“Yup, just say something before you pass out from heat stroke,” he said.
I looked at the ground where the footprints had faded into nothingness. Boy, this was a puzzle. This would be slow going. Not many hints to start out with either. A man with big feet, work boot tread. That’s it.
It’s bad news when I have to get down in the dirt on my belly right from the start but that’s what I had to do. Studying the ground from a low side view revealed a slight indentation and I traced beside it with my finger. The slight curve was the only visible part of the track. Tracking someone with knowledge of how to hide a trail is rare in tracking. Most people never consider their tracks when they walk. I wasn’t used to someone planning ahead.
Now that I could see the line, I could barely make out the track and it pointed just a few degrees west of north. The next track was discernible now that I found the first one. I was hoping he’d tire of this type of walking because I was going to get tired of this type of tracking. I measured from the heel of the first footprint to the heel of the second one. This would give me an idea of the man’s stride. I followed the direction the footprints pointed and found the next step and the next, sometimes having to do the side view thing and sometimes finding faint scuffs where rocks had turned in his passing. After an hour we could still see the van and the day was heating up.
“Cass, are you sure you want to follow this to the end? It’s okay to back out.”
“I’m not quitting unless we have to. If the sun gets to be too much for us or we run out of water we will have to quit. Other than that I am good to go.
I’m hoping he gets tired of hiding his tracks. I think after he decides he’s gotten a safe distance from the van he will quit trying to hide his trail. He is either testing us or hiding, but eventually I expect him to relax and his tracks will become more readable. All we have to do is stay on this faint trail till he changes modes.”
It was hot. It was arduous, but we picked along examining the ground minutely until I finally noticed his attention to detail was slipping. I took a break sitting in the little bit of shade offered by a scraggly mesquite tree and drank some water. I also brought out my ever present Ziploc bag of trail mix. I dusted off my blistered hands, offered some to Rusty and we both dug in.
When we hit the trail again it was much easier. I could see faint tracks now and the man we followed was walking normally, just being careful. The ground was still hard but there were clues. I started a mental profile of the guy. He had survival training. He’d spent a lot of time in the desert. He was shorter than Rusty, taller than me. I could get a better feel for his size if I could find some tracks with good impressions to them. I was also hoping for enough tracks so I could get a feel for the way the guy walked. That would tell me a lot about his stature and his attitude. That break didn’t come, though, until we tracked him to a hill. As we came down the other side there was a shack standing in the middle of nowhere. As the suspect came into view of the shack his pace had quickened. As he closed in on the structure with determination I was able to read more from the tracks and form a mental picture of his gait.
Finding the shack was good news. A road led up to the shack and the tread from a vehicle was clearly visible in the deep dust. It was a larger vehicle with oversized tires. We examined the shack first because the suspect had made a point of leading us here. It was made of rock with a simple wooden roof added. No ceiling. No glass in the single window. No door. Just rock walls and a dilapidated roof. The shack had phrases spray painted all over it. One said, the hills have eyes. Another said, you won’t catch me. Rusty quickly checked inside the shack, his gun in hand. Then, when we knew there was no one lurking, he started casting around, picking up evidence with a gloved hand and photographing the painted walls.
I walked around avoiding the tracks, trying to get a feel for the way this guy was thinking. I wandered into the shack and an angry, whirring rattle instantly caught my attention! It was dark inside and I couldn’t see a thing! Where was the damn snake? I started for the door but it was too late. I couldn’t get past and this was one angry rattler. I kept my eyes focused on the dark floor, willing my eyes to adjust to the dim light.
“Rusty!” I yelled. No response. “Rusty! I’ve got a Level Six Situation in here!” The snake lunged. “Level Eight!” I shrieked. I heard footsteps. “Don’t come in! Don’t come in! Just shoot the damn snake!” The snake lunged at my leg and I leaped to the side, my heart pounding. The snake had me cornered. Its head bobbed and weaved while its tail kept up the incessant warning rattle. I was heeding the warning but it would be easier to back off if I had some place to go.
“I can’t shoot it! You’re standing behind it! Even if I hit it I’ll hit you too.”
Okay, Cass, think, think. I looked around. What could I use to get out of the way? The snake lunged again but I jumped aside. I looked up into the rafters of the shack. I believed they were low enough to jump up and grab them.
I told Rusty the plan. “I’m going to jump and grab the rafters and haul myself up there and while I am up there you shoot the snake.”
He looked at me like I was nuts. Would the shack hold up? Would the aged wood hold me? Hell, I didn’t know but it was all I could think of.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” he said grimly removing his sidearm from its holster. He aimed his gun at the snake’s head. The tip of the weapon moved as he tried to follow the snake’s head. It was a very small target in very poor lighting.
I leaped up, grabbed the rafter then hauled for all I was worth. My feet rose up. The snake lunged and its fang hooked on the seam of my moccasin. I pulled the rattler up into the rafters with me. Shit! Now what? I shook my foot and the snake just dangled. I shook it harder, no luck. I took a moment to think, the snake thrashing around, dangling from my foot.
“Okay,” I said nervously, “Clear out. I need a clean shot at the door.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You don’t want to know, just give me a clear path. Any more snakes down there?”
“Nope.” Rusty said, looking around. He backed up.
I brought my foot carefully to my hand. Rusty’s eyes got big.
“Cass, no, don’t do this,” he said nervously. I grasped the rattler firmly, directly behind the head so it couldn’t reach me with its fangs. I pulled up and felt a snap as the fang jerked loose. I dropped from the rafters and dashed out of the shack dragging the hapless serpent with me. Rusty stared at me, astonishment clearly written on his face.
“Now I’m scared to let it go!”
I couldn’t just set it down. The rattler was mad and was thrashing all around. It was all I could do to keep a firm hold on it. I tightened my grip behind its head. If I just let go, it would attack me instantly. I needed more leverage than my arms offered to throw the dumb thing. I started spinning around and around, building up enough momentum to launch the snake away from me. I made sure my release point was well away from Rusty then released it, watching the snake sail up and away into the desert. It landed with a whump in the dirt. Backing away from the area, I sat down in the dirt, in shock, waiting for my heart rate to slow down. I studied my hands, examining them for any tiny scratches I might have received when throwing the snake. Rusty came over and took my hands, turning them palm upward. I didn’t see any scratches, but he saw the blisters.
“How’d you mess up your hands like this?” he asked.
