Watching from the cave, Easton felt a surge of triumph as the sound of the engine ebbed and died: the bird was on the ground. Touching Ironheel’s arm as a signal, he led the way out of the cave, running flat out up a faint trail that led through close-set trees toward the north face of Chimney Rock. Daybreak was already lightening the sky and birds were rehearsing the first notes of the dawn chorus. They scrambled along a ledge that sloped upward to a rocky plateau littered with broken boulders and jumbled piles of stone, heading from there in an imperfect half-circle around the northern shoulder of the huge granite spire. They had covered maybe half a mile when they heard the sudden racket of gunfire, shockingly loud in the empty morning. Birds rose chattering in panic from the trees as the explosions echoed off the face of the rocks. “Kuruk,” Ironheel said. No comment was necessary. The Mescalero had taken the bait. It wouldn’t be long before he realized he had been duped. Once he knew they had not come downhill, he would come looking for them.
