Slaughter stepped up on the porch. "All that happened here? I take it back about country life being easy." He stooped to pick up another beer, then restrained his impulse. "Look, I think we'd better break this up. If we've got the trouble I think we have, we should all be on duty. Grab that phone," he told the new man. It was ringing inside, and as the new man went in, Slaughter faced the rest of his men. "You know what to do." He told the medical examiner, "I'll go with you to get the cat I shot." Then he told Dunlap, "How else can I help you?"

"Well, I'd like to see the compound, talk to Wheeler-"

"I don't understand what you're looking for, but you can see the problems I've got. I'll make a deal. You let me have today, and I'll go out with you tomorrow."

"Can somebody drive me back to town?" Dunlap asked. "I'd like to examine the records in your office."

You're pushing, Slaughter thought. You know I don't have time to watch you. He was just about to answer when the new man appeared in the doorway.

"That's the state police," the new man said, and Slaughter felt his apprehension intensify. His mind seemed to tilt, and he knew that normalcy was on the other side now.

"Did you phone them yesterday about a rancher named Bodine?" the new man continued.

"That's right. Damn it, tell me what they want."

"Well, the ranch is still deserted. Not only that, but…"

When Slaughter heard the rest of it, he murmured, 'Jesus," and rushed in toward the telephone.

The helicopter circled high above the foothills. It was just a speck up there, and Slaughter barely heard it as he sped across the bumpy rangeland, squinting upward, then glancing straight ahead to make sure he didn't hit a rock or a clump of sagebrush or a gulch he wouldn't see until he was almost on it. He glanced to the left as well, worried by the wide, deep drywash over there, and hoped that he'd made the proper choice when he drove down along this side instead of heading across the bridge back near the ranch and moving down along the opposite side. He was aiming toward the helicopter, closer to it, closer to the dry-wash too and worried that he'd have to stop the cruiser soon, to cross the gully on foot and walk the rest of the way.

He didn't have to. One bend in the wash, and then it straightened, almost in a line up toward the helicopter high above the foothills. He was taking chances, speeding faster.

"Aren't you worried that you'll break an axle?" Dunlap asked beside him.

"Not in this car. It's designed to go through anything. I made sure we got the best."

Slaughter concentrated on the bumpy terrain. Bringing Dunlap with him was something he regretted. But he hadn't wanted Dunlap going through his files when he wasn't around, and certainly he hadn't wanted Dunlap asking people questions about what was happening in town-that would surely start the panic Slaughter wanted to avoid-and so he'd made a quick decision, taking Dunlap with him. Slaughter told himself that there was no place where Dunlap would be harmless. At least this way the man would be in sight. But Slaughter wasn't confident. Of all the weekends for a reporter to arrive, he thought, and he was speeding faster toward the helicopter high above the foothills.

"What about that cow the medical examiner mentioned?" Dunlap asked.

"The steer."

"I beg your pardon."

"Out here they call beef cattle 'steers'."

"I didn't know."

"It's all right. I called them 'cows' too many times myself. It takes a while to get adjusted."

Maybe I've changed the subject, Slaughter hoped. The night before, he'd told the medical examiner to check the steer that had been found next to old Doc Markle's corpse. But it turned out that someone at the veterinary clinic had mistakenly had the carcass incinerated. Slaughter had been furious. Wasn't anything about this trouble going to work out easily?

"But what about the steer?" Dunlap asked.

So the subject hadn't been changed, after all.

"A different problem," Slaughter told him. "Something got a steer two nights ago. We don't know what did it."

"The steer was Sam Bodine's?"

And how did you know that? Slaughter thought. "Yes, that's right. Bodine's."

"So then this problem isn't really different from the other."

The helicopter now was lower as the foothills loomed before them. Slaughter had to look away, the helicopter in a straight line with the blazing sun, and then he saw the state-police cars where the rangeland ended at the bottom of the thickly wooded slope. He drove as far as he was able, stopping by the other cars, his bumper up against some sagebrush, and he scrambled out, putting on his hat, holding it as dust was swirled up by the helicopter coming down. He looked around, puzzled, wondering where everybody from the cruisers had gone.

The helicopter's roar was deafening, so he didn't hear them coming through the trees. Abruptly, they emerged from the underbrush, Altick and three men he hadn't seen before. They all belonged to the state police, but Altick was the ranking officer, a captain, so Slaughter focused his attention on him. One thing about Altick, he was good at what he did, so good that no one ever made jokes about his unflattering mustache. He'd been forced to grow it after he had tried to stop a knife fight and had nearly lost his lip when two drunken cowboys turned on him. The scar was partly visible beneath the sandy bristles. He had his hat off, wiping at the sweat across his forehead. Then he put it back on, stepping down toward Slaughter, on a level with him now and just about as tall.

They tried to talk but couldn't hear and turned to watch the helicopter set down, rotors slowing, engine dying.

"Nobody told me you'd be in on this," Slaughter said.

"Well, Bodine was a friend." Altick's voice was raspy. "That's why we got on this so fast. I knew the forestry department had its helicopter out this way. The land's so dry they're checking for fires. So I asked them to look for Bodine's truck."

"The phone call said they'd found it."

Altick pointed toward the trees he'd come through, motioning for Slaughter to follow. They hiked up through the underbrush and stopped where the ground eased onto a level before sloping sharply upward again. There were fir trees, boulders, and a small streambed that wound down the slope. The pickup truck was before them, its blue paint scratched from the trees it had squeezed past, one wheel in a sinkhole, both doors open, covered with dust.

The helicopter pilot joined them. "I almost didn't find it. I was looking for it out on the range."

"What made you even think to look here?" Slaughter turned to Altick.

"Just a guess," Altick said. "I thought that Sam had maybe taken his family on a trip. That appaloosa mare of his, though. It's won half a dozen trophies. No one came around to feed it. So I knew something had happened to him. I checked all the traffic accident reports. When nothing turned up there, I figured he was out on the range in some trouble and we'd better take a look. This pilot is something. He wasn't out here half the morning before finding this."

Slaughter walked toward the pickup truck. He circled it, then glanced at where the streambed angled toward the flat-land. "Looks like Sam was in a hurry. He chose the only route that he could follow, rammed up the streambed until he couldn't go much farther, then jumped out, and ran."

"Not just him."

Slaughter squinted at Altick.

"Both doors are open, don't forget," Altick said. "We haven't touched a thing. Sam and someone else. It's my guess his wife and son were with him. Otherwise, where are they?"

Slaughter slumped against the truck. The shade in here was welcome, cooling him. He tried to think. "It could be nothing's wrong. Maybe he just drove up for the hell of it. The truck got stuck, but they were going camping, something like that, so he left it until he'd come back. Then he planned to get help to move the truck."