Page 102 of The 9th Man

“There’s an infographic on our map. According to the GPS the product~town~hat locator is halfway between us and that camp. The final locator is about a mile to the southeast.”

“They made this difficult,” she said.

He studied the rugged terrain. “I’m hoping for a good reason.”

“For all we know Eckstein is watching us right now.”

“I would be, if I were him.”

They kept going and soon entered another zigzag valley barely ten feet across. The wind rose, peppering their faces with bits of scree. Heads down and collars up they kept going. Another half an hour brought them to a meadow from whose center rose a teardrop-shaped copse of pines that climbed partway up the western slope.

Luke checked their GPS. “Officially, we’re here. The news~chocolate~theory locator sits dead center in those trees.”

But there were no cabins or structures.

Only one thing caught his eye. “Past the trees, at the base of that slope. You see it?”

“I do. That’s a trail. No doubt about it. Looks like it disappears into the trees.”

“It’s the closest thing to man-made we have in sight and the coordinates are right. Might as well check it out.”

They picked their way through the trees to the far side and dismounted at the trailhead, which was straddled by a pair of hulking boulders. The horses were tethered to nearby saplings.

He started toward the trail.

Then he heard the distinctive sound of a rifle being cocked.

“You two lost?” a male voice called out from the trees.

“We’re here on behalf of Benjamin Stein and Ray Simmons,” Jillian said.

“Never heard of them.”

“They knew you. I was Benji’s granddaughter.”

“Was?”

“He’s dead. So is Simmons,” Luke said.

Movement came about fifty feet ahead of them and a man appeared, standing just outside the copse. Thin, short, dressed in a sheepskin jacket and cowboy hat. And old. The face weathered and pockmarked, full creases and crevices. The hair was shoulder-length and silver, not gray, a scruffy beard and mustache dusting the cheeks and neck. Spindly hands cradled a .45-70 lever-action rifle. The old man shifted its aim so the muzzle was pointing right at them, finger on the trigger.

Which Luke had the greatest respect for.

No chance to get a jump on him.

“What happened to them?” the old man asked.

“Simmons killed himself,” Luke said. “Benji was murdered by Thomas Rowland.”

He watched for a reaction.

But none came.

“You’re David Eckstein,” Jillian tried. “We know what’s going on and we need your help.”

“You say you’re Stein’s granddaughter.” The old man motioned with the rifle at Luke. “Who’s he?”

“A friend. Here to help.”

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