Walt Longmire 07 - Hell Is Empty by Craig Johnson Page B

like a beacon for bullets.
    I shrugged the strap of the pack farther up on my shoulder and launched across.
    My back flattened against the logs of the next cabin about halfway down the row, and I looked back at Hector. He was still panting and held up a finger. After a moment, he threw himself into the opening, slipped in the snow, and fell to his knees, finally scrambling across on all fours.
    I grabbed him by his collar and stood him up beside me. “I think after that epic display of catlike grace, we can safely say that they’re not keeping too close a watch on us.”
    “Fuck you, man.” He trapped his struggling mustache in his lower lip. “That shit’s slippery.”
    “Stay here until I motion for you.”
    He nodded. “I’m good with that.”
    I continued around the cabin and peered past the corner—it was a straight shot of about thirty yards to the side of the main lodge, but with the oblique angle of the lodge windows, I had a reasonable chance of taking them by surprise. There was a large lean-to shed behind the building with a set of steps that probably led to the kitchen. I was thinking that that might be just the opening I needed.
    The wind continued to pick up, and I imagined it was blowing at a thirty-mile-an-hour clip. The snow on the roadway between us and the lodge was a little over ankle deep, but after watching Hector’s Ice Capades, I wasn’t so sure we could make it before being discovered.
    I leaned back against the logs and waved for him.
    “Hey, Sheriff, are there more of you true blues coming?”
    “Lots of them.”
    “Are they bringing food and stuff?”
    I glanced at him. “What, are you hungry again?”
    “Yeah, an’ that bitch only brought that freeze-dried shit.”
    “Beatrice brought supplies?”
    “Uh huh, food packs—even snowshoes.”
    Well, double-hell. Why would she go to the trouble of bringing freeze-dried food? Packs and snowshoes? Where were they going that they needed these kinds of provisions? All things considered, the sooner they were stopped the better.
    I turned to look at Hector. “We’re going to hustle across to the lodge, and my advice to you is to keep up. If they even think they see people moving around out here, they’re just the type to shoot first and identify the bodies later. Got me?”
    He didn’t look enthused with the elegant simplicity of my plan. “Yeah.”
    “Ready? ”
    He shook his head. “No.”
    “All right then, let’s go.”
    I rushed forward, the wet snow sticking to my right side like plaster of Paris. All of a sudden the whiteout was so thick you could’ve cut sheep out of the air with a sharp knife. I stumbled once and could hear Hector’s breath at my back.
    The drifts got deep toward the lodge where the snow had whistled against the building and had settled in a steep upgrade that wasn’t there anymore. I stopped at the base of the steps and clung to the railing, the air in my lungs feeling like battery acid.
    Hector stumbled onto the first step. “Hey, we’re not going to stay out here, are we?”
    I swallowed and grabbed my breath by the tail ends. “No.”
    I listened—something didn’t sound right. The noise was coming from my right, and I’d just about made up my mind that it was just the wind striking the corner of the building when the keening increased its pitch.
    I grabbed Hector as the padlocked barn door of the shed blew apart, with the majority of the nearest twelve-foot door tumbling on top of us. The metal bars of the railings, which were set in the concrete steps, held the weight of the thing above us, but it shifted when something very big rolled over the wooden planks, first raising them and then slapping them down on us again. The wood splintered this time, but the railings held, and Hector and I crawled toward the building, toward the only opening afforded us.
    I was the first to get clear of the shattered remains of the shed and slid up at the corner of the lodge in time to see the big, weathered