“We’re burning up here,” Butch’s voice croaked.

“Then hurry,” Joe replied.

He looked up in time to catch a small rock that bounced off his cheekbone from the shelf above. Then, more quickly than he could react, the entire bulk of Kyle McLanahan flew silently by and vanished into the canyon below.

Joe had seen just a flash of the ex-sheriff’s face as the man plunged past him feetfirst. McLanahan’s expression wasn’t terror—he simply looked annoyed that he’d lost his footing. It happened so quickly Joe hadn’t even had the chance to reach out for him, although if he had, the weight and momentum of the body would have likely taken him down with it.

As he processed what he’d just seen, Joe heard a heavy impact far below that sounded like a bag of ice being dropped on a sidewalk.

“What just happened?” he yelled up at Butch.

“The stupid son of a bitch missed the shelf when he stepped down,” Butch said. “I tried to grab him, but he was gone.”

Joe shook his head to clear it, then said, “Okay, now you, Butch.”

“Here I come.”

Joe tapped on Butch’s ankles to assure him he was there. The fabric of Butch’s clothing was smoking from heat. Then, like he’d done with Farkus, Joe grasped Butch by the belt and steadied him down to the trail. Joe noted that Butch had left his rifle behind, although he still had a pistol shoved into his waistband.

—

JOE AGAIN HAD FARKUS mash himself against the cliff wall while he shouldered around behind him.

“Is he dead?” Farkus asked.

“Probably.”

“Too many damned donuts,” Farkus said, shaking his head.

—

HUGGING THE WALL, Joe sidestepped down along the narrow trail, calling out hazards such as a break in the trail or loose rocks. Farkus followed, then Butch.

After the first switchback, the trail widened and they were able to square their shoulders and hike down it slowly. Joe kept one hand on the canyon wall at all times. In case he slipped on loose earth, he wanted to fall into the wall and not plunge into the canyon like McLanahan had.

As they descended, the roar of the fire muted, but the sky above was still smudged with smoke. Joe could see no glimpse of blue in it. The light filtering through the smoke cast everything with a dirty yellow tint.

He had never gotten along with McLanahan from the beginning, but Joe felt no sense of relief from what had just happened. He doubted he would ever forget that look of utter annoyance on the ex-sheriff’s face as he flew by.

—

JOE MEASURED THEIR progress by studying the opposite wall of the canyon as they descended. They were barely halfway down after twenty minutes of trekking. He could make out the trail on the other side as it switchbacked up the wall, although lengths of it looked overgrown by brush.

“I’m looking forward to getting into that cold water,” Butch said with a tight mouth. He was obviously in pain because of the intense heat he’d endured waiting on top for Farkus and McLanahan to lower themselves to the trail. Heat blisters rose everywhere his skin had been exposed.

Joe grunted. He was pleased the trail wasn’t broken, but there was still a long way to go.

—

THEY FOUND MCLANAHAN’S body plastered facedown on an outstretched boulder just below the trail. He was absolutely dead. His arms and legs were splayed out as if he were trying to make a snow angel, but his body was oddly misshapen. There was very little blood, but Joe didn’t doubt that most of his bones had been broken on impact. The ex-sheriff’s head sagged toward the downhill side of the boulder like a water balloon propped on a sloping table.

“At least it was quick,” Joe said, removing his hat for a moment. Butch did the same.

“Just for the record,” Butch said, “I didn’t push him, in case anyone was wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Joe said.

“Not that I’d blame you,” Farkus said. “After all, he did come up here to kill you.”

“If I wanted to kill him, he’d already have been dead,” Butch said.

“Poor fat idiot,” said Farkus. “He should have stayed back in West Virginia.”

Joe hated to leave McLanahan’s body splayed out like that. It wouldn’t take long for the local scavengers—rodents, ravens, even the bald eagles that nested in the canyon—to locate and feed on the remains.

“We’ve got to try and take the body with us,” Joe said.

“How?” Butch asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Leave it, I say,” Farkus said flatly.

Instead, Joe and Butch flattened out on the narrow trail and reached down to the body, each grasping an ankle.

Joe said, “One-two-three . . .” and they heaved.

McLanahan’s body was heavy, though, and severely broken. Joe realized to his horror he was pulling on the leg but it was elongating and narrowing as he did so because the bones were broken inside and the trunk of the body wasn’t lifting. Joe grunted and pulled and so did Butch, but all they managed to do was upset the equilibrium of the body until it slipped over the side of the boulder toward the river below.

“Let go!” Joe shouted, so they wouldn’t be carried down with it.

The body thumped against another rock outcropping on the way down, and cartwheeled into the river with a booming splash.

Joe gathered himself up. He was winded and couldn’t shake the sensation he’d had when the leg stretched.

“That probably wasn’t my best idea,” he said.

Butch simply nodded in agreement.

—

“OH, NO,” Butch said in a whisper a few minutes after they’d dropped McLanahan’s body. Joe turned to him to find out the source of his concern.

Butch stood rigid on the trail, looking straight up.

Joe followed his gaze.

Twists of orange flame—fire whirls—could be seen darting over the rim of the canyon where the trailhead began. Like snake’s tongues, they shot out into the opening and snapped back.

“The wind must really be whipping up there,” Joe said.

As he spoke, flaming embers crossed the slice of sky above them from the south rim to the north. A moment later, the brush on the northern rim ignited with a flash.

“It jumped the canyon,” Joe said.

“How are we gonna get out of here?” Farkus wondered aloud.

33

THE CORE OF HIS BODY WAS SO HOT FROM THE FIRE that when he lowered himself to his chest in the Middle Fork of the Twelve Sleep River, Joe expected the water to sizzle and steam to rise, but it didn’t. Clamping his hat on tight so it wouldn’t float away, he slipped beneath the surface. It was instantly quiet, and the water was clear and cold. Joe opened his eyes to see the multicolored riverbed of smooth potato-sized rocks, and three fat cutthroat trout finning in the current near an undercut bank. The fish just held there with a minimum of effort, something Joe wished he could do.

He lowered his boots to the riverbed and stood up. When he broke the surface the sounds came back: the well-muscled flow of the river, the roar of the fire hundreds of feet above. Joe let the cool water chill and soothe him.

“Oh, God,” Butch said after resurfacing, “it feels so good.”

Joe looked over to see Butch standing with his eyes closed and a smile of sweet relief on his face. He imagined how wonderful the cold water must feel on the open blisters and burned skin.

Farkus entered slowly, tentatively, cautious step by cautious step, until he was in to his knees.

“Come on in,” Joe said. “It’s great.”

“I can’t swim.”

“It isn’t deep enough to drown. We’re both standing.”

Farkus winced. “Any water is deep enough to drown.” With that, he stepped forward, slipped on a river rock, and flailed his arms and went under. He came up sputtering and cursing several feet downstream.