He didn’t have a choice, though; he didn’t have the luxury of waiting, not that there was any “luxury” involved in his present situation. He had to get the keys to the SUV and get out of the country before the cops could be notified and start looking for him. He couldn’t wait for better weather, because every hour now was one that he couldn’t afford to waste.
The horses were a problem. They needed food and water, but after the night he’d spent he didn’t much care about the damn horses. He had to keep the chestnut fed and watered because he planned to ride it out of here as soon as the weather cleared, but as far as the other three were concerned, all he cared was that Angie not be able to get one of them, assuming she was still alive and capable of riding, which, again, until he knew better, was the assumption he had to go with.
Water was easy; there was water everywhere. He just didn’t want to leave the shelter of the overhang, because he didn’t have a slicker and his coat was still damp from being in the rain last night. Finally he decided that, as he was going to get wet anyway while riding back to the camp, getting wet now wouldn’t make that much of a difference. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have dry clothes back at the camp. He was a decent person; he couldn’t let them go without water.
So one by one he led them out into the rain and found places for them to drink. There wasn’t much for them to graze on, but if they showed any interest in cropping at anything he stood hunched against the rain and let them grab at what food they could get. He got soaked to the skin all over again, of course. By the time he climbed on a rock and maneuvered himself onto the chestnut’s back, he was feeling positively virtuous.
The other three horses he left tied under their rocky shelter, hoping they’d stay where they were and not try to shake the reins loose and wander off. He needed to know exactly where the horses were, so he’d know whether or not Angie had found one of them and was riding for help. At least they weren’t on any recognizable trail, and the nightlong pounding rain had washed away any tracks they’d left. He was fairly certain Angie couldn’t find them, not without a stroke of luck that would border on the miraculous.
The chestnut didn’t like the soggy, insecure footing; he had to constantly urge it forward. He hunched his shoulders against the miserable pounding rain; wherever he ended up after he escaped from this godforsaken wilderness, he was damn certain it would be someplace where the sun shone every day, and he’d know which direction was which. If the sun had been out he would have been fairly certain of his direction, but the cloud cover was so thick he couldn’t pick out a bright spot, so he had to rely completely on his sense of direction, which was tough when none of the landmarks were familiar—if you could call rocks and trees and bushes “landmarks.” The only directions he could reliably tell were uphill and downhill, but that helped. The mountain chain ran north/south, so uphill, generally speaking, was west, and downhill was east. He wanted to go south, so that meant he kept the upward slope on his right.
Beyond that, the best he could do was try to pick out something in a visual straight line, at the edge of visibility, and ride to it. From there he’d pick out another target, and ride to it. The problem with that means of navigation was that he knew he hadn’t ridden in a straight line during his panicked flight in the dark. But should he be angling uphill, or down? Who the fuck knew? He didn’t even know how far he’d ridden last night; all he could do was estimate.
God, if only he didn’t need those keys! If it hadn’t been for that damn bear, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. He’d have hunted Angie down and finished the job, he’d have the keys, and he’d have gotten a good night’s rest. Granted, the weather today would still be crappy, but he could afford to wait out the rain, if that little detail had been taken care of.
The bear would be long gone by now, of course, but he’d love to be able to put a bullet in its ass for all the trouble it had caused him.
He actually found the campsite by accident. He came to a place where it seemed as if the mountainside had washed out, and he nudged the horse uphill to see if he could get above the mudslide that had turned into a roaring torrent that had taken some trees down with it. About seventy yards up he reached the head of the mudslide and started across, but the chestnut suddenly shied and began backing up, ignoring Chad’s command. After a minute of trying to force the horse to go forward, he said to hell with it, and instead turned the horse uphill; it was willing to go up, and eagerly picked its way over the soggy, uneven footing.
Chad ducked his head; the rain was hitting him in the face. He didn’t even have a hat with him. If he’d ever been more physically miserable in his life, he couldn’t remember when. At least he’d improved his riding skills enough in the past year that he could stay on the chestnut bareback, otherwise he’d have been walking in this shit.
Then he saw, to the left and a little farther uphill, a corner of something orange, and a burst of excitement flooded him with so much adrenaline that he felt nauseated. The camp tents were a dirty orange, he assumed for safety reasons, so no one would shoot in that direction. Looking around, he thought he recognized the terrain.
He’d almost missed it. If the horse hadn’t balked, he’d have ridden right past the camp, unable to see it in the pouring rain. Maybe the horse knew where it was and associated the camp with food.
His heart began slamming against his rib cage. Angie might be in one of those tents right now, armed and waiting to see if he came back. She’d be dry and comfortable, while he’d been stuck under an overhang with four horses, smelling their shit all night long. Maybe he’d just walk behind the tents and shoot into all of them, just to cover his bases—that would flush her out.