Read Hunted Past Reason for Free Online Page A

coyotes circling them, maybe eight. There were no trees to climb. The ground was open and bare.
    "What do we do now?" he asked fearfully, turning to Doug.
    Doug wasn't there.
    "Oh, Jesus, only he'd know what to do," he muttered.
    He stared at the growling, slavering coyotes as they moved in slowly.
    He jolted and opened his eyes. Doug had just shaken him by the shoulder. Bob stared at him groggily.
    "You fell asleep," Doug told him.
    "Oh, jeez, I'm sorry, Doug," Bob said, a pained expression on his face.
    "Look," Doug said, "what I'm going to do is go on by myself, set up camp for us."
    Bob stared at him blankly. "I don't understand," he murmured.
    "It's getting late," Doug said. "It takes a while to set up camp. I can go on ahead and get it ready."
    "Well . . ." Bob looked alarmed. "Leave me alone?"
    "Bob, all you have to do is follow the trail," Doug said with a chuckle. "You can't get lost. And when you get to the camp, the fire will be burning, the tent set up, the sleeping bags ready. I'll take yours with me— and your stove, give you less weight to carry. I'll even take some of your damn chicken à la king with me so it'll be ready to eat by the time you arrive. Take you maybe two hours to get there. Maybe less."
    "But . . ."
    "Have to do it this way, buddy," Doug said. "We're behind schedule."
    "What if I get lost?" He was aware of sounding like "Bobby" now, a panicking ten-year-old.
    "Bobby, you can't get lost," Doug said. "Just follow the trail. Okay?" It was more a demand than a question.
    "Okay." His voice sounded timid to him. He swallowed dryly. "There's no chance I could wander off the trail?"
    "None," Doug said, "and if it gets a little dark, use your flashlight. You reversed your batteries, didn't you?"
    "What?" Bob felt helpless and stupid. "What do you—?"
    "Keeps them from running down if the flashlight accidentally gets turned on," Doug told him.
    "Oh." Was he going to just agree to this, let Doug leave him behind in the woods— hell, the forest!— the very first afternoon they were out?
    He tried to struggle up but the pack was too heavy on him and pulled him back; he thudded against the tree trunk.
    "You'll have less weight now," Doug told him, strapping Bob's stove and sleeping bag on his pack. "You'll be fine— able to move a little faster."
    Bob felt as though his mouth was hanging open, his expression appalled as Doug turned away and started walking briskly along the trail. Don't! a voice cried in his brain. What about the mountain lion?!
    That seemed to break the spell of dread. The mountain lion, for Christ's sake? he thought. What did he think, the mountain lion was going to trail him and have him for supper? Grow up , Hansen, he ordered himself. Grow up, get up, and move your ass. This isn't goddamn Deliverance , you know.
    Maybe if I start after him right away and move as fast as I can, I'll be able to catch up to him, he thought abruptly. Good idea. Doug couldn't be walking that fast.
    He tried to stand quickly and fell back, landing clumsily. Yeah, that's great, Hansen, he mocked himself. Real deft.
    He tried again and fell back awkwardly once more. Jesus Christ, he said he took some weight off my pack! he thought. It feels as though he added rocks to it instead.
    No. No. He calmed himself. On your knees first, then stand slowly. Got it? He drew in a quick breath, nodding. Got it, he answered.
    Carefully, he turned himself and rose to his knees, then slowly, arms outstretched to keep himself in balance, rose to his feet. There, he thought. That wasn't so difficult now, was it? He tried not to pay attention to the painful drag of the pack on his back, the aching in his legs. Go, he told himself. Move.
    He started to walk along the trail as rapidly as he could. Stand erect, he reminded himself. Don't slump. Don't lift your feet too high. Walk with a steady stride.
    His brain reacted with unexpected irritation. Goddamn it, how am I supposed to remember all that crap? What am I, John Muir? No.