From the moment he’d heard the gun’s report, he’d felt, along with fear, a burning anger. Anger that one of their group had been shot and that the rest of them were targets. Anger that they were desperately trying to escape because they’d stumbled onto someone else’s mischief. Anger that he’d been reduced to crawling behind a rock, which would give him the chance—just the chance—to make it home to his family. And most of all, anger that he’d been so fooled by A.J. that he hadn’t recognized the danger, had even been glad when A.J. first shot the Mexican kid and made his way down to the ledge. Gwen and Oscar had been right, and his unwillingness or inability to see this guy for what he was had contributed to their predicament. When A.J. made those ugly cracks about them, Todd saw that he meant it, and he understood something that he’d never known before. But by then it was too late. He should have grabbed José’s gun when it was there for the taking. He should have backed A.J. off as soon as he saw him. They should never have been in the position to be led back to the camp and then forced to destroy the garden. Oscar was right—they should have incapacitated A.J. when they left—broken a bone, blinded him, or killed him. Todd had been trying to do the right thing, the human thing, and he’d been swayed by Gwen and her principles. But decency meant nothing when you came up against a man who wasn’t decent. He had made a huge mistake in dealing with A.J. He wasn’t going to make another.

Below, maybe a half-mile farther down, he could just make out a stream, the moving water catching light from the moon. That must be the bottom of the valley, he thought. That must be the stream that feeds the lake. The bit of forest where they’d slept that morning was farther to the right, and he was more certain than ever that the shooter would have retreated there. He decided to continue his path straight down, putting him to the left of the woods. Then he’d circle around and enter from the other side. If the shooter had watched them go up the slope, he’d have seen them traversing more to the left, and that’s where he might still look. It occurred to Todd that the shooter might be doing what they were doing, taking advantage of the darkness to move. What would he do if the shooter was making his way up the slope? He didn’t know, and the thought of it worried him. He looked toward the woods and then scanned the slope to his right. No movement from below, and none above.

Suddenly he could make out the opposite ridge and the slopes on either side—the moon was peeking over the mountains. Shit. He moved behind a large boulder and looked out from behind it. The entire valley was visible now; it looked haunted and beautiful. He saw the lake where they’d filled their water bottles, the woods, the place they’d started hiking uphill. He looked behind him up the slope, afraid to see the movement of the others. But there was nothing—either they were too far away or they, too, had taken refuge from the light. Or, he thought worriedly, remembering Oscar’s grimace, maybe they haven’t even left at all.

He waited ten, fifteen minutes and the canyon went dark again; a curtain of clouds was drawn over the moon. He left his hiding place and continued downhill, veering even farther left, away from the woods. The going wasn’t any easier—he was still slipping, and he’d tweaked his knee when he’d fallen—but there was a rhythm to it now. He held onto boulders or the occasional tough-rooted plant, jamming the rifle against his shoulder, his back. He was glad he hadn’t brought his pack—just a bag of nuts that had escaped the dog’s scavenging and a water bottle clipped to his belt with a carabiner. Anything else would have bogged him down. He couldn’t see very well, but every once in a while he got a glimpse of the stream’s reflection, and that was enough to aim for. His body was moving of its own accord. Adrenaline had taken over.

He tried to imagine his children home in their beds—quiet, and helpless in sleep. What would they say if they could see him now? What would Kelly say? Nothing in their lives together had any relation to this. He had never felt so apart from them, or been so afraid. And he had never felt more full of purpose. If he was able to do what he was supposed to, A.J. or his brother would soon be dead. The others could get over the pass without danger of being shot at again—and then they’d be on their way down the eastern slope and into the Owens Valley. He’d be left to get out of the mountains by himself. But he’d have made it possible for them to escape.

Oscar’s gunshot wound had turned his stomach. The blood, the quick bruising, the impossible mess of the flesh, where the muscle and skin were supposed to be smooth, unbroken. It was hard to see the agony, the horrible pain, Oscar crying and moaning and holding onto his shoulder, rocking until Gwen told him to stop, told him to hold still until the blood flow could be staunched, which it was, after some time, with her help. Todd was impressed with Gwen’s efficiency, the quickness and matter-of-factness with which she used a shirt to apply pressure, the competence with which she attached a bandage. He knew she was afraid, but she seemed glad to have something to do, a person to attend to, a problem that was within her reach to solve. He thought of Kelly, who was fastidious about their children’s most mundane bug bites—she would not have been able to handle this. Tracy had helped too, opening the bandage wrappers, handing over the scissors, but mostly she had stared up at the ridge trying to find the way over, and Todd had felt a welling anger at her, frustration with her stubbornness, the clear knowledge that they would not have encountered such trouble if she hadn’t pushed them to take this unused trail. But there was no use dwelling on that; they were where they were. And it was Tracy who would have to lead the others over the pass, while Todd went back to kill their pursuer.

He continued down the slope, going faster when there were larger rocks to use as steps, and slower on the scree, more mindful of being quiet as he got closer to the valley floor. Twice he had to lie flat behind a boulder when the moon reemerged, but as he peered out over it he saw no other movement; either the shooter was being careful too or he had never left his position.

Finally he reached the bottom and returned to springy earth. He stopped and looked around. In front of him, behind him, the looming dark shapes of the mountains, the sky still streaked with clouds overhead. He could no longer see the stream but he could hear it; the running water was more audible than it had been in the daylight, and he wondered if the darkness somehow amplified the sound, or muted all the other senses, the body adjusting to what sensations the world had to offer, making up in hearing what it lost in sight. He heard everything—the water trickling over rocks, the wind through the brush, a lonely creature calling in the dark. And he knew that if he could hear so well, the shooter could too; he needed to be quiet, as stealthy as he could, even here, a half-mile from the woods.

He started walking, experimenting with how to pick his feet up and put them down again—if he moved too fast, there was a sucking sound when he pulled up a shoe, and a muffled splash when he stepped back down. But if he moved slowly, the softness of the tundra absorbed all sound, and he could walk nearly silently forward. After fifteen minutes, he reached the small stream. He could only see the general movement of water, could not make out where the rocks were, or where he might step—he moved up and down the bank but found no obvious crossing. Did he really need to cross the stream? Yes, he thought. He did. Better that he circle back and approach the shooter from behind. He did not want to run into him head-on. He knelt down, taking the cold water in his cupped palms and drinking thirstily. He refilled his water bottle. He splashed some water on the scratch on his leg, which was feeling hot, infected. Then he stood up again, and found what looked like the easiest way across, and stepped onto a rock a few feet from the bank. But there was no rock or branch to step on next, so he braced himself and stepped straight into the water, the shock of cold taking his breath way. With an effort, he swung his other foot onto the opposite bank and then hopped one-footed in the river with the help of his pole until he was close enough to step out. But the one wet foot made him cold, and reminded him that his clothes weren’t yet totally dry from the storm, and he needed to get moving again.