SIX

Altick slumped exhausted on the gametrail. "This is no good. There's no time left," he gasped.

"But it can't be very far now."

"We'll need cover in the darkness." Altick squinted toward the dimming sky. The helicopter had gone back to town a while ago. It needed fuel. Besides, in the night, it would have been useless as a lookout. Altick had explained the places where they might seek shelter, and the helicopter would return at sunrise. They were on their own now, and although angry, Altick was hardly foolish. He studied the gametrail. "On that level up there. Grab some dead branches, bushes, anything. We're going to make a barricade."

They ran up, taking turns, some working while the others aimed their rifles toward the forest, then exchanging jobs so everybody had a chance to rest. They built the wall in a circle, a thick barricade made of fallen tree limbs with pointed branches sticking out. It was like the makeshift outposts he had sometimes helped to build in Vietnam. There were pointed branches projecting from the top as well, and anything that tried to breach them would soon be impaled or scratched damned bad for certain. Meanwhile, Altick and his men had their flashlights and their rifles and their handguns, lots of ammunition, seven men all told, forewarned this time and scared and angry and determined to put up a fight.

"There'll be no fire. I don't want to draw attention to us. Not until I'm ready for them. Let's find out tomorrow where they're hiding. Then we'll stop them. Help me make these torches. If we need them, we can light them."

They hurriedly gathered dead pine-tree branches, tying their needles into packets for torches. Their shirts were soaked with sweat as they worked breathlessly, others watching with their rifles as the sun sank behind the mountains. At once they entered the barricade, blocked off the entrance, and huddled silently in the darkness.

SEVEN

Wheeler had never worked this hard in his life. After he had buried what he'd shot, he'd led his bait to water. It was no good if his three steers fainted when he needed them. He brought them back and staked them again, and then he dug a trench around them, not deep, just five inches. He brought five-inch plastic drainage tubing from the barn, cut it into manageable sections, sealed one end with a screw-on, glued plastic cap, filled each section with gasoline, then sealed the other end. He was almost ready.

He'd been careful not to fill the tubes near where he planned to use them. Fumes from gasoline would only scare his targets away. His only compromise was that he drove his truck to the trap he was preparing. There he struggled with the tubes as he made several trips from truck to trench, but then he had the tubes in a circle, and he drove the truck back to the barn.

A trigger now. He needed something to ignite the gasoline. He doubted that a bullet would do the job, but for sure a dynamite cap would. He had the plunger and the wires from when he'd been blasting boulders that blocked the stream to his pond. When had he been doing that? Two years ago. He'd never finished that chore, but at least he had a use for his equipment now, and he rigged the dynamite cap between two sections of the tubing, and he strung the wire and plunger to his vantage point up in the tree. He sprinkled dirt across the tubing and the wire. He glanced sternly around in search of anything he'd forgotten. Then he slung his rifle across his shoulder and climbed the tree. Jittery from Benzedrine, he stared at the darkness. When the moon came up, he knew he'd have no trouble seeing. It was brilliant, even brighter than last night, almost full. He wouldn't have to strain to see their movements out there. He would hear them as well, hear his cattle, because this time he intended to permit the steers to die. He wanted to catch as many of those hippies as he could, to trap them as they swarmed upon his cattle.

At first he thought that the cattle fidgeted and lowed strangely because they were tethered. Then the night was suddenly in motion out there, figures crouching, darting forward from all angles. Jesus, this was going to be much better than he'd hoped.

He waited until he couldn't tolerate it any longer, until the cattle were sprawled on the ground and bellowing with madness. When he pushed the plunger, night turned into roaring day. A circle of tall flames entrapped the figures. He shot repeatedly. Through the whooshing flames, he couldn't see his targets precisely, only fire-enshrouded movement.

He kept shooting. Abruptly he was out of bullets, and he frantically reloaded. Laughing, he shot again. His shoulder ached from so many recoils. He shot and shot. He heard the screams. He smelled the burning flesh amid the roaring circle of flames. He shot, reloaded, and shot again, laughing.

The fire diminished. He scanned the mounds of lifeless bodies and continued shooting at them. Then his rifle clicked on empty, and he fumbled in his pocket for more cartridges. Finding none, he tried the other pocket, but that was empty as well, and then he heard a noise below him. Staring down, he saw a figure. No, several of them, clawing at the tree trunk. In the brilliance of the moon, the dying flames around the charnel mound, he heard them climbing, their bearded faces looming toward him, and he kicked. He jabbed with his rifle as hands reached up to grab him. He was screaming.

EIGHT

Five men in the cells downstairs, two other men with rifles watching them. The guards were leaned back in their chairs against the wall. There was a desk, a door that led out to the stairs up to the main floor, and a second door that led through to the tunnel toward the courthouse. That way prisoners could be escorted to the judge without their ever going outside, and the tunnel was both dank and fetid, odors that came underneath the bottom of the second door and filled the cell room. Slaughter had been down here only when he was required. Certainly he'd never been a prisoner, and he was understanding the humiliation, vowing that he'd make things better if he ever got the chance, although that didn't seem too likely. He was finished in this town. He knew that. Parsons had been much too clever for him. He was sickened, and the damp oppressiveness around him didn't help things.

He at least had gotten some sleep. At first he had been anxious, pacing back and forth across his cell. He'd even tried to reason with the guards, but they just looked at him and didn't answer, and his friends who were imprisoned with him, when the arguments had lagged, exchanged diminishing complaints, then gave up, sprawling in defeat across their bunks and finally were silent. Slaughter gave up with them. In his weariness, he slept.

The cells were in a row, five units with a prisoner per unit.

Lucas, who had come back after all these years to see his father, only to discover that the wheel of time had swung around to trap him. He had stayed a prisoner down here when he had testified against his father at the trial. The prosecution had been worried that he'd flee town before telling the jury about his father's temper, so he'd been jailed for what was jokingly described as his protection. He had thought he'd never come back, but his dying mother had been forceful. She'd wanted him to claim the birthright she had worked so hard for. Plus, he intended to make amends. He knew that he'd been wrong, that if he'd told the truth about the compound there was every chance his father wouldn't have been punished. He had stolen two years from his father. With the passage of too many seasons, hate had turned to pity, and with one remaining parent, he was determined not to lose the father he'd never had. He wanted to get to the ranch, to make peace with his father, to warn him, to see if he needed…