to keep the rodent population at a minimum as long as I didn’t feed them much. As with a lot of other things, I knew that if I gave them too much for free, they would quit doing what I allowed them to stay around just to do. Another thing the government could learn.

As I rode up to the back fence to unsaddle horses, Missy, my wooly Airedale ran up to meet me. I always took her with me to the cabin. She would stay outside and laze on the porch and basically keep guard while I was gone hunting deer or elk. But lion and bear, she was right behind me or way out in front. But this was elk, and she had enjoyed a nice warm day on the porch with not a care in the world. Truly a dog’s life.

After petting Missy for a very brief moment, I started to unsaddle and really didn’t think much else about the hunter getting shot. Accidents happen, and sometimes the wise hunter used it as an excuse to accidentally shoot his new son-in-law or brother-in-law mistaking him for a turkey or a bull elk. But this shooter didn’t kill him and only fired one shot, so it wasn’t like he was really trying. Maybe it really was an accident. Maybe not. Either way, I really didn’t give a damn. It wasn’t me or anyone I knew.

I stepped off Willie and opened the pipe gate to lead the horses through and tie them to some D-rings that I had nailed to the side of the barn. The horses eagerly pushed me through as they knew what was coming; it was their feeding time. There was some beer in the cooler in the back of the shady side of the cabin, and after tying the horses, I walked back over and got one to take with me while I unsaddled and fed horses. Cody, my young mustang, and Cactus, my good roping horse that I kept in reserve for hunting season, were penned in separate stalls and anxiously awaited for the feeding part with bright eyes and perked ears, their favorite time of the day as well.

I unsaddled and penned the other two, and when I was done giving them a good chip of hay and a can of grain, I got another beer and jumped in Kenny’s rented Ford Explorer. The keys weren’t in it, and I was afraid that he still had them with him. After rummaging around inside the cabin for a bit, I found them on the kitchen table and went back and got in the SUV. Missy followed me until I got in the vehicle. Realizing that she wasn’t going to get to go, she went up on the porch and gave me a not-to-happy look about seeing me leave again after only being back for a just a few minutes.

I drove back down the canyon and up to my rig by the barricade. I left Kenny’s vehicle parked on the grass off the rutted road and put the keys behind the driver’s side rear tire. My keys were behind the cab, and I fished around until I found them, unlocked the door, and got in. As I was turning the truck around, I was humming the song Give me 40 Acres. It seemed appropriate at the time, considering my trailer was close to thirty feet long.

Missy looked happy and wagged her stubbed tail as she ran up to meet me when I pulled up even though I hadn’t been gone for more than twenty minutes. She greeted me at the driver’s side door as I stepped out as if I had been away on sabbatical for years, and I gave her the obligatory pet on the top of the head. We both went in the cabin through the screen door that had the traditional clack sound when it closed, and I built a fire in the large fireplace that sat in the very middle of the open living space. It was square shaped with a rock hearth that went up about eighteen inches. The fireplace was open on all sides with a square shroud that came from the chimney. There was a wire screen all the way around with doors for adding wood or removing ash on opposite ends. It was a very primitive design of over 1,000 years or more, but its effectiveness could not be denied as it easily heated the entire cabin in rapid fashion.

It wasn’t cold, and the fire wasn’t necessary. It was more habit than anything. A fire in July was still something I would butt up against. October was almost upon us, and building a fire would soon not be an option but a necessity for someone who wanted to be warm.

I got out some elk steaks from the little propane fridge that sat in the far corner of the cabin and kitchen. The freezer in the top of it was in serious need of defrosting, and I put it on my probably will never do list. The steaks broke apart easily from each other, and I had them seasoned lightly with salt and heavy with black pepper and some chile powder and resting on the counter against the wall in short order. The potatoes were peeled and under- water to keep them from turning brown. Once Kenny got back from hunting, I would cook dinner, but I was bored and had nothing to do for the several hours until then.

The generator was running, and a college football game was on the forty-two-inch flat-screen I had brought from the house years ago and had never taken back. I never watched TV in the living room back at the house, so it was kind of pointless to have it there. At the cabin, the TV was hanging on the wall with bailing wire behind the fireplace opposite the kitchen and between the doors to the two bed- rooms that were only used when I had paying hunters. The satellite signal was strong, and the picture was very clear. I sat down to enjoy the game and, even better, enjoy my beer, which tended to be a pretty easy thing to do most of the time. And it was something that I was really good at doing. There weren’t too many things better than coming in, getting all the chores done and just lying back, relaxing with a quality cold beer and, sometimes, just any beer.

Chapter 2

The game had ended, and I had nodded off when I heard Missy stir and out came a deep rumble from inside of her. There were headlights outside, and Kenny pulled up to the cabin two hours after dark. Missy met him at the door as he walked in without knocking, and he had a broad grin going. His face paint was smeared from sweat, and he appeared to be excited under it.

I was sitting on the couch by the fireplace where I could see the TV and had my feet propped up on the hearth. I pretended to not have fallen asleep and said, What’d you see?

He walked up to me and was very animated when he said, A big bull came in off the hill just like you said he would. He was in the back following a bunch of cows. They just trotted on by and kept going, but then he stopped at the seep right in front of me and started rolling and playing in the mud. I was trying to get a shot, but he wouldn’t stop rolling.

I just nodded and let him continue telling me about a bull doing what bulls do, especially this time of year. Finally, I said, Well, what’d you do?

Uh, well, nothing. When he stopped playing in the mud, he just trotted off behind the cows.

You didn’t shoot?

He never stopped where I could. He just jumped up and took off in a trot to catch up to the cows.

Did you at least whistle at him as he was leaving? I said.

Uh, no. Why would I do that? Wouldn’t that let him know that I was there?

I shrugged and said, Yes, and no. He didn’t know you were there, else he wouldn’t have been. But if you would’ve whistled, he would have known something was there, and he would’ve stopped to take a gander at what it might be that made that peculiar noise, most likely turning broadside. It would have given you a few seconds to lose your harpoon.

He said, I didn’t think of that.

I smiled. Most don’t. It gets kind of exciting, and folks tend to forget simple things. But you do the same thing rabbit hunting, don’t you? To make them stop running?

He nodded.

I said, Reckon hunting hares ain’t quite as exciting unless you’re Elmer Fudd.

He went into the kitchen and got a soda out of the fridge and said, I also heard a gunshot too. It was up the canyon from me but sounded pretty close. It was probably about an hour before the elk crossed in front of me.

This was odd because few people hunted elk where I did. The ones who got close tended to stay in the bottom of Bear and rarely climbed up the canyon walls or hunted the smaller canyons that fed into the main canyon. The terrain was too rough for most unless you knew how to get around the rock slides and the downfall of timber, even on foot. Besides that, the only thing legal to hunt with a rifle this time of the year was bear. Ironically, there usually weren’t many bear in the canyon even though the name was Big Bear Canyon. When Canyon Naming Day came about, someone must have stumbled up on one. Blind stupid luck, it happens.

Well, how many shots did you hear?

Just the one. It sounded like it was up close to the top, but it was hard to tell with just the one shot.

I got up and started cooking the steaks and boiling the potatoes. We ate and watched some football until I started getting tired again. Kenny was still bright-eyed and bushy- tailed from his encounter with the bull but got ready for