Ranger (The Bugging Out Series Book 5) Read Free Page B

buck.
    But that world no longer existed, and seeing the man, the stranger, in proximity to me did not give me the relief it might. I didn’t jump up and call out to him in hopes that he would help me. That very natural instinct was suppressed by the reality of my situation, what I knew about it, and, more importantly, what I did not know.
    So I stayed low, hidden by the stacked logs, watching the unexpected visitor. Appraising him. Beyond the weapon he carried, and a pistol he wore on his hip, a somewhat large backpack was cinched tight to his frame. His head was topped by a simple cowboy hat, its brim and crown softened by time and the elements. It was a Cattleman style, I knew, my life in Montana ingraining in me that bit of seemingly useless knowledge. Not a Gambler, a Gus, or a Tom Mix. A Cattleman. Rain ran down its brim and spilled near the dead man’s severed head as the stranger turned his attention from the cabin and looked to the mangled body lying on the ground beneath the noose.
    Who are you?
    I wondered silently about the man. Could he have been one of those who’d taken me? And left me out in the elements to fend for myself? Possibly. But...
    But why let me go and then track me? Because tracking was precisely what this man was doing. I knew this as he crouched near the body and studied the muddy earth near it, reaching with a free hand to trace indentations in the saturated soil. It was unlikely, I believed, that he would note any indication of my passage through the area. The weather was almost immediately erasing any hint of footprints in the soaked earth.
    Still, that he was looking at all meant that he wasn’t just wandering aimlessly. And I feared that one of my first estimations of the stranger, incongruous as it was in this new world, might be more correct than I’d allowed.
    He very well could be hunting. And the only prey that remained walked on two feet. Like me.
    I didn’t move a muscle as the man stood and let his gaze play over the meadow that lay between us. He didn’t seem to focus on any one spot, the woodpile holding his attention just for a few seconds before he looked to the grey woods that surrounded the clearing. Then, without word or fanfare, he turned and made his way past the cabin, heading back up the trail that had brought him, and me, to this place.
    For several minutes I waited. Not moving. My own gaze playing over the woods beyond the meadow, scanning for any movement. If the man had suspected a presence near the cabin it would be logical for him to approach through the forested land surrounding it and take up a position to surveil the area unseen.
    But I saw no movement. Heard no sloppy footsteps through the mud. When I was certain I was alone, I stayed put. Watching more. Listening more intently. Even as the soaking cold bit deeper into my body. Through skin and flesh down to bone.
    Finally, I had to move. Had to make an attempt to get out of the weather. As quietly as I could, I rose, the chainsaw and knife in my hands, and walked across the meadow toward the cabin. With every step I expected to hear a voice order me to stop. Or, worse, a rifle safety clicking off. If I was to be shot, I’d never hear the bullet fired. I’d be dead before the crack of the shot reached me.
    There was no voice that called out. And no shot. I reached the cabin and moved into the meager shelter it provided.
    Drenched without rain washing over me, the chill hardened upon my body. I had to work quickly, but with my coordination dulled by the creeping effects of hypothermia, every action was doubly difficult. I placed the chainsaw on the dry stone edge of the hearth and began working the knife along a length of its magnesium frame, working back and forth with the dull blade, a pile of shiny shavings building beneath it. Slowly. My fingers began to ache and then tingle, feeling leaving them. I pressed on, ignoring the sensations and focusing on what I was thinking about. On who I was thinking