“It helps to have friends.” Butch grinned, propping his rifle inside the corner of the lean-to.

—

THE SMALL FIRE licked their faces with orange light. Farkus moaned and sat back, his belly so full it was hard to the touch. Like Butch and McLanahan, he’d eaten his entire sixteen-ounce T-bone steak, a scoop of fried potatoes and onions, and washed it down with two cans of beer. Butch had doled out the food in shared portions, even though he’d been out in the wilderness longer and was probably starved, Farkus thought.

While Butch was preparing the meal, he’d balled up the wrapping paper from the steaks and tossed it toward the fire. One of the balls missed and rolled toward Farkus’s foot, and he surreptitiously scooped it up and jammed it in his front jeans pocket, where it was now. He thought at the time that maybe he could write something on it and leave it for the Feds to find. But after he hid it away in his pocket, he realized he didn’t have a pen or pencil with him.

—

THE SKY WAS FULL DARK but creamy with stars. The temperature had dropped to the mid-fifties, Farkus guessed, cold enough to make it feel uncomfortable away from the small fire inside the lean-to. Although two beers for Farkus was usually not anything more than a nice start, he felt a pleasant buzz because he was both bone-tired and dehydrated.

After they ate, he watched as Butch strapped a headlamp on from his pack and rooted through the burlap bag. He produced blankets, freeze-dried food packets, a small aluminum coffee pot and a plastic bag of coffee, binoculars, several boxes of .223 cartridges, an old Colt .45 revolver and ammunition, fleece vests, duct tape, wire and rope, and a water filter purification pump. And a fifth of Evan Williams.

“All good stuff,” Butch seemed to say to himself. “All practical stuff we can use.”

He jammed the pistol into the back of his pants and retied the bag closed. As he did, he glanced at Farkus as if to say, You’ll be carrying this.

Farkus moaned, and Butch grinned in response.

“We could lighten that load if you opened the bourbon,” Farkus suggested.

“Nice try,” Butch said.

“So,” McLanahan asked, “who is the coconspirator?”

Butch ignored him.

—

“AREN’T YOU GOING to get those blankets out?” McLanahan asked Butch a few minutes later, after Butch had rejoined them around the fire.

“No.”

“We’re gonna freeze.”

“You’ll be fine, it’s August,” Butch said, not looking over at the ex-sheriff. He seemed mesmerized by the fire, Farkus thought, or thinking deep thoughts. Licks of flame reflected from his eyes.

“We’re not stopping here,” Butch said, staring into the fire. “We need to keep moving. We’re still too close to where that drone went down and I made the call.”

Farkus groaned again. He hoped Butch would reconsider and let them sleep for a while. And he wished there was more beer in the cooler.

Instead Butch said, “We’ll stay here a few more minutes and let that big dinner settle. Then we’re getting up and moving south again.”

When he’d been with Roberson hunting, Farkus remembered something Butch had said about the mountains to the south. That they could only go so far before they’d get cut off by a wicked canyon Farkus had heard about but never seen. The Middle Fork of the Twelve Sleep River had created a geological wonder with knife-sharp walls, a terrifying distance from the rim to the narrow canyon floor, and virtually no breaks or cracks through the rocks for a crossing. The canyon was so steep and narrow that sunlight rarely shone on the stream in the bottom.

“If I remember right,” McLanahan said, “that’s where Savage Run is.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t get it,” McLanahan said, shaking his head. “Why would we cut off our escape route?”

“A band of Cheyenne Indians crossed it once with women and children because the Pawnee had them trapped,” Butch said. “So did Joe Pickett. He told me about it once, and I think I know where he crossed. I figure we can do the same.”

Farkus and McLanahan exchanged tortured looks.

—

AFTER A FEW MINUTES where the only sounds were a light breeze in the treetops and the muffled popping of the fire, Butch suddenly looked up and glared at McLanahan. The ferocity in his face jolted Farkus out of his own trance. Farkus was terrified of the prospect of trying to cross Savage Run Canyon.

Butch said to McLanahan, “You know what they did, but you still came after me. What an asshole you are.”

McLanahan looked away and spoke toward the fire instead of to Butch. “It isn’t about you, Butch. It never was.”

“Bullshit. And you brought along some great long-distance shooter so you wouldn’t even have to look me in the eye before you blew my guts all over the mountain.”

McLanahan started to speak, but for once thought better of it.

“You know what they did,” Butch said again. “They came up here and tried to destroy me and my family. I’d like to think that the ex-sheriff might be sympathetic. I’d like to think the whole damned town would gather around one of their own. But instead, you got your guns and recruited two rubes and came after me like I was some kind of outlaw.”

Farkus didn’t mind being called a rube, because even he thought of himself as one.

“Butch,” McLanahan said, almost pleading, “you are an outlaw.”

Butch said, “You never gave a crap about what happened to me or my family.”

“I don’t know all the details,” McLanahan said. “All I know is you’re wanted for a double homicide.”

“You didn’t bother to find out the details,” Butch said. “You did it for the money and the glory.”

“The world’s a cruel place, especially these days.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Butch Roberson said. Then softly, “It doesn’t have to be.”

—

AS THEY painfully gathered up, Butch ordered Farkus to make sure the fire was doused. He could use the ice water that remained in the cooler, Butch said.

Farkus carried the cooler over and the water sloshed inside. He sat it at his feet and withdrew the useless ball of butcher paper from his pocket. With his back to Butch and McLanahan, he unwrapped it and looked at the markings from the light of the flames.

T-BONE STEAKS

NOT FOR SALE

BIG STREAM RANCH AND CATTLE CO.

He put the paper into the fire, where it was quickly engulfed.

The fire hissed and steamed a pungent cloud when Farkus dumped the cooler on it. As he stirred the dying embers into black viscous soup with a stick, he knew who Butch Roberson’s friend was.

24

MARYBETH PICKETT LAY FULLY CLOTHED ON HER BED with the lights off and her door shut in their bedroom. The sheer curtains undulated slowly on both sides of the open window with a breeze that had changed from warm to cool in the last hour. Coyotes were yipping in the distance, piercing the silence. Their sound was forlorn and high-pitched, and it reminded her of babies shrieking. She stared at the light fixture straight overhead, vowing to take it down soon and clean the dead miller moths out of it. She felt extremely vulnerable and alone.

She’d done all right through dinner, she thought, maintaining a cheerful veneer. She never mentioned the Saddlestring Hotel debacle to the girls and wasn’t sure they’d really understood the details of it anyway—how much it had meant to her.

As she always did, she did a quick mental survey of where each member of her family was at that moment. It was something she did several times a day, and didn’t know if she’d ever be able to break the habit. Lucy and Hannah Roberson were downstairs, watching television. Hannah had asked, once again, if she could stay over. Sheridan was still out with her friends but would be due home soon. April was in her room, sulking, no doubt texting all her new cowboy friends since she’d become so popular with them. And Joe was out there somewhere in the mountains, helping to lead a manhunt for a family friend.