But THINGS were just warming up. A half hour later I saw Nicki Molinari's maroon convertible tearing through the field behind Doc's house, the top down, with Molinari behind the wheel and his second baseman, the man called Frank, next to him. Frank looked like a seven-foot cadaver propped up in the seat.

Molinari got out of the car and left the door hanging open, the engine still running, and jabbed his finger at me.

"I'm about an inch from creating one less lawyer in Missoula, Montana," he said.

"Oh?" I said.

"I'm eating breakfast in a cafe this morning and this rodeo psycho, what's-his-name, Wyatt Dixon, comes in and stands there, leering down at me with this twisted smile on his mouth. I go, 'You got a problem?' He goes, 'I've got it on high authority your friend Mr. Holland took some shots at me. Could it be you was involved with a cowardly action like that, sir?'

"I go, 'What are you talking about? And stop calling me sir.'

"He says, 'I seen one of your men bird-dogging me. Which made me wonder if you and Mr. Holland is working together. All these people is waiting for your response, sir.'

"I go, 'No, I don't know nothing about people shooting at you. So get away from my table, you crazy fuck.'

"He goes, 'You are a war hero, sir. I have driven by your home many times. I have seen the batting cage in your barn and the beautiful women that swims in your pool. I would like to model my life on yours but I am only a humble cowboy. You, sir, are a credit to the Italian race.'"

I waited for Molinari to continue.

"Are you listening?" he said.

"Yeah. So why are you out here?"

His face blanched with anger.

"You're playing with this guy's head. I'm a businessman. I got this shitkicker meltdown 'fronting me in public. I don't need that kind of publicity."

"Why did he put you and me together?"

"He's con-wise. He knows we've both been involved with the skank. Hey, bottom line, my man, he's nuts."

"Nice of you to come out," I said.

I walked away from him, into the trees, into the cold air rising off the river in the shadows. Molinari followed me and scooped up a pine cone and threw it at my head.

"Don't turn your back on me, Mr. Holland," he said.

"Your problem is not with me, Nicki. It's back in Laos, on that helicopter skid."

His hands opened and closed at his sides. His hired man followed us into the trees, his silhouette gargantuan against the sunlight. Molinari turned and said, "Everything's cool here, Frank. Take a smoke. I'll be along in a minute." I started to speak but Molinari shook his finger.

"You got no right to stick that information in my face," he said.

"Hell is a place you carry with you. I hope you get out of it one day."

"Save the shuck for people who are easily impressed," he said.

But he didn't leave. He stared at me, the veins in his forearms pumped with blood.

"Say something," he said.

I shook my head and walked around him, out into the sunlight, into the glory of the day and the humped blue-green chain of mountains that lined each side of the Blackfoot Valley. Frank, the hired man, looked at Nicki, waiting for instructions.

"Leave him alone," Nicki said.

I WAS BY MYSELF that evening. The sky was blue, the sun glowing like a red spark through a crack in the hills. The Blackfoot had dropped, and the rocks along the bank were white and dry and etched with the skeletal remains of underwater insects. When the wind gusted I could smell a meat fire in a neighbor's yard and the cold odor the river gave off inside the shade.

It was an evening to put aside thoughts about Nicki Molinari and Carl Hinkel and their minions and all their nefarious enterprises. I called Temple Carrol at her motel.

"How about dinner and a movie?" I said.

"I guess that could be arranged," she said.

"Thank you," I said.

"Don't be smart," she replied.

Well, that's a start, I thought, and went into the bathroom to shave.

A minute later the phone rang.

"Hello?" I said.

"We need to talk," the voice said.

"Cleo?"

"At least you haven't forgotten the sound of my voice."

"I'm going to ring off now," I said.

"Come on, stop pretending you're a victim. I apologize for my behavior at the Joan Baez concert. Can't you show a little humility?"

"Have a good life," I said.

"I'm turning off the dirt road right now. It doesn't look like Doc's at home. That's good. You and I have a lot to talk about," she said.

I hurriedly put on a fresh shirt and my hat and headed out the door for my truck, just as she drove around the side of the house and parked by the porch. She wore a yellow sundress and a pink ribbon in her hair. But for some reason that had no exact physical correlation, she looked sharp-edged, aged, her eyes intent with an animus that would never allow her to acknowledge any perception of the world other than her own.

She walked toward me with a box wrapped in satin paper.

"A little present," she said.

"This isn't good for either of us, Cleo."

"If you won't open it, I'll do it myself."

She tore away the paper and the ribbon, her hands shaking slightly. The paper blew away in the wind when she folded back the top of the box.

"There's every kind of bass lure here," she said. "That's what you fish for in Texas, isn't it? Bass? Do you like the lures?"

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I'm headed out right now. I wish perhaps you had come out at another time."

"Stop being cute, Billy Bob. Southern charm doesn't work too well after you bed a woman and drop her."

"You have a lot of qualities, Cleo. You're devoted to your work. You obviously have compassion for the poor. Any guy would be lucky to have a lady like you."

"I want you to come out to my place. It doesn't have to be tonight. But this has to be worked out."

"It's not gding to happen."

"I'm sorry to hear you say that," she said.

"Let me be straight up with you. Nicki Molinari told me your husband and son were murdered by gangsters, not by Lamar Ellison's biker gang. The sheriff believes the same thing. Why don't you give Molinari and his friends the money your husband owed them and be done with it?"

"You quote Nicki Molinari to me about my son? You worthless piece of Southern garbage," she said.

"Adios," I said, and got into my truck. While I ground the starter I could feel her eyes pulling the skin from my bones.

That same evening Sue Lynn Big Medicine drove her uncle's pickup truck into the Jocko Valley and onto the Flathead Indian Reservation. She passed the rodeo and powwow grounds and followed a dirt road into the hills, climbing higher into trees and deep shadows and outcroppings of gray rock that were marbled with lichen.

She pulled off the road into a flat, thinly wooded area by a creek. The remains of an abandoned sweat lodge stood next to the creek, the concave network of shaved willow limbs hung with strips of rotting canvas. She cut the engine and walked down to the water and leaned against a rock and smoked a cigarette and waited. It was not long before she heard a four-wheel-drive vehicle grinding in low gear up the road.

The man who had told her where to wait for him got out of his vehicle and walked toward her. He wore slip-on, half-topped boots and khakis and a long-sleeve blue cotton shirt and a bill cap. His hair was neatly clipped, and even though it was evening he was freshly shaved and smelled of the lotion on his jaws.

"Did I keep you waiting long?" Amos Rackley asked.

"I wasn't doing anything else," she said, inhaling her cigarette, her chin raised, her gaze averted.

"Where's your uncle's race car, the one with numbers on it?"