"The path through the boulders goes almost to the rim of the canyon. Just a couple hundred feet of exposure below the ridge."

"Keep him talking," Kyla whispered. "You don't shoot people you're having a conversation with. I've been told."

Whit leaned close to the sunlit gap. "The will you planted in Rod's desk makes no difference," he yelled. "All Rod's property's in his sister's name. I destroyed the paper. No one need ever know."

A long silence, with not even a rattle of gravel.

"What were you looking for in Rod's truck?" Whit called.

The only reply was a faint sound of stones dislodged, a few seconds of silence, then another pattering of gravel. Uncannily like the rustle of a taffeta skirt, Kyla noted.

The footsteps were more vibration than noise. The drag of cloth over rough stone. Chase must be very close. Kyla held a finger to her lips and beckoned for Whit to join her at the back of the cave. He crouched slowly, deliberately, as if Chase might hear the folding of his joints. The footfalls stopped, or were overpowered by the scratching that seemed to be coming from only a few feet away...

"Looking for?" Chase said merrily, so close Kyla shrank against the boulder. The scratching grew louder. "I looked for the land catalog, of course. Moira said Rod checked off every ranch he visited. He might have marked Fellows Canyon. I didn't want anyone out here nosing around. But you beat me to it, didn't you?

You should have let sleeping dogs -- "

The nook echoed with a low growl. A blur of tan pa.s.sed Kyla's eyes, Whit's hands up to block the dog vaulting over his head. For an instant they were in darkness, as the snarling body blocked the stream of sunlight.

"Noooo!" The shriek tangled with guttural snarls, escalated to registers impossible for a human throat, made worse as the echoes joined in. Trembling, ma.s.sive vibrations, minutes, hours pa.s.sing before Kyla realized it was not her body shaking, but the ground!

Dust and thunder, grinding, and a glare of light where the roof had been. Whit's shoulder pushing her against the rock, she shrank to the notch at the back, into a bed of decay and filth, as rocks tumbled overhead in a deadly rain.

Whit, Whit, Whit! She had no idea whether she screamed, or merely thought his name. Dust closed in, thick, a choking cloud, and she buried her head between her legs in a futile search for oxygen, and found only nausea. And in the midst of chaos, a howl. The dog, carried away by the avalanche. Perhaps he still had his teeth in Chase. No, he could not howl with his teeth clamped...Amazing, that she could hear the dog over the thunder of the rocks...And she knew the rocks had finally stilled.

Kyla crept blindly from her niche, her hands flat on the ground, sensors for tremors that would signal another rock slide. A square rock blocked her way, a rock that had not been there before. Barks now punctuated the howls.

"Jenny." A plea. Kyla felt her way around the sharp-cornered boulder, coughing, her lungs rebelling at the thick air. Her knee jammed against another rock, this one smaller. Smooth, rounded. A boot!

"Whit?"

"Thank G.o.d! Climb up the rocks, over the ridge. He won't know you've gone to the ranch." A thin voice, lacking the melodious undertones she identified with Whit.

She followed the contour of his leg, his hips, his waist.

"Come out of here, Whit."

"The rock's on my foot."

She stretched out beside him, and located his shoulders, his head. An arm about her, weakly pulling her down. Her lips touched his, but she pulled away from the gritty, distasteful kiss. More howls and barks. Why didn't Chase shoot the dog?

"I can't move," he whispered. "You've got to get out on your own."

Kyla concentrated on Whit's remark for several seconds before accepting the responsibility. "I'll be back," she said. "I can't go far until I find Chase."

She sat back on her heels. Looking straight up, the dust seemed thinner.

Daylight. The cap rock had slid down the hill and she could stand up, her head in clearer air. She took a breath. Peeking over the rock before her, she discovered she could see for perhaps fifteen feet, through yellow haze. Kyla placed a hand on a boulder to climb over. It teetered beneath the slight weight of her hand. She stepped back. She tested another rock, found it reasonably solid, and inched over it, keeping her head low. A breeze blowing down the canyon touched her cheek, only a faint cooling, but it would strengthen as dusk settled into the canyon. She held her breath, listening for a footstep, the rumble of a motor. Could Chase have driven off already, leaving them for dead.

She could not have heard a motor during the thunder of the rocks.

There was no sound but the frantic barking of the dog, and lineal threads of gravel seeking a resting place. She put her palms on the rock and lifted herself a trifle, like a lizard. The dog seemed to be directly below her, but dust billowed on the floor of the canyon, obliterating everything there. She twisted her head to look up the slope, but an overhanging rock blocked her view. She must slide out farther, exposing herself to Chase, to see the condition of the path to the canyon's rim.

Whit moaned. Kyla held her position, resisting the urge to dash back to him. She could do nothing for Whit until she located Chase. She dare not try to roll the rock off Whit's foot, for a dozen more might be balanced upon it, ready to fill the cave and crush them both.

First aid? She had nothing, not even her purse or a canteen. Whit should have water and a blanket to keep him warm. She shivered when a gust of wind dug through the rocks. Her shirt and shorts were damp with sweat. Whit's clothes must be the same. The wind would grow stronger and colder as mountain air sank into the valley. There was no time to lose.

Another gust of wind, and the dust parted. Through the haze she saw the outline of the brown pickup. A blanket behind the seat, a canteen. And perhaps Chase lurking, waiting in case the rocks had not killed them. So close, yet so far.

The wind swirled in the canyon, lifted dust like a veil. She held her breath until the wind fell.

The rockfall heaped against the front of the truck, as high as the hood, tailing off along the front fenders. They had most certainly crushed the grill and radiator. Don't tell Whit. Don't pile worries on a hurt man.

Kyla held her breath listening for the spill of gravel, the sc.r.a.pe of fabric that would betray Chase's hiding place. She must climb out of the canyon, hike over the ridge to Plum Sky Ranch. Two hundred feet of exposure at the top of the ridge, where Chase could see her, and shoot her down.

Sunlight touched only the upper fringe of rock, and Kyla understood, for the first time, the impossibility of the task facing her. The only way to avoid Chase's bullet was to wait until dark. But Whit might die of shock and exposure unless help came soon.

Shadows already embraced the bottom of the canyon. Deep twilight would set in before she reached the ranch, even if she left right now. By the time someone drove back to help Whit, it would be fully dark. And Chase would remain, waiting. He could put a bullet through Whit's head while she ran for help. He might lie in ambush in the narrows of the ravine, and kill the rescuers.

There won't be any rescuers, she recalled. If I go out while it's still light, he'll shoot me before I get to the top of the ridge.

Find Chase. Kyla straightened her arms, the rough stone digging into her palms.

She slithered over the top of the boulder, the rock tearing at her skin and clothes.

He lay fifteen or twenty feet below, a still form the yellow-tan color of the dust. A torso of a man sculpted in dirty clay, like the molds of human figures made in Pompeii by pouring plaster into casts in the volcanic ash. The arms flung out at unnatural angles. The head lay too far, much too far from the shoulders. And the lower part of him, not there at all.

Kyla scrambled backward and leaned against the solid boulder, gasping, swallowing her nausea before she approached Whit.

"Whit, can you hear me?" He reached for her blindly, eyes closed. She grabbed his hand. "I'm going for help. You'll be alone, but not for long."

"Chase," he whispered.

"He's dead.

"The dog. Bad hurt?"

"I don't know if he's hurt or not. He's among the rocks down in the canyon, howling and barking."

"If he can't move his hind end...big wrench behind the seat...put him out of his misery."

Kyla's gorge rose again, she backed away from Whit and leaned over the boulder, but not so far that she could see the carca.s.s below. The strengthening wind toyed with the dust, first obscuring, then clearing. For an instant she saw the dog scampering back and forth at the toe of the rockfall.

"Pooch!" The dog lifted his head, and barked joyfully in recognition. "Can you get up here, Pooch?" The dog jumped onto a wobbly rock, and jumped off. After a minute or two of trotting back and forth, he scrambled up the side of the ravine untouched by the avalanche. He stopped when he reached her elevation, and carefully made his way from boulder to boulder, testing each step. Kyla watched, trying to memorize the route. That was the path she must take.

"Down," she said after the dog dropped into the hole. Pooch slid flat on his stomach. She pushed him against Whit. "Stay. Keep him warm," she said, knowing the dog did not understand, but feeling better for giving a sensible order.

"You're not alone now," she said, kneeling beside Whit.

"Miners," he said.

"What?"

"Get Mark. Can't move the rock...sh.o.r.e it up and dig underneath to get me out."

"I'll call Mark first thing." She dare not kiss him, even on his cheek, for rock dust covered everything. She squeezed his hand. "Back in a jiffy."

The first rock wavered only slightly beneath her foot. She risked it, tested the three that blocked her path, selected one for her next step. Twice she had to backtrack when she found no firm footing. It seemed hours before she stepped upon soil piled behind a deeply buried stone. The sun still gilded the junipers on the crest. She had spent fifteen minutes, perhaps less, on the rocks. If she paced herself to the top of the ridge, then ran downhill, she could be at the ranch in less than an hour. She allowed herself one minute to catch her breath, and began a slow, silent count to sixty.

Getting Whit's truck out would be difficult, maybe impossible, because the rock-slide balanced upon it. Chase's truck blocked the narrow slot. The rescuers would have to tow it backwards, through two hundred feet of canyon before they could get to Whit. Remind them they would need a chain, unless...Sliding down into the canyon would waste ten minutes if the keys were not in the ignition.

But if Chase had left them behind, in his anxiety to corner his enemies? Kyla took the gamble, digging her heels into the little stream of gravel that extended to the canyon floor. Her heart pounded at the sound of the small avalanche set off by her weight. Would it grow larger and larger, and fill the canyon with her at its heart She concentrated on the white truck, and shadows where a man might lurk "Chase is dead," she told herself as she entered the narrows. She slid between the rock wall and the jutting side mirror, wrenched open the door, jumped with fright as metal clanged on the rock. A ma.s.sive clump of keys swung back and forth, making a faint clink every time they hit the steering column. She collapsed against the seat, pinioned by sobs that tore at her chest, ripped in her throat.

Stop it! Stop it!There's no time to spare for hysterics. She lifted herself into the high cab, experimented with the pedals, and found the distance proper.

Chase, she recalled, was no taller than she. Shorter now, headless, legless...Pay attention to what you're doing and forget what the rocks did to him. The motor caught at the turn of the key, the needle of the temperature gauge swung straight up. The motor had not cooled. Amazing how little time had pa.s.sed since Whit had looked in the rear view mirror and exclaimed...She switched on the headlights. Maybe they would shine on the rocks over Whit's head, letting him know she was not on foot, but in a truck, and she would bring help soon. She backed slowly into the canyon darkness.

Whit submitted to having his face licked, even though the combination of tongue and dust felt like sandpaper. It hurt worse than his foot, which hurt hardly at all. The pain, he knew, would come when they moved him. When he woke up in the hospital and faced life without the lower half of his right leg. But alive, if Ky got Mark and his crew here before the rocks shifted again. A rock fall never came down in one piece. Always something was left dangling, to crash an hour, a day, a week later.

The dog whined. "Stay," Whit said. "Quit whimpering. They're doing marvelous things with artificial limbs these days." Who would take over the ranch during his convalescence? He needed Rod desperately. Missed Rod with every ounce of his being. Jim and Vince managed well enough when they knew exactly what to do, but both were a trifle short on imagination.

Great guns! Were Jim and Vince at the ranch this evening, or were they spending the night at the range cabin? He did not want them first on the scene, clambering over the rocks, dislocating the slide -- A motor roared and a score of echoes rumbled off the rocks, through the ground beneath him, into his chest. Would the vibrations dislodge more rocks? Perhaps Mark and his crew...No, there hadn't been time for Ky to climb the ridge, get to the ranch, unless he was drifting in and out of consciousness. Which was altogether possible.

Grinding, grinding, the motor revved and idled, farther and farther away, dying in the distance. He breathed easier. The truck was leaving.

Chase! The memory stabbed through him, he sat up, the dog whined at being shoved aside. Lightning burned from leg to chest, a scream ricocheted off the rocks.

Surrounded by maniacs, with Chase at their head.

You screamed. Echoes.

Chase had seen Jenny as she climbed out of the canyon, killed her, and now drove away. He would die here. If the rocks came down again, a quick crushing, but if they did not, an agonizing, slow death.

Chase is dead,said a calm voice, so clear he twisted his head a little, looking for Ky kneeling beside him. Her fingers touched his forehead, a tiny pressure suggesting that he lie down. He lowered himself gingerly, wishing Ky were truly here. If Chase is dead, the only other person who can be in the truck is Kyla!He concentrated on tightening various muscles of his torso, relaxing others, so he did not move his leg more than necessary. The ground felt icy beneath him. Every st.i.tch he had on was wet. His own sweat.

"Come here, Pooch." Warmth, absolutely essential so he did not go into shock before Ky came with Mark and his crew. Jenny, Kyla. Kyla, Jenny. Not the same at all. Jenny, his beloved for so many years, and so hard to let go. The tree house, he had treasured the memory for so many years. No treasure now, but a memory of bitter guilt.

Think of Jenny. It was sacrilegious to think of Jenny. He had desecrated her memory every day since meeting Ky. When had it started? The first instant he saw her in the coffee shop. Days ago -- no today, two hours -- on his new couch, a grand slam, a barn burner, exponentially better than the old memory of love in the tree house.

He had collapsed on her, crushed her, hid his face, ashamed. Embarra.s.sed by the power of it, sorry that he had surpa.s.sed a precious memory. Uneasy, recalling the borderline violence of his l.u.s.t, hammering to new depths, seeking lodes of pleasure for himself, barely aware his strokes told on a living woman, until the seizure of her climax. Glimpsing the bronze in that flash of ecstasy, becoming both the rider and the stallion.

Think of something else. What came after their love? A casual decision to visit Fellows Canyon. The terror. He had called her Jenny.

He hoped the rocks came down in one great slump, before he heard the first grinding that would warn him of death.

Ky was right, he loved a shadow. Every time he made love to her, he struggled against the impulse to call her Jenny. But when there was no time to think, in moments of panic, perhaps even when deep in day-to-day worries, he would confuse her with the ghost. Better they remain lovers. Monogamous, wildly attracted lovers, meeting joyfully in places where Jenny's memory had never taken hold. He and Ky would locate every charming spot between here and San Francisco. Lovers.

Imaginative. Daring. That was best.

Besides, Ky would not marry a man with only one leg. His deformity would offend her aesthetic sense. No, that was Jenny. Beautiful Jenny, who demanded that everything around her be as lovely as she.

Ky wouldn't think twice about his leg. Ugly stumps and the accoutrements of prostheses would not put her off. He confused Ky with Jenny again. How did one get rid of a stubborn obsession? Until he did, he could not marry Ky.

Dear Ky. How long had he known her? The computation of the days proved to be beyond him. Ky would not consider a missing leg an excuse for immobility. She would push and prod, and make appointments, and ferry him to specialists, and tell him to get his foot in the stirrup and ride, d.a.m.n you.

Ride her. He had ridden her, every muscle, every nerve peaked, wanting more, antic.i.p.ating more in a few weeks, when they came together avowed lovers. Don't think about it. A nerve seemed to connect his loins to the foot that soon would be gone...If someone gets here before the rocks move.

The dog stirred, Whit opened his eyes. The dog got to its feet and p.r.i.c.ked its ears. Someone was coming. The muscles of Whit's chest tightened, immobile, his lungs seized up. Chase, who'd killed Jenny, coming to finish the job.

Chase is dead.It had to be true, because Ky had told him. Not Jenny. Ky. How had she known? Found his body, of course. He must have been standing square in the path of the falling rocks. Ky had searched until she found the body. Not Jenny, who would have run screaming. Or fainted.

The whine of a distant drill. No, a siren. Turn it off. He started to shout, told himself not to be silly. Vibrations might bring the rocks down. Try mental telepathy. Who would be driving the car? The nearest deputy. He concentrated on making contact with Colton's brain.Turn the d.a.m.n siren off.

It faded, Whit dared to breathe, but the siren renewed itself. The car must have made the turn onto the Fellows Canyon road. "Turn the siren off," he shouted.

The dog climbed on a boulder and barked. The siren faded, and did not start again.

He should give the dog a name. Pooch sounded silly for a ranch dog. They'd found him at Penny Springs. Penny? His boyhood mutt had been Samson. This tan waif seemed hardly big enough to carry such a name. But without that snarling leap at Chase, he and Ky would be dead. A good dog. Whoever had lost the dog must miss him. He should advertise, Found on the Penny Springs Road, tan male dog, about 30 lbs.

"Here, Pooch." He pulled the furry body across his chest. The tongue, muscular on his face and neck, tried to ease his shivers. Change the dog's name. Hero?

Heaven- sent? No, that was Ky, a new angel. A more practical angel.

The grinding of gears in the narrows roared like tumbling rocks. He put his hands against his ears, until he recalled he might have to guide the men to this spot. He must warn them off the unstable rocks. The low gear rumble seemed right beneath him, vehicles grinding through the sand. Men's voices.

"No!" A female shout. "You can't go straight up. The rocks will come down on you."

"We'll follow you." Mark Fetterman.

Whit relaxed and let himself forget everything but Ky. She had the men under control. Good thing he had found a strong, determined, active woman, because until his leg healed, they'd have to make love with her on top.

A footstep very near, then a soft thud as a body dropped into the hole. "Ky," he whispered.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" He opened his eyes to the glow of a battery lantern and the shocked visage of Mark Fetterman. "Exactly as Kyla described it, but I thought she was exaggerating."

"Believe, her. She's usually right."

"d.a.m.n frustrating," Fetterman said, and Whit wasn't sure if he referred to the position of the rocks, or to Ky's ability to get to the bottom of most situations. "You seem d.a.m.n happy," Fetterman said. Whit realized the giggles he heard were his own. He had dreamed he was sitting in Whiskey Dan's, drooped over a beer, saying, "My wife understands me."

The floodlights made weird patterns of dark and bright. Men walked past balancing timbers on their shoulders, and their giant shadows paced the wall of the canyon like guardian G.o.ds. Kyla shivered; Glenda threw another blanket over her shoulders.

"You should go home and change," Glenda said. Kyla shook her head.

Another striding giant, but this one halted beside her. Sheriff Neligh. "You should go home," he said. "The men say it could be near morning before they get him out. They're taking it real slow, because there's no sense risking everyone with short cuts. Whit won't know you when they bring him down. Temple's up there, and I expect he'll give him a sedative so he won't thrash around in the litter."