The napalm burn on Baraclough’s wrist was supposed to be dead scar flesh but it had a way of itching sometimes. He scratched it viciously, enjoying the pain.
Eddie Burt said, “I don’t think they’re coming.”
“They’re not stupid,” Major Hargit conceded. They’d seen three men start down off the skyline by the cabin. Three men had left the bonfire by those two trucks down on the flats night before last, and if it could be assumed these were the same three men then none of them had been hurt by the booby-trap grenade in the cabin. If they were smart enough to avoid that one they were pretty good.
But it had been a good twenty minutes since the three horsemen had disappeared over the summit half a mile above, and they should have showed up long before now if they were following the tracks.
Hanratty took it badly. He dragged his gloved palm down across his face with an abrasive rasp of stubble and began to shake. He had shaken like that an hour ago, coming down into this timbered cut, when the Major had halted the group and said, “The pack only chases a prey that runs. We’ll turn and face them.”
Now Baraclough said, “I guess they want to flank us.”
Eddie Burt grinned. “They ain’t bad for country cops.”
Major Hargit nodded. “They’re not bad, Sergeant, but they’re no A-team. Their friends will be taking the three of them down off this mountain in canvas bags. All right, gentlemen, let’s go find them.”