Sienna Track's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Sienna reached the trailhead before sunrise. She had planned to climb the south ridge and look up at the lookout from below. The plan changed when she saw the parked sedan beside the iron bell tower at the trailhead. A water bottle sat on the hood. Fresh tread marks went up the path. Someone had started up the trail ahead of her, alone, in the dark, straight toward the tower's sight line. She ran. The fog thickened as the path climbed. A hundred yards up, the trail passed through an old wooden gate strung with twisted branches, the last marker before the mist swallowed everything. Past the gate, distance lied. She stopped at the gate and listened. Footfalls ahead, steady, light. A woman's pace. Sienna could not see her. She could not shout either. A shout would carry up to the lookout and tell the watcher exactly where two runners stood. She turned back. She ran down to the iron bell tower at the trailhead and grabbed the rope. The tower bell was too loud, too long, a sound that would roll up the whole ridge and pin them both in place. She let the rope go. In her pack she carried a small brass hand bell with a wooden grip, the kind hikers clipped to belts for bears. She pulled it out and ran back up to the gate. She rang it once, sharp and short. The sound carried up the trail, no farther. She rang it again. Three quick strikes, the trailhead signal every Stagmire runner knew: turn around, trail closed. The footfalls above stopped. A pause. Then they came back down, faster now, confused but obedient. The jogger appeared out of the fog, a woman in a yellow jacket, breathing hard. She started to ask what was wrong. Sienna put a finger to her lips and walked her down to the trailhead without a word. At the sedan, she told the woman a bear had been seen on the ridge and the trail was closed until rangers cleared it. The woman thanked her and drove off. Sienna stood alone by the iron bell tower with the small bell still in her hand. The jogger was safe. The dawn ambush was gone. So was her one window. The watcher in the lookout had heard the bell, had heard the footfalls stop and reverse, and now knew someone at the trailhead was steering runners away from the ridge. She had announced herself without showing her face. She folded the sketch back into her pocket and looked up the empty trail. The predator had been sitting and choosing. Now it had something new to watch for, and she had lost the only morning it would not expect her.