Joe saw Reed’s face flush red, but the sheriff kept his calm. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Batista, but you’re not taking over this investigation. Up here, we don’t care if a murder victim is a federal employee or a local cowpoke. We treat all crimes seriously, and we vigorously investigate and prosecute them. Besides, I’m not exactly sure the shooting of two armed men can be considered murder in cold blood.

“At this point, Mr. Batista,” Reed continued, his tone icy, “we don’t know what happened yet. We are hoping you and your agency might be able to shed some light on the situation, in fact. We don’t know if these two poor fellows showed up without warning on private land and waved their guns around in the air and got shot in self-defense, or perceived self-defense, or if they were ambushed or what. That’s why we do an investigation.”

Joe considered Julio Batista. The man looked apoplectic. His hands shook. Underwood reached out and placed his hand on Batista’s shoulder to calm him. Batista shook it off.

“I will have your job for this,” he said to Reed.

“No need for that kind of talk,” Reed said calmly. “There are elections for that. Now please take Mr. Underwood and clear the crime scene so we can get to work. We want to make sure there aren’t other bodies in that hole, and we’re gathering any physical evidence we can find.”

Again, Batista looked to Coon for assistance. Coon said calmly, “We might want to do that, Director Batista. We’re losing our light, and it might be best to let these guys do their work while they still can.”

Batista glared at Coon, obviously feeling betrayed. To Reed, Batista said, “I want you to put all of your effort and resources into finding this Butch Roberson. I want him thrown in a cage quickly for what he did to my men.”

“We’ll do our job,” Reed said through clenched teeth.

“I’ll make it known that we want this man,” Batista said. “We want an example set of what happens to people when they murder public servants. I’ll make it known that we’ll reward anyone who comes forward with information leading to his immediate arrest.”

“You’ll offer a reward?” Reed asked, incredulous. He took a deep breath, and seemed to stifle his immediate reaction. Instead, he said softly, “I’d advise against that.”

“Advise all you want,” Batista said. “We will do everything we can to bring this murderer to justice.”

Joe shook his head, confounded by Batista’s vehemence. He looked to Coon, who pointedly refused to make eye contact. Batista seemed determined to antagonize Reed for reasons Joe couldn’t fathom. Both Underwood and Coon seemed to be along for the ride.

Joe was surprised when Batista turned to him. “You’re the one that let him go, right? You’re the game warden who had a nice little chat with the suspect and just let him walk away?”

Joe said, “That would be me.”

“I’ll have your job, along with the sheriff’s,” Batista said.

“There have been many days when I’d just give it to you,” Joe said, shrugging.

He felt Coon’s admonishing glare, urging Joe to keep quiet. Behind Batista and out of his field of vision, Underwood raised his right hand and pointed his index finger at Joe like a pistol. With his thumb, he let the hammer drop.

“I saw that,” Joe said to Underwood. Underwood smiled back with malevolence.

Then, reluctantly, Batista and Underwood moved away from Sheriff Reed and stood just inside the crime scene tape. Coon joined them. Batista smoldered in silence for a moment, then retreated and pulled his cell phone and spoke heatedly to someone.

—

“OUR GENERATOR AND LIGHTS are here,” Woods called out, as two more vehicles rumbled down the mountain road through the trees.

“Good,” Reed said, turning toward his men with his back to Batista, Underwood, and Coon. “Keep digging, boys.”

—

KIM LOVE of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers arrived and got out of his sedan. There was a horrified look on his face, and he approached Joe and Reed on shaky legs.

“I could have been with them,” Love said.

“Why weren’t you?” Reed asked sharply.

Love looked down at his boots. “I didn’t want any part of what they were doing. And the younger one was just too gung-ho. I’m getting too old for that kind of thing.”

Reed told Love to drive back to town and give his statement to a uniform at the sheriff’s department.

Reed said, “Make sure you leave us your contact details. We may have more questions.”

“So I’m free to go home after?” Love asked, his mood improved.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Love said. “It’s kind of crazy up here.”

—

A MOMENT LATER, Joe felt a presence behind him and turned to find Heinz Underwood.

“Yes?”

Underwood did the stare again, his eyes level with Joe’s. “You need to clear your plate, Mr. Pickett. Tomorrow I want to see exactly where you last talked to Butch Roberson so we can establish a forward operating base. He can’t get very far on foot—if he was really on foot.”

“He was when I met him,” Joe said evenly. “I can’t swear he didn’t have a truck or ATV or even a horse stashed somewhere.” Then: “The area I saw him in is National Forest. You’ll need to clear it with them if you’re going to set up some kind of camp.”

“FOB,” Underwood corrected.

“Whatever,” Joe said. Then: “You won’t be able to take vehicles into the forest very far. What few roads there were have been closed by the Forest Service. So if you plan to get into the mountains there, you’ll need to go on horseback.”

Underwood made a sour face. “Why are all the roads closed?”

“Ask them.”

Joe continued, “And in order to get to it, we need to cross the Big Stream Ranch, which is private. You need to talk to the ranch owner. His name is Frank Zeller.”

“We’ll handle it,” Underwood said. “Director Batista has already placed the call to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and they’re on board. They’re deploying a forest ranger SWAT team to meet us here in the morning.”

“A SWAT team?” Joe said, raising his eyebrows. “The EPA has armed agents and the Forest Service has a SWAT team? When did this happen?”

“In the past few years,” Underwood said dismissively, “but it’s no concern of yours. Once we find the area and establish our base, you’ll be cut loose to do whatever it is you do, and I don’t want to see you around.”

Joe felt his neck flush red. “Are you asking me or telling me? There’s a difference.”

“Either way, the result is the same. Besides, we’ve notified your governor and your new director, and they’ve pledged your full cooperation.”

Joe blinked. The governor? Twice elected as a Democrat in a seventy percent Republican state, Governor Spencer Rulon was mercurial, devious, cantankerous, glib, contradictory, and wildly popular. For several years, Rulon had manipulated the agency structure to use Joe as his personal agent and point man in the field, careful to keep it arm’s length, so if Joe screwed up, nothing would reflect back to the executive office in Cheyenne. When Joe had gotten too “hot”—according to the governor’s chief of staff—he’d been temporarily shipped off into exile in South Central Wyoming and Rulon had cut off all communication. Joe had resumed his duties in the Twelve Sleep District and hadn’t heard from Rulon since.

“I don’t even know who my new director is,” Joe said, knowing how lame it sounded.

Underwood shrugged, then leaned slightly forward so his nose was inches from Joe’s.

“I know about you, Pickett,” Underwood said.

“Have we met?”

“No, but your name is not exactly unknown to some of my friends. You’ve been around the block a few times.”

“I’m just a game warden,” Joe said.

“An irritating one, from what I understand.”

Joe shrugged.

Underwood said, “Tomorrow,” and turned and walked back to Batista.