back to Canada, where they belong.”
Farkus looked from Nate to Joe, his eyes huge and his mouth hanging open.
“I’ve got no use for liars,” Nate said.
Joe turned to say something to Nate, but his friend was gone. He was about to call after him, but didn’t. Nate’s stride as he walked away contained purpose. And when Joe listened, he realized how utterly silent it had become in the forest surrounding them. No sounds of night insects or squirrels or wildlife.
He quickly closed the gap with Farkus and shoved the muzzle of his shotgun into the man’s chest. He whispered, “They’re here, aren’t they?”
Farkus gave an unwitting tell by shooting a glance into the trees to his left.
Joe said, “They sent you down here to distract us and pin us to one place while they moved in,” Joe said, his voice as low as he could make it.
Farkus didn’t deny the accusation, but looked at the shotgun barrel just below his chin.
“Hold it,” Farkus stammered, his voice cracking. “Hold it. You’re law enforcement. You can’t do this.”
Joe eased the safety off with a solid click.
“Really, please, oh, Jesus,” Farkus whispered. Then he raised his voice, “Don’t do this to me, please. You can’t do this. . . .”
“Keep your voice down,” Joe hissed, shoving the muzzle hard into Farkus’s neck.
From the shadows of the forest, Camish said, “I’m real surprised you came back, game warden.”
And fifty feet to the right of Camish, Nate said, “Guess what? I’ve got your brother.”
THE STANDOFF THAT OCCURRED AT 4:35 A.M. ON THE WESTERN slope of the Sierra Madre transpired so quickly and with such epic and final weight, and such a simple but lethal potential conclusion, that Joe Pickett found himself surprisingly calm. So calm, he calculated his odds. They weren’t good. He knew the likelihood of his sudden death was high and he wished like hell he had called his wife on the satellite phone and said good-bye to her and his precious girls. He also knew he would have apologized for dying for such a cause, and at the hands of the dispossessed. As if a man could choose his killer.
In this moment of clarity, Joe thought, sharp points elbowed their way to the fore:
• His shotgun was on Farkus and it would take one or two seconds to wheel and aim it at Camish;
• Camish had Joe’s heart in the sights of his rifle; knew Joe and Nate could cut him in half, so he must have a trump card, likely. . . .
• Caleb had a .454 muzzle pressed against his temple and was unable to speak anyway;
• Farkus was clueless—he’d obviously been coerced by the brothers but hadn’t firmed up his storyline and he’d therefore stumbled into lies that piqued Joe’s interest;
• If one man pulled a trigger, a cacophony of exploding shots would throw lead through the void like a buzz saw and cut down all of them for eternity, and;
• Nobody wanted
At least Joe didn’t.
Joe said, “We all know the situation we’ve got here. It can go one way or the other. Things can get western in a hurry. If they do, I’m betting on my man Nate here to tip the scales, Camish. But I think a better idea may be sitting down and starting a fire and hashing this out.”
After a beat, Camish said, “You’re one of these folks thinks everything can be solved by talking?”
Said Joe, “No, I don’t believe that. No one has ever accused me of excess talking. But I think something really bad will happen any second if we don’t. I’m willing to sit down and discuss the possibility of more than two of us walking away from here.”
Camish said, “Caleb, you okay?”
The response was a muffled groan.
Nate said, “He’s about to lose the rest of his head.”
Camish’s voice was high and tight: “Don’t you hurt my brother.”
Joe realized his initial shocked calm had slipped away and he was sweating freely from fear. He struggled to keep his words even, hoping Camish would give in. It was easier to sound serious because he was.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s meet at that downed log a few feet from me. Camish can keep aiming at me. Nate can keep his gun at Caleb’s head. I’ll keep my shotgun on Farkus here. But when we get to the log we’ll sit down. How does that sound?”
From the dark, Joe heard Farkus say, “I’m kind of wondering where I fit into this deal.”
And Nate growl, “You don’t, idiot.”
Camish said, “Deal.”
CAMISH LOOKED EVEN THINNER than Joe remembered him. It had been a rough few days. The man’s eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into hollows above his cheekbones and resembled marbles on a mantel. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, and all the silver hairs in his beard made him look gaunt and wizened. Like a Wendigo, Joe thought.
Joe and Nate sat on one log, the Grim Brothers on another. They faced each other.
Caleb sat in utter, pained silence. If anything, he looked more skeletal than his brother. His dark eyes flicked like insects between his brother and Joe and Nate as if hoping for a place to land. A dirt-filthy bandage was taped to
