Joe shrugged.

Frank said to Batista, “This guy you’re after is on the National Forest, right? The forest is federal. So you can just turn your monkeys around and go into those mountains from the other side and I can’t stop you.”

“I told you,” Batista said sarcastically, “he was last seen on this side of the mountains. We’d waste more than a day going around to the other side and working our way back.”

“First time I ever heard of the government being worried about wasting time,” Frank said. “I could tell you some good stories.”

“We don’t have time for your stories.”

Joe watched the two as if viewing a tennis match, following each as they spoke.

Joe turned to Batista, and said, “You might try working with Frank here, instead of bullying him.”

“You’re useless,” Batista said, waving his hand at Joe and turning away, “just like the rest of these people up here.”

He strode back toward the SUV, but not without a go-ahead nod to Heinz Underwood. Joe saw Underwood acknowledge the signal, which had no doubt been prearranged.

Underwood stepped toward Joe, his expression hard but slightly bemused. “Walk with me,” he said.

Joe cautiously fell in beside him as Underwood walked down the length of the barbed-wire fence far enough that neither Frank Zeller not the occupants of the convoy could overhear.

“You’re friends with this rancher?”

“We’re acquainted.”

“I’d suggest you give him a little advice.”

“Depends on what the advice is,” Joe said.

Underwood said, “You might want to suggest to him that whatever payment he might want right now will be zilch compared to what could happen if the full attention of the EPA Region Eight office turned on him all of the sudden, is all.”

Joe didn’t respond.

“Just looking from here,” Underwood said, gazing out at the huge ranch spread out through the valley, “I think I see cows crapping in the streams, which might violate the Clean Water Act. I think I see clouds of methane rising from hundreds of flatulent cattle, which might violate the 1990 Clean Air Act. I think I see ranch buildings that might not be up to code, and old shingles on that big ranch house that are probably made of asbestos. An army of inspectors might just find all sorts of things that would shut down this operation or fine him boatloads of money for years to come.

“There’s a lot of wildlife habitat down there in that valley,” he said. “One kind of wonders if there are any protected or endangered species. It looks like good forage for the Preble’s jumping mouse, or sage grouse, or maybe even some aquatic species that might be threatened by all this agricultural activity.

“Not only that,” Underwood said softly. “Mr. Zeller seems to have way too many cows down there to run an environmentally sustainable operation. Look at them all.”

Joe saw small knots of registered Herefords grazing far below on natural meadows.

“That’s not so many,” he said.

“Boy, I’m just not as certain as you are,” Underwood said. “I think there might be more cows than there is grass. They might chew that grass down to nothing and leave a wasteland.”

“Frank’s been operating his place for forty years,” Joe said. “And before that it was his grandfather and his father. Look at it. It’s in great shape.”

“Maybe to your eyes,” Underwood said, “but when we count the cattle and measure the forage it might be a different story.”

Joe looked over with a pained expression on his face.

“It can be done very quickly,” Underwood said. “Using drones.”

“Drones? Like in the military?”

“We’ve got a few in service right now. In fact, there may even be one or two entering the airspace of these mountains as we speak.”

“Are you threatening Zeller?”

“That’s not a threat,” Underwood said softly. “That’s just offering him some good friendly advice.”

Joe said, “Why don’t you tell him?”

“Naw,” Underwood said. “It would be best coming from his old pal Joe.”

Joe shut his eyes for a moment, the ball of rage he’d felt earlier in the day forming again in his chest. He said, “What is it with you guys?”

Underwood shrugged and gestured toward Batista. “Comes from the top.”

Through clenched teeth, Joe said, “This is the kind of scheme you ran on Butch Roberson, isn’t it? You make up charges and accusations and then your target spends the rest of his life trying to prove you wrong.”

Underwood shook his head and said, “We didn’t write the laws. We just enforce them.”

“These aren’t laws,” Joe said. “They’re regulations you hide behind.”

“We didn’t write the regulations,” Underwood said in a tired, singsong cadence. “We just enforce them. From what I understand, your director has ordered you to help us do that. So I’d suggest you offer some friendly advice to the rancher so we can do our job.”

“Or you’ll ruin him,” Joe said.

“I never said that.” Underwood smiled.

—

JOE STOOD shoulder to shoulder with Frank Zeller as the convoy of vehicles rumbled through the open gate. Frank was furious.

“Maybe you can sue them after the fact,” Joe said.

“Or maybe,” Zeller said, “I can call a meeting of the Cattlemen’s Association and raise an army of ranchers and wranglers and take my ranch back. They might not do it for me, but they’ll do it in memory of Butch Roberson.”

“He’s not dead yet,” Joe said.

“Matter of time,” Frank said flatly, nodding at an SUV filled with black-clad special agents that passed through the gate.

Joe looked over. “So you’ve seen him.”

“Maybe. Won’t say yes, won’t say no.”

“You’re helping him out?”

Zeller shrugged.

“About the army—you’re kidding, right?”

Frank Zeller wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Joe looked to the horizon over the peaks of the mountains, expecting to note thunderheads gathering and a summer storm building, but the sky was blue and clear as far as he could see.

15

“THERE HE IS, THE SON OF A BITCH,” JIMMY SOLLIS SAID quietly with a sense of awe as he leaned forward into his rifle scope.

Dave Farkus snapped his head up from where he’d been trying to steal a few moments for a nap. His body ached. Kyle McLanahan scrambled up from where he sat and joined Sollis with his binoculars.

No one expected Butch Roberson to enter the camp so soon after they’d set up.

“Damn,” McLanahan said, drawing the word out. “Looks like we guessed right. He must have been on the move all night.”

—

IT WAS NEARLY THREE in the afternoon when the riders reached the eastern rim of the huge canyon. In all honesty—Farkus knew but didn’t say aloud—they’d found the canyon and the confluence of Otter and Trapper Creeks more by accident than design. Until they peered over the granite rim, he’d been convinced the giant swale they were looking for was one canyon over to the south. But they found it after all, and they’d dismounted and set up an observation point in a three-foot crack of the wall that overlooked the canyon. Sollis had methodically attached a high-tech bipod with telescoping legs to the stock of his long-range rifle and hunkered down on the floor of the opening with a range finder. When he bent down to look through the scope and study the terrain, Farkus and McLanahan had backed out of the crack into the boulders and found pools of cool shadow to sit in and wait.

Earlier in the afternoon, Farkus had been thrown when Dreadnaught had walked deliberately underneath an overhanging branch. The branch had caught Farkus in the sternum, and he’d tumbled backward and fallen on his head and shoulders, which ached. Although he’d not broken any bones, the fall knocked the wind out of him and gave him the resolve never to trust the horse again, and to keep alert.