“What happened to her leg?”

“That’s how we got together, Felicity and I. Seven years ago — she was a yearling — some idiot hunter blew her leg off and I came across her half dead up there on the peak. Bandaged her up, looked after her. She’s been with me ever since. Like the lion and Androcles.” He scratched the goat’s ears. After a moment she hopped away toward the woods. Collins looked up through the pines, evidently judging the angle of the sun. “You gentlemen hungry? Why don’t we walk back to my camp?”

He served up a meal of beans and fritters and greens that he must have harvested from the mountain slopes. “Sorry there’s no meat. I don’t keep any on hand. Don’t get many visitors.”

“Are you a vegetarian?”

“Going on seven years now.”

I said, “You don’t talk like a back-country hermit, Mr. Collins.”

“Well, I used to be on the faculty at the School of Mines down in Golden.” He had an engaging smile. “I’m mainly antisocial. I prefer it up here. Of all the animals I’ve met, I find man the least appealing.” The three-legged goat appeared and Collins fed it the last of his salad.

I’d seen the cased rifle when we’d arrived in camp; it was propped inside the lean-to. Now I walked to it and unzipped the leather case. I was sure before I opened it, but it needed confirmation. The old rifle shone with fresh oil — it was well cared for.

Collins and Mallory hadn’t stirred from their places by the fire place. Collins said in a mild voice, “That’s a real old-timer, you know. Dates back to Black Jack Pershing’s war.”

“I know.” I watched Sam Mallory get up and walk toward the Power Wagon. When he opened the door I said, “Leave the carbine there, Sam,” and he looked at me — looked at the rifle I held — and closed the truck door with stoic resignation. I said to Collins, “Funny that a vegetarian keeps a rifle around.”

“Varmints.” He met my gaze guilelessly.

Mallory returned to the fire and sat. I said, “If I had this rifle tested by the crime lab in Denver, do you suppose they’d identify it as the weapon that killed Charlie Cord?”

I looked at Hugh Collins and then at the three-legged goat. She was curled up by the old man’s side. I said, “What was he doing, Mr. Collins? Drawing a bead on Felicity here?”

“No. He was taking aim on a bighorn sheep. We’ve got a little flock of them up here. Seven or eight bighorn sheep. They’re the last survivors of a multitude.”

“How long do you expect to keep getting away with it?”

Sam Mallory said, “Sometimes you can’t go by that.”

I thought about the misery Charlie Cord had trailed around him. I remembered the face of the woman in my office and I looked at the half-asleep face of Felicity by Hugh Collins’ side. I had an image of Charlie and I remembered the passionate happy killers who’d appalled me, sent me screaming toward lunacy; and I saw the calm faces of Collins and Mallory.

I said to Mallory, “You’re a hunter who doesn’t like to kill. You had to have a reason to work for killers. It was to lead them into this old man’s trap, wasn’t it? How long have you two known each other?”

“Sam’s my nephew,” Hugh Collins said. “We didn’t see much of each other until he came back from Vietnam. That was his lesson — the way Felicity was mine.”

I said to Mallory, “But you still eat meat.”

“I’m his nephew and I’m his friend. I’m not his disciple.”

Collins said, “Sam never shot any of them. That was me. I’d stalk them and watch them and decide whether they were hunters or criminals.”

“Nine hunters in the past six years,” I said.

“Eleven. Killers, Mr. Stoddard.”

Mallory said, “I’ve guided hundreds of hunters through here.”

Collins said, “You want to mind that trigger. She goes off easy.”

I set the safety and put the rifle down against the lean-to and walked to the truck. I looked back at Mallory. “We’d better start back or it’ll get dark before we’re down off the mountain.”

Mallory got to his feet, bewildered. I said, “I’ll report that it was a hunting accident.”

Collins scratched Felicity’s chest and she pawed amiably at him with her one front hoof. Mallory came past me and opened the truck door. “You trust me next to this carbine?”

“Yes.”

“Because you want us to trust you?”

“That’s right,” I said. I went around and got in. When I shut the door Mallory started the engine. Collins appeared at the window.

He didn’t offer to reach in and shake my hand. But he smiled slightly. “If you change your mind, don’t go to Sheriff Wilkerson with what you know. It would put him in a dilemma.”

“I assumed he was in on it,” I said. “He had to be. Otherwise he’d have compared the ballistics on those various .30-’06 bullets over the years and it would be public knowledge that they were all killed by the same rifle.”

“All but two. Last year that was. I started shooting at one of them and the other two panicked and killed each other. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”

Mallory had the truck idling. He said, “I still can’t say I understand this.”

I said, “Let’s just say we’re fellow veterans of the same war.”

TWO-WAY STREET

“Two-Way-Street” is a fiction that derives from speculation about the actual murder of Phoenix reporter Don Bolles. This isn’t how it really was, but perhaps this is how it ought to have been.

Initially this story was published over a pen-name, in the same issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine that contained one of my Charlie Dark espionage stories. Perhaps the magazine was short of material that month. Because two of my stories were appearing in the same issue, the editor asked if I would mind putting a pen-name on one of the two stories. I agreed, and supplied the name. John Ives was the name of a character who had appeared in a couple of my books; subsequently it became a nom-de-plume under which I wrote two novels in the late 1970s.

The body was found along Route 783 just outside the town of Aravaipa. The woman who found it was a Navajo lady; I learned that she and her dogs had been herding a flock of sheep across the road at dawn to beat the morning traffic. She’d roused a dairy rancher and the phone call had been logged in at the Sheriff’s office at 5:44 a.m. I was brought in around noon when one of the Undersheriffs picked me up in a county car; he filled me in on the way to Pete Kyber’s office. “We’ve got a corpse and a witness. Or at least we think he’s a witness.”

“Who’s the victim?”

“Name of Philip Keam. Thirty-something. Reporter for one of the Tucson newspapers.”

“You notified next of kin?”

“Divorced, no children. The parents may be alive — we’re trying to find out.”

Officially the temperature went to 103° Fahrenheit that day, which meant that down along the surface of the plain it was near 140°. The asphalt of the Sheriff’s parking lot was soft underfoot, sucking at my shoes, and I hurried into the air-conditioned saltbox before I might melt. Slipping off the sunglasses I made my way back to the Sheriff’s private office.

Pete Kyber was long-jointed and Gary Cooperish; slow-moving and slow-talking but not particularly slow-thinking. His most noticeable feature was his Adam’s apple. Pete was no relation to the redneck stereotype; he was by instinct a conservationist rather than a conservative. How he and I ever got elected to our offices in that rural county still mystified me.

He watched me sit down; he was gloomy. “We got a bloody one, Mike.”

“I’ll have a look on my way out. What’s the story?”

“Bludgeoned to death. With a rock.”

“No fingerprints?”

“On a rock?”

“Who’s this witness you’ve got?”

“Larry Stowe. Just a kid.”

“Would that be Edgar Stowe’s son?”

“Yes.”

Edgar Stowe ran the drugstore in Aravaipa. He didn’t own it — it was a chain store — but he was the manager. His son Larry would be about 22, I calculated; one of my kids had been in the same high-school class. I remembered the Stowe boy coming around the house now and then, but that was five years ago. He’d struck me as an unremarkable kid, towhead and a bit vacuous.