Jimmy Sollis fitted his long-distance rifle into a padded scabbard and lashed it to his saddle. He’d clipped a cartridge belt around his waist and hung heavy-barreled binoculars around his thick neck.

—

“A QUARTER TO ONE,” McLanahan declared, checking his wristwatch as they rode into the trees. “We made good time. I’ll bet the Feds on the other side of the mountain aren’t even organized yet.”

Farkus said nothing, and of course Sollis kept quiet.

As the canopy of trees closed in above them, Farkus noted how cool and dark it was. Memories from several years before came rushing back of another horse pack trip into another set of mountains for other fugitives, as well as the previous fall with Butch Roberson in these same mountains. Butch loved the mountains as much as life itself, he’d told Farkus.

McLanahan asked, “Dave, how far until we make the elk camp?”

Farkus strained around in his saddle, looking out ahead of them—trees—and to the sides—trees. All he knew was that they were high enough into the timber where he could no longer look back and see the pickup and trailer.

“Three or four hours,” Farkus said, trying to guess.

“Time to go dark, gentlemen,” McLanahan said to Farkus and Sollis. “If you’ve got cell phones, shut them off. We can’t have a phone start ringing as we’re closing in on Butch. And if Wheelchair Dick finds out we’re up here, he’ll try to order us back. In this case, ignorance is bliss, buckaroos. We’re on a mission.”

Both Farkus and Sollis dug their phones out and switched them off.

Farkus asked, “What if the Feds see us and start shooting? You said they don’t know we’re up here, either.”

McLanahan twitched his mustache—Farkus guessed it was a grin—and said, “There’s a big difference between three men on horseback and one lonely and desperate guy on foot. Even those yahoos should be able to tell the difference.

“Plus,” he continued, “we should be in place long before those yahoos even start their push. We should have Butch one way or other long before they even know we’re here.”

—

AN HOUR into their ride into the mountains, Farkus nudged Dreadnaught to the side of the trail and waited for Jimmy Sollis to catch up. As he approached, Sollis looked at Farkus with a hostile, deadeye stare that Farkus felt all deep in his gut.

When Sollis caught up, Farkus nudged his horse so they rode side by side.

“So what’s the deal with you?” Farkus asked. “Are you going into this for the money, like me?”

“Hardly.”

Farkus waited a beat, but Sollis didn’t offer more. Ahead, trees were narrowing on both sides of the trail, and he knew they wouldn’t be able to ride abreast much longer.

“Do you have a beef with Butch Roberson?” Farkus asked.

“Never met the man.”

“So what is it, then? You and the ex-sheriff are tight?”

“Fuck, no.”

The trees started to pinch in. Farkus could feel Dreadnaught start to gather beneath him, as if preparing to bolt.

“I get it,” Farkus said, irritated. “You’re a man of few words. Well, I’m not. And if I’m going to risk my ass going up into these mountains, I need to know what kind of company I’m keeping.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not kidding,” Farkus said, feeling his neck flush with anger.

Sollis didn’t look at him when he said, “I tried to sign up for the military, but I had a record, so they wouldn’t take me. All I wanted to do was serve my country, and they wouldn’t have me. I wanted to go to Iraq or Afghanistan.”

At the last second, before Dreadnaught bolted or crowded Sollis’s horse into the trees, Farkus clicked his tongue and moved his mount back in front. Over his shoulder, he said, “So you just want to shoot somebody with that rifle of yours.”

“Damned right,” Sollis said coldly.

—

AS THEY RODE, Farkus heard a high whining sound become more pronounced. At first he thought it was an insect near his ear, and he swatted at it clumsily before realizing the sound came from somewhere above the canopy of trees.

“What’s that?” he asked McLanahan.

The ex-sheriff shrugged. “Sounds too high-pitched to be an airplane, but maybe the Feds are sending a spotter over the mountains to look for Butch.”

The high whine passed overhead and began to recede in volume.

“Whatever it is,” McLanahan said, “it’s not going to see much through these trees.”

“My tax dollars at work,” Farkus said, and sighed.

“If you paid any,” McLanahan said.

13

AFTER DROPPING LISA GREENE-DEMPSEY AT THE Holiday Inn with a paper sack of fruits and vegetables, and shock on her face that had been imprinted there since the takedown of Bryce Pendergast, Joe spotted Marybeth’s van parked on the street outside the Saddlestring Hotel and pulled behind it. Matt Donnell’s Lexus was also on the street.

Joe wanted to let Marybeth know what was going on—that he’d been called out to Big Stream Ranch to join the search for Butch Roberson and that his first meeting with his new boss . . . had not gone well.

He stepped through a gap in the orange plastic fencing on the sidewalk that indicated there was construction in progress, and entered through the magnificent old front doors. As he did, a heated conversation between Marybeth and Donnell stopped him cold.

Matt Donnell stood on one side of the old lobby with a loosened tie and his hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers. He was paunchy and balding; his face was flushed. Joe could see beads of perspiration on his scalp through his thinning hair.

Marybeth stood across from him, hands on hips, bent slightly forward toward Donnell, in her coveralls, her hair tied back with a red bandanna. Even though both had stopped talking, Joe knew the look on Marybeth’s face, and he knew that Donnell was in trouble. Joe had been on the receiving end of that look many times in their marriage.

To Donnell, Joe said: “Just say three words: ‘You’re right, dear.’ Trust me on this.”

Joe expected a smile, but Donnell looked straight down at the tops of his shoes. Obviously, whatever they had been arguing about was worse than Joe had thought, and he turned to his wife.

“Everything all right?”

She softened when she looked over at Joe, though, and said, “Honey, what happened to the side of your face?”

“I met my boss and got in a fight,” Joe said. “I’ll fill you in later.”

“You got in a fight with your boss?”

“No—with Bryce Pendergast. We arrested him for cooking meth and shooting an antelope.”

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Peachy. So what’s going on here? It doesn’t look good.”

“It isn’t,” she said, biting off the words. “Maybe you should ask Matt.”

Joe said, “Matt?”

“I’m just the messenger,” Donnell said softly, then looked up at Joe with pleading eyes. “Don’t let her kill the messenger.”

“Tell him, Matt,” Marybeth said.

“Tell me what?”

Donnell said, “I met with the agencies and departments we needed to talk to so we could get our financing for the next stage of construction. We’ve got big problems.”

Joe shook his head, not understanding.

Donnell said, “I knew the old state fire marshal, and he was a reasonable guy, but he retired. The new one is some kind of fire Nazi. He said we need to install a sprinkler system throughout the building, even though it’s historic. We kind of figured on that, and I’d priced it in,” he said, looking to Marybeth for confirmation. She nodded.

“But he threw me a curve,” he said.

Marybeth cut in, still angry. “So in order for us to install the sprinkler system we have to make sure none of the old paint contains any lead, which means we have to hire special testing crews to take samples and analyze the old paint before we can do anything.”