Nearly one hundred miles south of Pecos, just southeast of the lower Santiago Mountains, Dallas Detective Ralph Thatcher was dressed and ready for a day's work before most of the camp had even begun stirring.  He was the last of the local police officers on the task force assigned to hunting down the escaped prisoners; all of his comrades had returned to their cities and precincts days ago with the arrival of fourteen U.S. Marshalls.  Thatcher had been ordered to remain behind after a run-in three days ago with eleven prisoners, traveling in a group towards the Santiago Mountains and Mexico.

The combined force of Marshalls and officers had managed to track them twenty-eight miles to a run-down farm where they were hiding.  A shootout ensued; one prisoner, one U.S. Marshall, and two police officers were killed, including one of the helicopter pilots.  Thatcher immediately informed Rob Hyde, the Marshall in charge, that he was a licensed helicopter pilot, and Hyde decided to keep Thatcher on the task force rather than wait for a replacement.

So now Ralph was packing his meager belongings and stashing them underneath the pilot's seat of the carrier helicopter he was assigned to.  Hyde would assign the day's search patterns soon, Thatcher reflected as he began checking over the chopper's systems.  Seven U.S. Marshalls would pile into the helicopter, six in the back and one in front, along with half a dozen packs and tents that would be stored in the far back end of the chopper, and another long day would begin.
 

The sun hadn't even risen when Mike Palmer woke up, shivering from the cold.  He sat up in his bed - if you could call splintering slats haphazardly laid across a not-quite square wooden frame a bed - and looked around.  Most of his fellow captives were stirring.  After being roughly kicked out of bed by guards two days before, an American worker informed Palmer (at the cost of a beating) that most of the captives rose before dawn to avoid such awakenings and have some time to themselves.

The American worker, as well as several others, Mike had learned, were in the valley for different reasons than the Mexicans, whom Harper saw as a ready supply of free labor.  Many of the Americans were enemies of Harper; others had made the same mistake as the Texas Rangers - stumbling onto the valley and its illegal operations - while camping or hiking.  One man was the last of the construction team that had been hired to construct the buildings in the valley; another was a luckless helicopter pilot who had been shot down while flying cargo over the mountains.

But despite the ethic differences and language barriers in the group of more than sixty slave workers, there was hardly a man among them who wasn't willing to fight to be free of their captors and go back to their homes and lives, given an able leader and the opportunity.

Tracey Hudson didn't care about any of this.  She refused to eat, hardly slept, and the empty, hollow look in her eyes only deepened every time she passed the three chained Texas Rangers on her way to and from the warehouses.  The only person she responded to was Mike, and even then he only received monosyllabic answers.  Even now, when everyone else was awake and moving around, she lay still and silent, staring at the wall just past her bed.

"Tracey, come on," Palmer pleaded for the twelfth time, sitting at the edge of her bed, "Don't be like this.  Don't worry, we'll get out of here.  There's no way they can leave five Rangers missing in the mountains.  It's ridiculous.  I'll bet our entire company is out here looking for us."

He looked at her when she didn't respond.  She was studying something on the wall, and didn't seem to have heard him at all.  He followed her line of sight, curious, but all he saw was the long wooden planks that formed the walls, just like any other wall in the barracks.

"Tracey?"

Ignoring him, she slid out of bed, still staring intently at the wall, and walked over to it.  Palmer followed her.  She traced her fingers across three of the boards about three feet off the ground, and then down the seams on either side.

"Help me," she said to Palmer, sliding her fingers under one of the boards.  He did the same.

"Ready?  One . . . two . . . three!" she counted, and on 'three', she yanked her board up as hard as she could.  With a small whine, it bent upwards, splintering and cracking about three feet off the ground.  Palmer's did the same.  Kneeling down, the two Rangers looked out across the empty western side of the valley, dimly lit by the rising sun.  Then they stepped back, and both smiled as they put the boards back in their places; there was definitely hope for escape.
 

It was more than an hour's drive from Pecos to the small town where Trent and Carlos would leave the rented SUV and begin their hike.  While Carlos drove, Trent looked over the package that had been left for them at the Pecos Post Office; a pair of fake ID's and brief histories of each person to match.

"Why do we even need a cover story?" Carlos asked.  He hadn't really thought about it before, but now that he did, it just didn't make sense.  He said as much.  "I mean, it's not like we're infiltrating a drug ring or anything like that.  We're gonna be in the mountains.  There won't be a soul alive up there except for us and a few squirrels, maybe a bobcat kitten in a tree, at most, and it's not like *they* are gonna ask us for ID."

Trent shrugged.  "Yeah, I know, but I guess it's better to be safe than sorry.  O'Reily suggested it, and since he's the Texas Ranger Captain and all, I figured we probably oughta do what he said."

Carlos didn't say anything . . . 'O'Reily said so' wasn't much of a reason to him, but it really didn't matter that much.  Their exit was coming up soon anyway, and he had other things to think about.

Twenty minutes later they arrived in the little town, where they checked in, like many hikers and campers, with the local sheriff and got directions to the closest hiking trails, using their new names and ID's, of course.  A short drive took Carlos and Trent to a dirt lot at the base of a trail where the two could leave their truck and trailer while they were in the mountains.

It was a fairly nice day out, cool, since they were in the mountains, but sunny, with only a few white clouds in the sky.  Carlos unloaded their frame packs and the equipment that Lynx would carry from the SUV, Trent opened up the trailer and walked Lynx out.  The bay mare nickered and practically pranced out of the trailer like a colt, butting his shoulder and pushing against him, but she stopped cold once they rounded the side of the trailer and she saw Carlos.  Her movements towards the gear that she would carry were stiff-legged and tense as she watched the Cuban with fierce, angry eyes.
Carlos was locking up the truck when the pair when by, and didn't notice.

He turned around and watched as Trent fastened the horse's harness to her shoulders and barrel, looking over the mare appreciatively.  He was by no means any sort of a judge of horses, but Lynx had a sleek, healthy coat and pretty coloring, and he could approve of that much at least.  When Trent had the harness in place, Carlos moved to help him with the bundles on gear that sat in front of the horse . . .  only to jump back when the mare lunged and snapped at him.  The dark-haired man dodged her teeth, just barely, and skittered a few feet away while Trent caught her halter and pulled her in the other direction.

"What was that?!" Carlos asked his friend between breaths, astonished.  He'd never in his life been attacked by a horse.  Cats, yes, dogs, yes, lunatics with guns, yes, but never, ever had a calm, placid horse suddenly lashed out at him.

All Trent had to offer, with equal surprise, was, "Well, I guess she doesn't like you," and he went on to explain what O'Reily had said about the mare.

"I didn't know what he was talking about, but now, jeez, I can see why he doesn't lend her out much.  Did she bite you?" he asked in afterthought.

"No, just tore my shirtsleeve.  Alright, horse," Carlos looked at the mare, in all seriousness, "You keep your distance, and I'll keep mine, and nobody gets hurt, right?"

The mare snorted derisively.  Carlos shrugged.  "Good enough."

"Alrighty then," Trent said, "Gimme a few minutes and I'll get the packs on her.  Why don't you lock up the trailer?"

A few minutes later, just shy of eight o'clock, all of Lynx's gear was secured to her back and both Trent and Carlos had hoisted their own packs onto their shoulders, and they started their way up the trail.
 
 

The hike through the mountains was long and arduous.  Often the paths the two men chose were only wide enough for two hikers, leaving either Carlos or Lynx walking next to Trent.  Twice Carlos tried walking in front of the horse so he could talk to his friend, but two attempted horse-bites later, the detective moved behind his best friend.  They talked at first, but grew silent as they concentrated on footing, watching for tracks, and their task in general.    Carlos had to admit that, despite the beast's bad temper, Lynx was a great help, carrying more than half of their camping equipment; the weight of his pack didn't bother him the slightest bit.

Occasionally they passed other hikers coming down the path; a family on a day-hike, a group of teenagers, a few loners, a older couple, and a pair of men several years older than Trent and Carlos.  They greeted each group courteously, but when they were alone again after the pair of men had passed, Trent commented on their meetings.

"Hey Carlos, don't you think it's a little odd that all those groups were headed back into town?"

The Cuban considered it for a moment.  "Now that I think of it, yeah.  It's not even 11 o'clock yet . . . why would they be heading back down already?"

"Yeah, I know.  Strange."

The pair fell back into silence, going on their way deep into the heart of the mountains.
 

It was well past sunset before Trent and Carlos stopped for the night.  They had found no trace of the missing Rangers, heard nothing but the birds and squirrels, and seen nothing but the trees and rocks for hours on end.  Carlos set up their tent and built a fire while Trent cared for the horse and began preparing what Carlos would hardly describe as food.  The main entrées were freeze dried meals, washed down with boiled stream water, granola bars, and some small crayfish from the stream where Trent had gotten water to cook with.  Trent dug heartily into the food.  Carlos followed his example, only to spit out his first bite of freeze dried chicken and rice.

"That's gross!  It tastes more like roofing glue than chicken and rice!" Carlos scowled, trying to clean the taste out of his mouth.

"Aww, c'mon," Trent returned, unenthusiastically swallowing another bite, "It's not that bad.  I'd think you'd be used to it, with the way you cook."

Carlos just watched the blond look at his food skeptically, poking at it with his spoon and watching the food around the holes he made slurp back into place.  Trent looked up at his friend, and Carlos gave him his best 'I told
you so' look.

"Alright, alright.  But all we have to eat other than this is granola bars and trail mix."

"Suits me just fine," Carlos agreed.

Within an hour, the firelight grew dim, and night shadows crept closer to the small camp.  The only sounds to be heard were the hoots of a great horned owl somewhere in the forest, the heavy breathing of the chestnut mare, and
the rustles of the creatures of the night.
 

The second day began as soon as the dawn light woke the dark-haired detective.  He woke his best friend as he went outside, and the two had the entire camp packed and ready to go within an hour.

Hiking on the second day wasn't much different from the first; Trent and Lynx walked in front and Carlos followed far enough behind them to avoid being kicked at by Lynx.  After a few hours, the landscape began slowly changing.  They hiked along the edge of the forest, heading northwest.  Small patches of trees gave way to wide, scrubby fields, and outcrops of rocks and boulders sprung up often.  Around mid-afternoon, the two men and the horse came out of another grove of trees they found themselves standing at the top of a very tall hill looking across a very wide crevasse at another hill just like their own.  The hills sloped steeply downwards towards another grove of trees.  Thousands of rocks and boulders were scattered at the foot of the hills where they both met level ground, continuing into the trees and out of
sight.

"Looks like there was a rockslide here," Carlos commented.

"Yeah," Trent agreed, studying the landscape.

"Want to stop here for lunch?" Carlos asked.

"Sure, but I swear, if I have to eat just one more granola bar, I'll go nuts," was Trent's reply.

Lynx was allowed to graze freely, although Trent didn't unload her packs; she seemed unburdened by the weight, and they would have to move on again soon anyway.  Carlos picked a medium-sized rock and sat down to eat a meager lunch of trail mix and dried fruit.  Trent sipped at his water bottle and chewed thoughtfully on a few plant roots that he was pretty sure weren't poisonous as he inspected the lands around them.  Carlos studied the trail of rocks scattered down the slope, pondering absent-mindedly how they came to be there.  Then something caught his eye; something out of place.  He squinted to get a better look.

"What is it?"  Trent asked, following his line of sight.

"I don't know . . . there's something down there."  Carlos unhooked his binoculars from his belt and brought them to his eyes to get a better look.

"It looks like . . . naw, it couldn't be.  Here, have a look."  He handed Trent the binoculars and pointed out the focus of his attention.

"Looks like a saddle to me.  Some other stuff too, but I can't see what the rest is.  I wonder what it's doing there,"  Trent said.

"Yeah, that's what I thought.  Mind if I take a look?  It shouldn't take too long."

"Go ahead.  I'd go with you, but I don't think Lynx could make it down that slope, and I don't think we should risk her running away with all our stuff if we leave her alone."

The blond watched his best friend lope down the steep hill, carefully dodging rocks and scrub bushes, until he reached the edge of the grove of trees closest to the trail of boulders.  Through his binoculars, Trent watched Carlos pick up the heavy saddle and turn it over a few times, examining it.  Then he tossed it aside and began picking at the other items at his feet.  Once the Cuban picked up a few of the objects, Trent could see that they were torn bits of cloth and ripped straps from the saddle.  The blond's brow furrowed in concern as he thought of how they might have gotten there.

His attention was called back to his friend when Carlos knelt down close to the rocks.  He picked one up, looking at it closely, but Trent couldn't see what he was looking at.  Carlos put the stone back and began digging through a few others, picking up several small objects that Trent still couldn't see.  The detective flinched, pulling his hand back from the rocks for a moment, but went on looking.  After a few minutes, he placed one stone in one of his pockets and turned back up the hill, holding his right hand.  He returned with the same easy lope that he had run down with and met Trent at the top.

"What did you find?"  Trent asked as Carlos pulled the rock from his left-hand coat pocket.

"It looked like there were two saddles down there . . . one was close to shredded, and the other was barely in one piece.  The rest was mostly ripped-off saddle straps and strips of torn-up saddle blankets.  But I also found this," he said, handing Trent the rock.  The palm-sized stone was rough-hewn, like it had broken off from the side of the ravine, and one sharp edge was stained with bright, wet, red blood.

"Blood?  From what?  Or who?" Trent thought aloud.

"Uh, actually, *that* blood is mine."  He held out his right hand; a long thin cut that ran across the middle of his hand hadn't even begun to stop bleeding.  Bright red drops spotted the ground where he stood.

"Carlos!" Trent stared at his friend, "Why didn't you say something before?"

"It's just a scratch. Besides, I brought the rock back to show you *that* blood," he explained, pointing to a dark ruddy red coloring stained into the rock on one side, "Not mine."

"Where do you think it's from?"

"Well, the scraps of blanket were damp and beginning to rot a little, so that stuff's probably been here for a few days at least.  My guess would be that Walker, Trivette, and the Company B ranger came through here.   There was a rockslide; some of those rocks aren't worn down enough to be there naturally, like that one," he nodded towards the one Trent was holding, "It doesn't look like anyone was caught in it, but some of their equipment was, and they left it behind."

Trent nodded, looking over the stone in his hands.  "And the blood on here?"

"Someone went digging through the rocks, like I just did, and cut their hand."

"Any sign of where they headed?"

"No, but from there, either over this hill or the one across the ravine would be the most logical choice; they're the only ways to go deeper into the mountains."

"Alright.  We should probably head south then," Trent said.  Carlos had turned towards his pack when the blond put a hand on his shoulder.  "*After* we take care of your hand."

Carlos didn't object one bit.
 

That night, well after sunset, the two young men stopped in a small clearing amidst a thick, pitch-black forest of pine and oak trees.  A close canopy of leaves high above their heads let only the most determined strands of moonlight through to touch the forest floor, and the entire forest was eerily silent.  Carlos could feel the weight of the dark, oppressive silence, and couldn't help but feel like something bad was going to happen.  Even Lynx snorted and pranced a little more than usual, flattening her ears against her chestnut coat.

The pair pitched camp in silence, each taking the same tasks as the previous night.  Trent was hungry enough to reluctantly fix and eat some freeze dried spaghetti, which wasn't as bad as the chicken and rice, but Carlos refused, choosing instead to forage for some roots and the only plant that he knew wasn't poisonous: wild indian cucumber, which grew in patches here and there.

Since leaving the ravine, neither man had seen a single shred of evidence that Walker and his companions had ever passed this way.  The chances that they'd ever find their friend and mentor were becoming more remote by the
minute.

Sighing heavily, Carlos packed his mess kit after scrubbing it out with sand.  There weren't any streams or rivers nearby, so it would have to wait to be washed.  Trent banked the fire for the night and went to tie Lynx's halter to a tree for the night.  The mare had wandered out of the firelight to graze.  As he was leading her closer to the tent, he tripped over something next to a large oak tree and went sprawling to the ground.

"Dammit!" he swore.

"Are you okay?" Carlos called from inside the tent.  He stepped outside to see what was wrong.  The palm of his right hand was wrapped in white gauze.

"Yeah," Trent called back, picking himself up, "I just tripped over something.  Did you leave any gear by this tree?"

"No, why?"

Trent tried to get a better look at what he had tripped over, which was hard, given the sparse light.  He unclipped a small flashlight from his belt and shined it on the object at his feet.

"Carlos, look at this!"

"What is it?" called Carlos, who had gone back into the tent when he knew his friend was alright.  He stepped outside again and joined Trent.

"Horse tack . . . a saddle and some reins, it looks like, though there might be more."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Walker, Trivette, and Pierce stopped here?"

"Exactly."

"Let's look around and see if there's anything else."  Trent unhooked his flashlight from his belt and shined it on the ground where he stood, confirming that he had indeed tripped over a saddle and not one, but three sets of reins.  Leaving Lynx where she stood, he continued to search the surrounding area for any other hint of his mentor's presence.  Likewise, Carlos pulled out his flashlight to search the other side of their small camp, but when he clicked the 'on' button, nothing happened.

"Hey Trent, did you put fresh batteries in these?" the Cuban asked, hitting the flashlight with his left hand to see if it would turn on.  It flickered twice and died again.

"Yeah, why?"

"My flashlight isn't working."

"Did you try the 'on' button?"

"Ha-ha.  Really, stop, you're killing me."

"There's another flashlight somewhere in the packs.  I wouldn't worry about it anyway; I don't see anything else here that indicates that they were here."  He paused to yawn.  "Besides, we're not going to find anything in the dark like this.  We can look again in the morning."

Carlos nodded in agreement.  "Alright.  You better tie up the horse for the night.  I don't think there's anything else to take care of."

"Okay.  Hey," Trent called to Carlos as the dark-haired man headed back into the tent, "At least we found something today.  We're on the right track.  Now we just have to figure out where Walker went from here."

Carlos gave a small grin, but Trent's pep talk did little to dismiss the thoughts that ran through both their minds; it had been nearly a week since anyone had heard from Walker, Trivette, and Pierce, and even longer than that since the other two missing rangers had been seen.  The chances that any of the five would come back alive were becoming smaller by the minute.
 

Carlos had thought that the dark forest after sunset was the blackest night he had ever known, but when he woke at midnight, the night air was even darker.  One side of the tent, facing the dying fire, was dimly light, while the other end, facing the forest, was pitch black.  In the fading flickers of the fire, he made out the door of the tent in the dim light, and nearly tripped over Trent getting there.  After some feeling around, he found his boots and put them on, trying not to wake his best friend.  He didn't need to put clothes on; both he and Trent slept fully clothed to keep warm during the cold mountain nights.  Then Carlos began to unzip the door flaps, only to realize that he'd need a flashlight.  His own flashlight didn't work, he began searching for Trent's.  He found it clipped to Trent's belt in the back of the tent on top of Trent's backpack.  He fumbled with the latch for a moment, but decided to just take the whole belt to save time.  As he was buckling it on around his jeans, his friend and partner stirred.

"What are you doing?"  Trent asked tiredly in the dim light.

"Call of nature.  I'll be right back."

"S'gonna be cold out there."

"I know.  I won't be long."

With that, Carlos slipped out of the tent and into the chill night.  He turned on the flashlight and headed off towards the hole he had dug earlier, far from their small campsite.

Carlos had hardly headed back towards camp when his flashlight flickered in the darkness.  'Not again,' he thought to himself, but the light didn't go out altogether.  It wasn't until he was halfway back that it died out completely, and no amount of hitting would turn it back on.  Carlos swore under his breath, but he could see the dim glow of the campfire through the trees.

He had taken a few steps towards the light when a terrified whinny split the air.  Carlos could hear the mare pawing the ground and snorting.  Shadows danced in front of the flickering firelight.  Carlos stopped, straining to see through the dim light.  Muffled sounds of a fight reached his ears, and the Cuban bolted forward.

"Trent?!"  he called ahead just before reaching the camp.

"Carlos!  RUN!" came Trent's replying shout.

The Cuban dashed up to the edge of the camp to see a scene of absolute chaos.  Trent was struggling to fight off a lean, rough-looking, middle-aged man while Lynx snorted and reared, lashed out at a second man who was trying to sneak up on Trent.  The second man dodged the mare's sharp hooves and swung at the blond, landing a solid punch in his stomach.

"Carlos, go, now!  Run!" Trent called hoarsely.

For a split second, the detective stood rooted to the spot, his mind torn between joining Trent's losing fight or running so he could help him later.  He began to step forward, and his leg brushed against something.  Quickly he looked down and saw the dusty saddle and reins that Trent had found early that night, and he knew what had happened to Walker.  A terrified . . . no, angry neigh from Lynx tore his attention back to the brawl.  The chestnut mare was bucking and straining against the rope that tied her halter to the tree, trying to reach her blond master.

"RUN, DAMMIT!" were the last words Carlos heard from his best friend as the blond was tackled by one of the men and punched by the other.  One last glance over his shoulder showed Trent sagging to the ground, unconscious, and the two men looking in his direction.