Reed rose up to his knees and held his sight on Lyle as he reached the edge of the clearing. Just a few more feet.

Lyle made a final push, climbing out of the river and stepping into the clearing a little off-balance. Reed fired once—twice—three times.

One of the bullets struck true. Lyle buckled and tipped backwards. Reed couldn’t tell if bullets two or three hit meat, or backpack, or nothing, and was about to fire a fourth round when Lyle fired back over the top of the pack. The bullet splintered the bark on the stump. Reed tripped backwards. The old man was firing blind but had damned near hit him.

When Reed peeked out again, Lyle was gone.

CHAPTER 67

Max ran as fast as he could, with the thirty-five pounds of camping gear still strapped to his back. As the river narrowed, he dropped the pack and used the trees for cover, working along the hill until he overlooked the rapids. He slipped behind a pine tree to catch his breath and assess.

The Canadian side was flat for a stretch about the size of a racquetball court, with only a bit of scrub. Beyond that, the land rose steeply up into a hill thick with trees. Lyle’s backpack lay in the clearing. Max scanned the tree line looking for Lyle, but the forest was too thick.

Then something in the river moved. It was Lyle, clinging to the Canadian shore, his body half in the water and half out, on his back. Pressed against the rocky bank, he held his rifle tightly against his chest.

Max was close enough that Lyle should hear him if he called out, but so might Reed, who had to be somewhere on that opposite bank. The trees on Max’s side of the river were too scrawny to provide cover from a bullet, but there were enough of them that he might be able to sneak down closer to Lyle.

Shotgun in hand, Max got down on all fours and crawled through the brush until he was within spitting distance of the rapids. “Lyle!” His voice didn’t carry beyond the noise of the rapids, because Lyle didn’t move. “Lyle!” A little louder and Lyle turned. “Are you hit?”

“My leg.”

“If I give you cover, can you make it back here?”

“I… I think so.”

Max doubted that Reed was close enough to be in range of the shotgun, but the noise might cause Reed to duck long enough for Lyle to retreat. If Max did nothing, hypothermia would set in and Lyle would die right there in the river.

“He’s just left of that big poplar,” Lyle said.

Max saw the tree. Tall and white, it stood out from the shadows like a dried bone. He sidled up to a dead birch, no bigger around than a coffee can, and propped the shotgun on his shoulder. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

Lyle stood, fired one shot at the side of the hill, and pushed away from the bank. Max shot at the base of the poplar tree, pumped a new shell into the chamber, and was about to fire again when three quick shots rang out from a patch of pine trees well to the left.