It was an elk. The form had a light brown rump that absorbed the starlight. Joe eased his finger off of the trigger. The elk continued to move through the trees until it was out of view. Joe noticed the
familiar musky elk odor in the air.
Then something in the night seemed to snap, and it looked like the trees themselves were moving, the pale color of their trunks strobing light and dark, light and dark. Joe suddenly realized that it wasn't the trees that were moving but the elk--dozens of them--streaming across the mountain. They moved in a steady run, their ungulate hooves pounding a drumbeat. They were now all around him, passing through the camp like a ghost army Four feet high at the shoulder, several huge bulls trailed the herd. Glints of their eyes were reflected in the moonlight and he heard the wooden click of massive antlers catching low branches.
Then they were gone. It wasn't as if he could see that last cow, calf, or bull elk pass as much as he could feel a kind of vacuum, an emptiness in the stand of trees that just a moment before was full.
He stood and let the gun drop to his side. Carefully he lowered the hammer back down. Stewie was now awake and sitting up. Britney rubbed her eyes.
But it wasn't over, as he again felt the presence of animals, this time swift and low to the ground. Shadows were moving through the grove in the same direction as the elk had, as quickly but with more stealth. Their movements had a liquid flow He squinted and listened, his senses almost aching from the force of his effort. He saw a glimpse of long silver-black fur and a flash--no more than a half-second--of a pair of large canine eyes reflecting the slice of moon.
Wolves! It was a small pack of wolves, no more than five. They were following the elk, hunting for a calf or straggler to drop off from the herd.
Then as quickly as they had come, the wolves were no longer there.
Joe stood and waited, wondering almost absurdly what would happen next. Nothing did. He looked at his wristwatch. It was only ten-fifteen.
'There are not supposed to be wolves in the Bighorn Mountains,' Joe said.
'Maybe they're Emily's wolves,' Stewie answered, smiling so widely that Joe could see his teeth in the starlight.
Joe holstered his revolver and walked to the top of the ridge. In the darkness there was no definition to the land, no difference in degrees of blackness between one mountain and the other. There was only the horizon and the first splash of stars. Charlie Tibbs, he knew, was out there and closing in on them.
Joe pictured his children as he last saw them that morning. April and Lucy had been silly giddy chattering as they waited to go to overnight church camp. Lucy was wearing a pink sweatshirt, denim shorts, pink socks to match her sweatshirt, and blue snub-nosed tennis shoes. April was wearing a turquoise sweatshirt and jeans. Their faces had been wide and fresh, their eyes sparkling, their hair summer blonde.
Sheridan stayed away from the fray, waiting until the littler girls left so she could take over the television and the house. Sheridan in her sleeveless shirt and Wranglers, starting to look like her mother, starting to molt from childhood. Sheridan, who had been through so much but had come through it so well.
And then there was Marybeth.
'Help me, Marybeth,' he whispered.
***
Stockman's Bar in Saddlestring was dim and smoky, and Marybeth wore her determination like an invisible suit of armor. As she closed the door behind her and absorbed the scene on this Saturday night, she confirmed to herself that the armor was necessary
Ranch hands, mechanics, fishing guides, and flinty divorcees peopled the bar. Dark booths were behind them. The walls -were covered with faded black-and-white rodeo photos and local cattle brands, and the support and ceiling beams were made of twisted and varnished knotty pine. In the back of the long and narrow building, low hanging lamps made fields of light green on three pool tables. Loose billiard balls in abstract geometrical configurations glowed beneath the lights. Eight-ball specialists in cowboy hats or backward caps either sipped from beer mugs or leaned across the pools of light to sight in on cue balls, like elk hunters aiming at a bull.
Marybeth sat on the first empty stool at the bar and waited for the bartender to work his way down to her. She ordered a glass of beer. Throughout the Stockman at least a half dozen sets of eyes were working her over. She felt the eyes on her in a way that made her think of her law career, the bar's patrons like judges waiting for her answer to a question.
She had been to the Stockman only once before, four years earlier, when Joe had brought her to meet with his supervisor, Vern Dunnegan, and Vern's then-wife, Georgia. Vern had a booth near the pool tables that he had claimed as his and where people met with him. Marybeth had smiled politely with Georgia as Vern and Joe discussed department policy and disputed directives, and she had nudged Joe with her foot to get his attention so they could leave. The Stockman was historic, dark, local, and corrupt, and she had seen enough at the time. Both Vern and Georgia made her uncomfortable, and the mounted elk, deer, sheep, and moose heads on the walls seemed to want to draw her back to an earlier, rougher era. She had not planned on ever coming back. When Sheridan, still outside in the car, had realized that her mom was leaving her to go inside the Stockman Bar, she had erupted.
'What if the sheriff comes by and sees me here?'
Marybeth had stopped with the door half open and the dome light on. 'Tell him I'll be back in a minute.'
'What if he says it's child abuse? I mean, you are leaving your loving daughter outside in your car while you go into a saloon!'
'I'm investigating something, and I think there may be a man inside who can help us,' Marybeth said patiently, but her eyes flashed. 'Don't forget that your dad is missing.'
Sheridan started to speak, but caught herself.
'There's somebody in there who might know where Dad is?'
Marybeth took a deep breath. There was a lot to explain. 'That's what I'm hoping,' she said, almost pleading. 'Please don't do your thing on me now.'
