Stoval picked up a man in Bariloche who looked dressed to be out in the raw weather, and now they were north of town in open country running out a dirt road muddy from spring runoff. Marquez waited five minutes before following. The rental car bounced in the potholes. His wheels spun in mud. From a wooden sign Marquez knew the road led to trailhead parking, but he didn’t follow them all the way in. He watched the odometer and when he guessed he was a third to a half mile from the trailhead he pulled over. Brush scraped the passenger side as he parked. He gathered his gear and walked the last stretch quietly through the trees.
Stoval and the other man stood outside the Range Rover looking like they were getting ready to hike into the mountains. Marquez focused binoculars on Stoval and saw the hollowing of the cheeks and deep creasing at the corners of the eyes, but in many ways he looked the same. He looked fit and lifted a soft gun case out of the back of the Range Rover, and then unzipped a silver-plated bird gun and dropped shells into the big pocket of his coat.
The other man didn’t carry a gun. He slipped a pack on, looked like a local and moved like a guide, a gold-skinned, dark-haired man smiling in anticipation. He wore a red bandana and sunglasses and led Stoval into the cold raw morning and chill in the trees.
After they hiked out, Marquez went back for his car. He drove into the trailhead lot and parked it where it couldn’t be missed, then radioed Verandas.
‘They hiked in and Stoval is carrying a shotgun. I don’t know what he’s going after this time of year, but I’m going to follow.’
He pulled on another layer and a windbreaker and ski cap, but once he set out to catch them he warmed up fast. He figured they had twenty-five minutes on him and that it wouldn’t take him long to catch up. He doubted they were more than three quarters of a mile ahead of him, and when that turned out to be true he hung back far enough to make it unlikely they would spot him.
Neither looked back much. Whatever they were here for was ahead. The barest first edges of the coming spring showed as mud and a softening of the snow in the sun between the trees. In many places were larger snow banks and the trail moved through forest and then climbed steeply, switchbacking up, and higher on to exposed rock. The wind blew hard off the Andes. It scoured away the early clouds and cut through Marquez’s clothes. His boots crunched through snow and slid on wet rock.
At roughly the five mile mark his radio no longer reached Verandas. He got only static. Ahead, strands of cirrus whitened the sky above the high peaks and he watched as Stoval and the other man rose through a long stand of trees to a saddle. They walked close together, Stoval carrying his gun with an easy confidence. They moved higher and into a longer stretch of trees and he saw only flashes of their clothing, the red bandana, the back of Stoval’s dark blue coat, and beyond them the dark gray rock of a ridge ahead. When Marquez reached the saddle he followed their boots’ prints through the snow, saw where they’d tromped through a muddy patch and picked up the rockbound trail again.
The trail left the trees and climbed a steep rock slope toward a knife blade of a ridge. It steepened and the snow among the rocks was windblown with a hard smooth crust that broke under his weight as he left the trail and worked sideways. He didn’t know if they’d hiked over the ridge and down the other side, or were on top, so he stayed below the crest. When he climbed up he was well down the ridge, away from their line of sight, and edged up. He stayed low and now with binoculars he saw them easily. They stood behind a granite outcropping and above them eagles circled raggedly in the cold wind.
Stoval watched the eagles, and as the guide pointed out two condors flying toward them from out across the deep forested valley ahead, his attention left the eagles. The condors were still small at this distance, but their wingspans were striking. They held a clean line cutting cross to the wind. They looked thick-shouldered and dark as they neared. Spring melt had begun and winter-killed carcasses were becoming exposed, so maybe they were searching for food.
Stoval’s right hand left his coat. He broke the shotgun open, loaded, and swung the gun up in a smooth arc. The silver inlay on the stock flashed in the sunlight as the long clean shadows of condor wings swept over ridge rock and Stoval shot the lead condor. The echo of the discharge rolled out over the mountains. Feathers scattered. The condor folded and fell.
He only wounded the second bird and it tried to fly back toward the valley, but it faltered and then tumbled and fell, dark, small, and lost among the trees. The eagles fled with the first shot and as Stoval broke apart his gun and removed the spent shells, the wind-scoured sky above was an empty bright blue.
What do you say about a hunter who kills condor in the age of the last great creatures of the wild? Marquez watched the guide hike across the rocks to the first bird and strip the tail feathers. He bundled them carefully and eased them shaft first into the pack, folding the flap back so it wouldn’t damage them on the hike out. The other bird was too far away to go after. It wasn’t worth the effort and it didn’t matter. They got the one, so it was a successful outing. They rested with their backs against the rock of the outcropping and the guide opened wine and cut dried meat and Marquez read the Malbec label on the wine bottle as it balanced on a rock. He read Stoval’s face, content and cheerful, enjoying the moment, gun propped there near him, and the other man talking and smiling.
They hiked out, picking up on his tracks as they did and watchful now. At the trailhead, they studied Marquez’s car and another in the lot before loading their gear and leaving. Call it whatever you want, but Marquez waited before going to his car. He radioed Verandas. Verandas could see where the dirt trailhead road intersected the paved road and reported what Marquez had guessed or sensed. The Range Rover was yet to turn on to the paved road.
Almost an hour later, Stoval walked out of the shadows at the curve of the road and into the sunlight near Marquez’s rental car. Before driving away from the trailhead Marquez saw him stow his shotgun, but now it was back under the crook of his right arm as he stood jotting down the license plate of the car. Then he looked straight ahead up into the trees. Slowly, his head turned toward the left until he was looking at where Marquez was hidden. There was no way Stoval could see him, but it was strange and disturbing. He stared for several minutes before the Range Rover rounded the corner. Then he climbed in and they drove away. Minutes later, Verandas reported them turning onto the paved road.