“I thought I’d use that on the bumper stickers in the next election, VOTE LONGMIRE, HE’S STUPID.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. You blow this case, and you won’t have to bother about the next election; they’ll just run you out of town on a rail.”

I took a sip of her coffee and tried not to make a face. “No hard feelings?”

“Hey.” She smiled with the little wrinkle at the corner of her mouth. “It’s your county.”

Vic’s rolls of film and DCI’s digital camera sat on a table in the trailer next to the ballistic sample that Ferg had dug out of the hillside. It had flattened on impact to a mushroom-shaped disc about the size of the palm of my hand. I have a big hand. The feather was also there. I reached over and took the plastic-wrapped package from the table. “You mind?” She shook her head no, and I stuffed the piece of evidence in my jacket.

“You might get a phone call, later in the week.”

“I get lots of phone calls. I’m popular.”

The sun had overtaken a large breech in the storm, with blue skies and the odd snowflake that filtered down from high altitude. Digi-Sven, the computerized voice of NOAA, was warning that a real storm was on the way and would probably be here this evening. High wind and heavy snow. I was glad T. J. Sherwin had brought DCI’s mobile unit. I was going to go back down, but at least Vic would be comfortable here.

“So, what’s the story on George Esper?” she asked.

“There were two sets of fishing gear in Jacob’s truck.”

“Any possibility that he just hauls all that stuff around with him?”

“It’s possible, but fly fishermen are pretty careful about their vests, with the flies and all. I just don’t know if George would leave his vest in his brother’s truck.”

“Possibility they were together?”

“Contents of the cooler: two cleaned fish, one partially eaten cheese sandwich, and two empty cans of Busch Lite.”

“Not enough for two.”

“Not enough beer and probably not enough food. Besides, the passenger door was locked. It’s my experience that people in this county only lock their doors when they visit Cheyenne.” This got a sidelong glance. “Nobody was riding on the passenger side.”

“What’s your theory then?”

“I think that Jacob and George Esper were supposed to meet somewhere. That Jacob came up and spent the night, started his truck yesterday morning to go and meet his brother, and instead incurred a consummation devoutly to be wished.”

“Hamlet. All the death ones are Hamlet, at least the contemplative death ones.” I unbuttoned my jacket a little; the propane heater in the camper continued to raise the temperature. “I suppose George could be with his parents, but we won’t know anything about that till we hear something from them. We’ve got an APB out on their vehicle in both Colorado and Wyoming. I’d call Trinidad and Tobago if I thought it would do any good.” We sat there, surrounded by all our technological wonders, hoping that some patrolman in Longmont would happen to drive by the right driveway. No matter how far you went into the modern age, it always seemed to come down to the guy on the beat. “I’ve also got the Forest Rangers, Smokey the Bear, and all God’s little animals out looking for a black Mazda Navajo with the plates, Tuff 1.”

She was watching me like a science experiment. “You look tired.” I sighed. “Yep, well . . . it’s truly all my worst nightmares come to life.” We sat there for a moment; “I’m 0 for 2.” I looked at her for a while and then got up, trying not to tread on her feet, and sidestepped to the door. “You don’t need me; Vic can be the primary again. You got ballistics stuff here in the Mystery Machine?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a rifle out in my truck that needs to be tested; I’ll leave it with Vic.”

“Where did this one come from?”

I paused, with my hand on the door handle. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Walt?”

I waited. “Yep?”

“You’re not being punished for your sins.”

She caught up, and we walked along. “Where are you going?”

“I’m headed down. I’ll get things set up at the office, then I’ll be back.” I opened the door and took the Cheyenne Death Rifle from the seat of my truck and handed it to her.

She held it, carefully studying the sheath, then tightened her lips and looked up at me. “Henry?”

“Lonnie, by way of Henry.”

She slowly exhaled and then pulled the rifle out, holding it up in the morning light. “Fuck me running through the forest.”

“We already discussed that.”

She ignored me and continued. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”

“That seems to be the general response to this particular weapon.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s haunted. There are supposed to be Old Cheyenne hanging around the thing looking for people to abduct and take back to the Camp of the Dead.”

She studied it some more. “Cool.”

She went off to my truck, and I walked over to the back of one of the DCI Suburbans, where Ferg and Al Monroe were having an animated conversation concerning the relative advantages of the Bitch Creek Nymph over the Number Sixteen Elk Hair Cadis. I always wondered about men who spent their time trying to anticipate and know a fish in a world where man’s knowledge of each other could only be called scarce. It just seemed to be gratuitously ignorant for any man to think that he could think like a fish. Then there was the high deceit of the artificial fly; subtlety, guile, and sly deception created and instilled only to lure a cautious and tentative fish to its death. They were as bad as drug fiends, living in their shadowy world of aquatic intrigue.

I sometimes fly-fished, but it was catch and release, and I always brought a book. “Ferg, have you looked at the equipment he was carrying?”

“Yep.” He looked at Al for confirmation, and they nodded somberly to each other. “Yellow and Royal Humpies, Parachute Adams, Light Cahills, and a couple of wet flies, mostly Montana Stones.”

“Nothing like a Royal Humpie. Any ideas on where George might have gone?”

“Some.” I waited. “Meadowlark, West Tensleep Creek, Medicine Lodge, Crazy Woman, head of the Clear, maybe even north fork of the Powder.”

“Well, that should narrow it down to about 189,000 acres. How long do you think it’ll take you?”

Dejectedly, he looked at the skies west of us. “A little while . . .”

I followed his gaze to the dark lines of clouds converging across the Big Horn basin and the Wind River Range. This was the one that was going to signify that autumn was over. If you lived here long enough, you could sense them coming. The few leaves left on the aspens quaked, and you could almost feel the barometric undertow as the storm gathered momentum. The clouds looked flat and mean, and they stretched into the distance; it made my eyes hurt. I was having enough trouble operating a homicide investigation without a raging blizzard at ten thousand feet. As he started to go, I leaned over to him. “You got a rifle in your truck?”

He stopped dead and looked at me. “What?”

I glanced over at Al as he suddenly found DCI’s proceedings of great interest. “Do you have a rifle in your truck?”

“Um, no.”

“Get Vic’s .243. Just because we don’t know where George Esper is, doesn’t mean somebody else doesn’t.”

The drive down the mountain wasn’t too bad; the only place where there was ice was on the flats, where the wind had continually applied a fresh coat of melting snow. Any other time, swooping over the gentle hills of the high meadow was a mind-freeing experience, but my mind snagged on the teepee signs for the campgrounds in the Bighorn National Forest. Henry was right, there had been no Indians on the jury.

“Please rise.” Vern’s voice was steady and carried the patrician quality that resonated that fervent prayer, that desperate plea for justice. Whose justice we were about to find out. Bryan closed his eyes, Jacob and George remained emotionless, and Cody glared. Cody Pritchard was found guilty of two counts of first-degree aggravated sexual assault; one count was for assaulting a mentally defective woman, and the other was for using force or coercion in that assault. He was also found guilty of conspiracy in the second degree. Jacob Esper, same verdict. George Esper was found guilty of one count of aggravated sexual assault in the second degree and was guilty of second-degree conspiracy. Bryan Keller was acquitted of the more serious charges but was found guilty of second-degree conspiracy.

After Vern was through reading the verdict, Cody leaned over to Jacob and whispered something; they both laughed. I felt like going over there. I made a mental note to keep a closer eye on them from then on and, if possible, to take a personal interest in their miseries. Sentencing was set for three weeks. All four were released with nominal bail and, after two years of freedom following their crime, they were set free again.

When I made the final sweep of the now closed courtroom, there was only one person left. “Quite a show. Mm, hmm, yes. It is so.”

I stood there in my cotton-poly-blend uniform, looked past him at the cheap paneling on the walls, and felt the fraud of human institutions. His eyes wouldn’t let me go, wouldn’t let me usher him out and get it all over with, so I went and sat on the armrest of the chair in front of him. He smiled, looking through the thick lenses in his glasses, and patted my leg. “Long day?”

I smiled back. “Yep.”

He looked around, his hand remaining on my leg. “Doesn’t take long for everybody to get out of here, huh?”

“No.”

“Mm. Not like on the television.”

“Is there somebody here to help you, Lonnie?”

“Oh, yes. Arbutus has gone to get the car.”

“Do you need help getting down?”

“Oh, no. I use the elevator.” We sat there in silence, as the radiators ticked and groaned. His eyes drifted down to the gun that also rested on my leg. “Those boys?” I waited. “They went home?”

I cleared my throat. “Yep, Lonnie. They did.”

His eyes remained on my gun. “You will go and get them?”

I paused. “They’ll be right back here in three weeks to be sentenced. That’s when Vern decides what will happen to them now that they are guilty.”

His eyes came up, and he looked profound. “That judge, yes, he looks like Ronald Colman. Mm, hmm. It is so.”

He didn’t see it coming, nobody would have. He was used to my irascible moods and just thought he had caught the sheriff at a bad time. He had. I brought my hand up in a full-reach swipe that caught the side of his head and propelled it face first into the quarter panel of the Thunder Chicken, as my right boot scooped his feet out from under him. The impact was thunderous on the hollow flank of the car, and the dent it left was substantial. He didn’t get up but lay there beside the rear wheel, a small pool of blood spreading from the side of his downturned face.

I stepped over his legs and rolled him to one side, brushing away his hat and grabbing his shirtfront, pulling his face up close to mine. “If you ever harm a prisoner in my jail again . . .” But he wasn’t listening, he was out. I held his head there for a moment and then gently laid it down on the concrete. I felt sick. It was from the adrenaline, or at least I blamed it on that. It always hit me afterwards. I would have to walk it off. I became aware of some movement behind me as I stood and stepped away and continued up the steps and into my office. Whoever it was that had walked up had evidently decided that whatever they had to do with me wasn’t that important.

The door to the office was open when I got there. Ruby held the knob with her other hand over her heart, her eyes wider than I had ever seen them. “Oh, my Lord . . .”

I breezed past her into the reception area and almost collided with Lucian. He teetered back and nearly fell as I caught him and stood him upright. I figured a good offense was the best defense. “You got something to say?”

His face broke into a broad grin. “Damn, what a lick!”

I left him there and continued down the hallway, through the door, and into the jail’s holding cells. I slammed the door back, stormed through the open cubicle, and sat myself on one of the bunks, my back thumping against the wall as I clutched my shaking hands together and set my jaw. I concentrated on my hands, willing them to stop; it took a while. My breathing was returning to normal, and the flushed feeling was starting to fade. I licked my lips and exhaled, trying to push the rest of the adrenaline through my flooded blood stream. I hated it, I hated seeing it, I hated hearing about it, and I hated doing it. I brought my head up to find a terrified Bryan Keller looking at me from the other bunk. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. He was crouched in the corner with his legs pulled up and his arms wrapped around them; only his eyes were visible over the kneecaps.

We listened as the commotion from the reception area carried down the hallway and bounced off the masonry walls. I had no idea you could hear everything so well from the cells. The front door was closed, but there was a scooting of chairs and a murmuring of voices. You could hear Lucian’s voice above the others, “Bring ’im on in here, Ladies Wear . . .” More murmuring and voices, “How you like them apples, you little son of a bitch? You try and get up, and I’ll kick your ass so far . . .” It trailed off with the roaring in my ears. It was like being underwater and, for a few moments, I floated there, letting the sinking feeling in the middle of my shoulders wash over me. I was tired.

A while later, Henry peered around the divider. His hair hung down, and his face looked at me sideways.

I took off my hat and placed it on the bunk beside me, running my hands over my face. “What?” It would appear that not all the adrenaline was gone.

“Nothing.”

I sat there for a moment. “He all right?”

He stepped around the divider and ducked his head to look through the bars. “He will never play the violin with his nose again, if that is what you mean.”

“Better call the EMTs.”

“He is already gone; Ruby has taken him to the hospital. It seemed to be the best thing, since his uncle would not stop kicking him.”

I waited. “You think I overreacted?”

He shook his head in mock earnest. “Oh, no. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable response to someone parking in your spot.” He wandered over to the doorway of the cell. “How about we have breakfast?” He glanced down at Bryan. “How about you?” To my relief, Bryan declined, and we slipped out the back way. “Interesting office management skills, kind of a ‘violence is not the answer so I’m going to beat the shit out of you’ philosophy.”

I was looking at the sky; still nothing, but I could feel the coming storm. My eyes continued up the South Pass to the snow above the tree line; I was looking for George Esper.

“Kind of like Indian foreplay.”

He had to be up there, somewhere.

“What do ten Indian women with black eyes have in common?”

The fishing flies were the key and, if Ferg could connect the very specific lures to very specific areas, we might have a chance.

“They just won’t listen.”

If George knew about the weather, would he come down? Would he go looking for his brother?

“How was your date last night?”

The more time went by without finding him, the more likely it was that he was dead. I would have to deputize one of Ferg’s buddies and send him out to sit at the Esper place to see if anybody was going to show up.

“You did not let her touch the wine, did you?”

And what the hell was going on in Longmont? I could have driven down there and looked for them myself by now. At least Bryan was safe, but I needed to talk with his father. There was something there, maybe.

“By the way, I got word on Artie Small Song.”

I stopped. “What?”

“I thought that might get your attention.” He was smiling and shaking his head. “I got a call from his mother, and she thought that we might want to know that Artie has been in Yellowstone County Jail, up in Billings, since Saturday.”

That narrowed the field. “Charge?”

“Carrying an unregistered concealed weapon without a permit.”

I nodded to Dorothy when we threaded our way through the three or four locals sitting at the counter, and we took seats on the end stools toward the back. They had looked up, and I didn’t smile. “So, what’re you doing following me around?”

“I thought you would be interested in Artie, and I have information about the feather.” He propped his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Something has happened?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Your manner is curt and slightly agitated.”

“Jacob Esper is dead.” I watched him very carefully, but there was no visible response.

“That answers some of your questions.”

“You don’t seem very upset.”

“I am not. Should I be?”

I looked at him for a moment. “No, I suppose not.” Dorothy brought over some coffee and a couple of menus.

She was looking at my winter gear, and she smiled. “The game’s afoot?”

I tossed the menu back to her. “The usual.” She raised an eyebrow and looked at Henry.

“I will have what he is having.”

The other eyebrow rose. “He doesn’t know what he’s having.”

“I will have it anyway.”

She looked at the both of us, shrugged, and headed back to the grill.

“Tell me about the feather.”

He sat back up straight, took a sip of his coffee, and made me wait, finally turning back and looking me in the eye. “Wanda Real Wolf. She used to head up the Cheyenne Artist’s Co-Op.”

“The one that went out of business?”

“Yes. It is much easier to get Indians to work together than artists.”

“They’re her feathers?”

“Feathers, plural?” I set my jaw and nodded, and he looked at me for a while. “Interesting. You have it with you?” I took the feather from my jacket and handed it to him. He turned the plastic bag over in the light from the windows and studied the contents. “It too could be Wanda’s.”

“I don’t suppose Wanda keeps detailed records of her feather sales?”

He sat it down between us and took another sip of his coffee. “Worse than that, she does not sell them separately, only on objects she and her immediate family make.”

“Like?”

“Dream catchers, flutes, pipes, dance headdresses, items like that.”

“I don’t suppose she has a limited clientele?”

“High-end tourist shops, all over the country.”

“Great. So these things could be pulled off anything?”

“Yes. I asked her if there was any way of finding the location or age of the pieces, but she said no.”

I started to take another sip of my coffee, but the smell informed me that I had had enough. “Any way to tell what pieces the feathers could have come off of ?”

“She said that small pinholes at the base of the quill probably meant that they came off dream catchers or pipes, nontraditional usage.” He caught me looking at the feather between us. “Both have such holes. I am afraid that does not narrow the field much.”

“No.” I took the feather and stuffed it back in my jacket.

He waited quietly. “There is more?”

I weighed my options and decided to clear the air. “How come you were late going running yesterday?”

He sat his coffee cup down, and a mischievous glint shaded his eyes. “I was out shooting white boys.”

“I’m serious.”

He turned and looked at me, square. “I know, and it is starting to piss me off.”

Moment of truth. “Where were you?”

He turned on his stool, straightening his body and trailing a hand down to rest lightly on his leg. The smile was gone, and his eyes had flattened. “Are you going to hit me?”

My voice sounded mechanical. “I’m through hitting people today. Where were you?” It was a long pause.

“Sleeping with Dena Many Camps.”

Two steaming plates of Canadian bacon and eggs, sunny side up, with grits, were slid under our noses. I glanced over and then looked again. “That’s the usual?”

She looked at Henry. “Told you.” With this, she freshened our coffee and moved down the counter to take care of the other customers. You had to hand it to her, she could tell when her clients wanted peace, if not quiet.

I started to work on my usual, but he was still watching me, and I was starting to feel ashamed of myself. “She’s half your age.”

He laughed. “Are you going to jail me for that now?” He turned and began eating.

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“It is only premarital sex if you are planning on getting married.”

I spoke out of the corner of my full mouth. “You should be even more ashamed.”

He kept eating, finally replying between bites, “You are such a prude.”

“Pervert.”

“Jealous.”

I told him about Al’s description of the shooter, and we were through it, but he remained quiet for a while. I continued with the story of the two fishing vests, the flies, and Al Monroe. He agreed with the theory that George was probably up there somewhere. He asked if I’d checked the Forest Service sign-in sheets. I told him we had. He was thinking, “Largish with long maybe dark hair?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Interesting.” He ate some more of his breakfast. “Were they hand-tied or store bought?”

“What?”

“The flies. If they were new and store bought, then maybe they mentioned to someone where they were going?”

“I’ll radio up and ask Ferg.”

We finished breakfast, and I asked Dorothy to fix up a usual for an occupant. She put it in one of the Styrofoam containers and handed it to me with a worn smile but with no questions. I tried to mend some fences. “I’ll probably be back for dinner.”

“I’ll set the name cards.”

“His nose is shattered.”

“I’m feeling bad enough, you don’t have to add to it.”

“You’re not feeling anywhere near as bad as he is. They patched him up, but they say he’s going to have to go up to Billings to get it properly set.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I waited for more, but there wasn’t any. “Could you see if you can raise Ferg on the radio?”

She flipped the toggle switches on the console and reached for her headphones, holding one side up to her ear. “Why, you want to beat on him, too?”

I continued into my office with Henry close behind. He occupied the seat in front of my desk and was smiling. I sat in my chair. “So, you wanna be a deputy?”

He looked at the accumulated clutter on my desk and the general disorder of the place. I had to admit, it didn’t look all that inviting. “I think I might work better outside the framework.”

“Well, we do have a moral turpitude clause.”

The little red light on my phone began blinking, and I was starting to get an idea of how angry Ruby was with me; she never used the intercom, she always came to the door. I picked up the receiver and spoke cautiously, “Yep?”

“Ferg, line one.” And she was gone.

I hit it. “Ferg?” The connection wasn’t great, but I could hear him. “Where have you covered?”

Static for a while. “I started with Crazy Woman, middle fork of Clear Creek, and I’m headed up to Seven Brothers.”

“I’ve got a question for you. Were those flies hand-tied or store bought?”

“Store bought, definitely.” He paused. “I think they’re from the Sportshop.”

“That is good news. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and looked at Henry.

“Do you want me to go out to the Espers and see who shows?”

“They also serve who stand and wait.”

“Yes, but the pay is shit.” He looked around the office. “Have you got any books around here?”

“I think I’ve got a paperback copy of Crime and Punishment”—I scouted out the bookshelves—“and I’ve got Lolita around here somewhere.”

“I will pick something up.”

As he left, Ruby appeared at the door, and I noticed he gave her a wide berth. “I need to talk to you.”

I did my best to look repentant, but I had the feeling contrition wasn’t suiting me. “Yes?”

“You need to talk to Bryan. I don’t think he fully understands why it is he’s here.”

I thought of all the things I had to do. “Okay.” She stayed there, leaning against the doorway and looking at me. “What?”

“You’re a sheriff. You’re supposed to stand against such things, not for them.” I made the mistake of smiling. “It’s not funny.” She was really angry now, the blue in her eyes was neon. “You could have called him in and talked to him, you could have fired him . . . There’s no end to the options that were open to you, but no, you waited, you planned, and you executed. Your actions were deliberate and with forethought.”

I waited, then sighed, and continued on toward my doom. “Are you through?”

“No, I’m not.” She was off the doorway in an instant and stood directly in front of my desk. She looked like she was about ten feet tall. “I’m thinking I should hand in my resignation.”

“Ruby, I’m sorry.” She glared at me, still not giving an inch. “I was sorry when I did it.” I leaned back in my chair, just trying to get a little distance between us. “I’m mortified. It makes me sick.” I sighed again, looking out my window to avoid those eyes. “How is he?”

“He looks horrible, both his eyes are black and his nose is . . . He has tubes in his nose.”

“Ruby, please . . .” I got up and went around the desk, but she backed away, and the response was ferocious.

“Don’t touch me.”

I went ahead and stepped forward, opening my arms and pulling her in. She didn’t struggle, and I wrapped her up. “I’m sorry. I really am sorry.” I could feel how thin and fragile she was; her shoulder blades stuck out like sparrow wings.

“I am so ashamed of you.”

“I know, I know.” I held her there for a while, just listening to her breathe.

“You know this could be misconstrued as sexual harassment?”

“I hope so . . . How’s Lucian doing?”

I felt her stiffen a little. “Don’t make your problems worse by asking.”

I let her go and held her out to look at her. “Yes, ma’am.” The bell on the front door sounded as somebody pushed it open; we both looked toward the doorway. “You see to that, I’ll go talk to Bryan.” I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and headed for the holding cells. When I got there, he was lying on his bunk, the remains of breakfast sat on the floor beside him, and the door still hung open. I went in and sat on the opposite bunk again. “Didn’t like your breakfast?”

His arms were folded behind his head, but his face turned to me as I propped my Sorels up on the edge of his bed. “I’m just not hungry.”

“I’d take advantage of the good stuff, we switch over to potpies on the weekend.”

His attention returned to the ceiling. “I’m still going to be here over the weekend?”

“Unless I can find who’s killing your friends.” I waited for a moment, watching him. “Jacob Esper’s dead.” He didn’t move at first, but then his arms came up and covered his face. I officially took him off the list. “I guess Mr. Ferguson didn’t tell you.” I looked at him. “You and George ever go fishing?”

He thought. “Yeah, I mean we have.”

“Where?” He was aware of how important the answer might be, so he removed his arm and looked at me. “Anyplace special? A lake on the mountain he likes best?”

His eyes escaped mine and went to the floor. “Lost Twin, that’s his favorite.”

I was up and out of the cell before I remembered. “Bryan?”

He was already sitting up and looking at me. “Yes, sir?”

“You’re not in here because you did something wrong, you’re here because somebody is out there trying to do something to you, and I’m not going to let that happen.”

I blew through the cell door and rushed down the hall but pulled up short when I got to the front. He did look like hell, with the rolled-up cotton and tubes sticking out of his nostrils and the gauze bandage plastered across the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones underneath both black eyes. He was sitting on the edge of Ruby’s desk when I came in, and he started to get up, but I stopped him. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m here to work, unless you fired me.”

His voice was thick and nasal; you could tell he was having trouble breathing. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital or on your way to Billings?”

He stood, even though I put out a hand to stop him. “I’m here to work.”

“You think you can?”

He tried to stand up straighter. “I ain’t hurt that bad.”

I kept trying to see Lucian in him, that little glimmer of the old goat that would make him salvageable. Maybe he was what Lucian would have turned out to be if the old sheriff hadn’t lived in such interesting times. A couple of years in a Japanese prison camp might be just what Turk needed, but I didn’t have a bridge over the river Kwai for him to build, so we had to settle for Powder Junction. “Go out to the Esper place and relieve Henry Standing Bear. Tell him to come back to the office.” He didn’t say anything, just gingerly made his way out the door.

When I turned around, Ruby had her arms folded. “I suppose that’s as close as we’re going to get to an apology?”

“I didn’t fire him.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you get me the Ferg, please?” I gave her a dirty look of my own. “Then if you would be so kind as to try and get Jim Keller on the phone?” This got another questioning look. “Oh, and could you call the Yellowstone County Jail and see if they have frequent lodger Artie Small Song?”

While she attempted to raise Unit Three, I walked over to the window and looked back up the valley. The clouds were just beginning to creep over the lower peaks, and it didn’t look good. We had an opening in the weather but, by my calculations, it was only good for about the next five hours. I needed help—as near as I could figure, about seven million dollars’ worth.

“I’ve got him.”

I turned back and took the mic. “Ferg, where are you?”

Static. “Up from the Hunter Corrals.”

“Turn around.”

There was a long pause. “What?”

“I think he’s at Lost Twin.” I shrugged for my own amusement and Ruby’s. “Appropriately enough.”

A much longer pause. “We’ll never make it in there before dark, and with this weather coming in . . .”

I keyed the mic and held it. “Yep, I know.” I looked over at Ruby. “I’m gonna get us some help. I’ll call you back. All I need you to do is get to the parking lot at West Tensleep.”

Static. “Just the parking lot?”

Static again. “Hey, Ferg?”

“Yeah?”

“Anybody who’s there . . . hold ’em.” I handed the mic back to Ruby, loving it when she didn’t know what I was up to. “Would you add Omar to the phone list?”

“What in heaven’s name for?”

I waited a moment, then batted my eyelashes and stated the obvious, “I need to talk to him.” I crossed the room and took out my keys and hung them on the rack, just in case anybody needed to move the truck. She shook her head and dialed as I made my way back to my office. I sat at my desk and made mental preparations for the coming conversations and for the plan that was just starting to fully develop in my mind. I glanced over at the doorway and around the corner to the safe where we kept the guns. I knew what was in there and made a few calculations on what we would need—all long-range weapons. There were a couple of battered old Remington 700s and a Winchester Model 70 and, as near as I could remember, the Remingtons were .30- 06s and the Winchester was a .270. All good rifles, but I was thinking of the Weatherby Mark V .308 that was lurking in the back. Omar donated it to the library raffle about five years ago, and I had embarrassingly won it, and it had rested in the back of the safe ever since. I wasn’t even sure if I had ammunition for the thing. I remembered the sign at the Marine Corps Scout Sniper School at Quantico that read THE AVERAGE ROUNDS EXPENDED PER KILL WITH THE M16 IS FIFTY THOUSAND. THE MARINE SNIPER AVERAGES 1.3 ROUNDS PER KILL. THE COST DIFFERENCE IS $2,300 VS. 27 CENTS. Shave and a haircut, two bits.

On a whim, I punched up Vonnie’s number and listened to her machine tell me she was unavailable at this time but to leave a message and she’d get back to me as soon as possible. When I hung up the phone, Ruby was at the door; it appeared I was on the road to being forgiven. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Mrs. Keller says Jim’s gone hunting with a friend in Nebraska. She also says that she’s bringing Bryan his lunch and a few things and wants to know how long we are intending on keeping him.”

“Oh, brother . . .” I placed my elbows on the desk and rested my chin on my combined fist.

“You’re going to wish you hadn’t stuck your hand in that hornet’s nest.”

I looked at the blinking red lights on my phone. “Do you think she was lying?”

She crossed her arms and covered her mouth, deep in thought. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Yep, it does.” She glanced down the hall toward the jail in an unconscious effort to conceal her thoughts. “When Henry gets here, tell him to go down to Dave’s and get some real winter gear, altitude stuff, and some Winchester .308s.” She nodded absentmindedly and disappeared back toward her desk. “Is this Omar on line one?”

She called back down the hallway, “Line one,” then reappeared in the doorway. “By the way, Artie Small Song is in the Yellowstone County Jail and has been there since Saturday. They want to know if you want him; they say he eats like a horse.”

“Tell them it’s a wonderful offer, but no thanks.” She nodded and disappeared as I picked up the receiver and punched line one. “Omar?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t a happy yes.

I thought for a moment. “Are you aware of the term posse comitatus?”

“Yes.”

I listened to the silence on the line and then settled into the plan. “Do you still have that Neiman Marcus helicopter?”