"Gotcha." Joe smiled in solidarity.

After Joe had downed a cup and a half of strong coffee, Ed brought out the platter. Joe ate with barely controlled aggression, and sat back only after swiping the plate clean with toast. There was nothing special about the food, except that it was perfect, Joe thought.

"I'm sorry about earlier," Ed said as he brought the coffeepot and the bill to the table. "Will Jensen used to be the first guy in the door about three days a week. I saw the cowboy hat and the jacket, and, well…"

Joe smiled. "I understand."

Ed arched his eyebrows. "You even chose his table."

At first, that disturbed Joe. Then he thought about it, and it made sense. The table he'd chosen was nearest the kitchen, so he would know who was behind him and also be able to see who entered the restaurant. Through the window, he could note the license plates of the vehicles that arrived in the sliver of a parking lot, and would be able to check vehicles that were likely hunting rigs. That Joe had chosen the table without thinking about it seemed natural, as it probably had for Will. Still, though …

"Will was a big fan of the Sportsman's Special," Ed said, beaming. "He even took his eggs and meat the same way."

"I'll be darned," Joe said, with a pang of disquietude.

"There will be quite a few hunters in here any minute," Ed said. "We're the only place open this early."

Joe looked at the bill. Breakfast cost more than it would have in Saddlestring, but it wasn't as expensive as he'd feared.

"You said something about owning this place for now," Joe asked. "What did you mean by that?"

Ed made change from a bulging pocket on his apron. "The lot is worth five times what the business is worth because I'm close to the square and I've been here a long time. I'm proud to say we've fed thousands of hunters and fishermen over the years-men who want big breakfasts. But the offers have been coming for the last ten years, the price is right. Some guy from Seattle wants to open up an Indonesian restaurant in Jackson, and he likes the location."

"Indonesian?" Joe asked. "Where's a guy going to get breakfast?"

Ed shrugged. "Don't know. Besides, this place doesn't fit anymore, and neither do I."

When Joe stepped out of the Sportsman's Cafe, he saw Smoke Van Horn coming up the wooden sidewalk with three other men. It was obvious to Joe from the look of them-heavy winter coats, crisp jeans, massive high-tech boots, an odd assortment of headgear-that they were Smoke's hunting clients.

"It's the FNG!" Smoke boomed, forging ahead of his customers and extending his bear-like hand to Joe. "How're you doing this great morning?"

"Fine, Smoke."

One of Smoke's clients, a tall man with a thin mustache and a three-day growth of beard he must have started before he left home, asked, "FNG?"

Joe knew what was coming.

"Fucking new guy." Smoke laughed. "Meet my com-padres,Joe. Everybody's from Georgia."

Smoke introduced the three men to Joe and they all took turns crushing his hand.

"Go on inside and grab a table," Smoke told them. "I'll be right behind you after I talk to the game warden. In fact, I brung you something."

Smoke dug into his coat and handed Joe a copy of the book he had written, How the Pricks Deny Me a Living.

"It's signed," Smoke said.

Joe flipped to the title page. Smoke had inscribed "Don't be a prick" in childish longhand, followed by his signature. Joe had to smile. Then he looked up at the hunters, asking, "Everybody's got licenses and wildlife stamps, right?"

The men looked guiltily at one another for an instant.

"Of course they do," Smoke said.

"Let's make sure," Joe said, keeping his tone light. He stood by until all of the hunters had dug into their wallets and showed Joe their licenses and stamps while Smoke glowered. Joe knew that the hunters would likely spend $5,000 to $6,000 each with Smoke, maybe more for the opportunity to get a trophy elk with the famous outfitter. There would be dozens of other clients arriving throughout the season.

"Thanks, gentlemen," Joe said. "The Sportsman's Special comes recommended."

After the three hunters had gone inside, Smoke turned to Joe. "What kind of outfit do you think I'm running?"

"From what I've heard, you run the most efficient hunting operation in terms of success ratio in this valley," Joe said.

"So why are you checking my clients' licenses like I'm some kind of peckerwood?"

Joe buttoned up his jacket against the cold, which had dropped the temperature a few degrees as dawn broke. "So they know I can," Joe said, "and so you know I will."

Smoke shook his head. "We're not going to have trouble working together, are we?"

"I hope not," Joe said. "But I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that there are quite a few notes in Will Jensen's records about you. He thought you might be salting to bring in all of those big elk for your shooters."

Smoke's face darkened. He stepped close to Joe, towering over him.

"Will never proved a goddamned thing and you know it," he said, his voice low. "D'you think salting is what accounts for my success?"

"I didn't say that."

"Do you have any fucking idea what you're saying?" Smoke growled. "You just got here."

"Yup," Joe said, "but I didn't just fall off the cattle truck. We'll get along fine as long as you operate as clean and legal as you say you do." He glanced down, saw that Smoke's fists were balled.

"In that case, mister," Smoke said, "you've got nothing to worry about."

"That's good," Joe said, reaching out, waiting for Smoke to unclench his fist and shake his hand, which he did, although with more force than was necessary.

"I'll be seeing you around," Joe said pleasantly. "Thank you for the book."

"Read it, you'll learn something," Smoke said. "So when are you headed up?" meaning into the backcountry, where his camp was located.

"Don't know," Joe said. "I've got a lot of business to attend to here first."

I like that answer,Smoke seemed to say with his eyes. His face softened. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help you get oriented to this country. Nobody, and I mean nobody, knows it better than I do. I've been over every inch of these mountains, and been in the middle of everything. I know where the bodies are buried, if you know what I mean."

Joe nodded, smiled.

"Don't be fooled by all the rich bastards who live here now," Smoke said. "This is still the wildest fucking place in the Lower Forty-eight."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me," Joe said.

"For once, everybody's right."

"Have a good breakfast, Smoke," Joe said as he tipped his hat and walked away.

At his pickup, Joe thought about what Smoke had asked him. They had just played out a bout of "Where Will the Game Warden Be?"Joe had been sincere regarding his plans. But now that Smoke had tipped his hand, questioning him about when he'd go into the backcountry, seeming pleased to hear it wouldn't be soon, Joe made up his mind to get himself into the mountains and the elk camps as quickly as he could.