“Bastards,” said One and Two, drinking deeply of their drafts.

“Bastards,” agreed Three, keeping up.

They drank again. So did Paul and Nina.

“They say it’s gonna cost us a hundred twenty-five million dollars,” Three went on. “Hell, it could cost three times that.”

“Shit,” said Two. “You kidding me?”

“That’s what the Sierra Club says,” Three said, nodding.

“Bastards!” Two said.

“The Sierra Club?” Three asked.

“All of them. Outsiders. Why can’t they leave it alone? The old dam’s done the job all these years. We don’t want any more water. It’s all for people who live miles from here.”

“Somebody’s getting rich off this.”

“And there’s no tellin’ who.”

“So the damn developers can keep building until we all live up each other’s asses,” said Three. “Let ’em get their own damn water.”

“I didn’t move out here to listen to noise and deal with hammering, hollering, and hauling all day long,” Two said.

“Damn right,” One agreed.

“Somebody’ll blow it up, we get lucky,” said Two.

“I’ll do it if you’ll do it,” said Three.

This statement resulted in a long period of silence, as if the boys needed time to adjust to the change in dynamic before continuing. Down at the end of the bar, the fourth customer, the one with a gray beard, nursed a glass of ale.

He wore paint-spattered shorts and sandals, and on the floor beside his stool rested a folded easel, confirming Nina’s impression that he was an artist rather than a housepainter. She knew many of the people in the area formed a loose-knit community of artists and craftspeople.

“Let me know how to join the posse when the time comes,” the artist contributed now.

“Oh, good idea, Donnelly,” said the lady bartender from her perch in the corner.

“That’s right. Run ’em out of town,” said One.

“A hundred and eighty trucks a day rollin’ in!” Two said. “Think of it! We only got eight hundred people in Cachagua. That’s one truck per four people!”

“Not like they’re gonna hire locals either.”

“Place’ll be crawling with Mexicans,” Two went on.

“Shut up, Randy. I’m Mexican, in case you forgot,” said Three.

“Yeah, but you’re my friend,” Two said.

“And how about the Esselen Indians? Here for at least a thousand years. There are ancient relics all over the place, grinding stones, all that. The Esselens have been fighting this idea for years. Shouldn’t somebody listen to them?” Three asked.

“My sister’s husband is part Esselen. He’s all right,” said One. “I agree with you, they ought to be considered.”

“Ditto,” Two added.

Nina and Paul ate their sandwiches, paying close attention.

“You folks from around here?” asked Three of Nina and Paul. Having finished his current beer, he moved his mug back and forth along the bar, agitating for service.

“I grew up nearby,” Nina lied. She had grown up in Pacific Grove, fifty miles away in a whole different culture, but she certainly felt she knew these guys intimately. Any one of them might have been her first boyfriend, the skinny-dipper and bad boy, refocusing all his lawless youthful energy into a hard job and bar talk.

“You do look familiar,” Cowboy One said, examining her. “I think I used to see you at the Bucket.”

“I doubt it,” she answered, feeling the red creep up her cheeks and down her neck.

“No.” He showed his teeth. “I’d remember you.”

The others at the bar cast sidelong glances at her, then looked innocently back into their beers.

She could feel Paul bristling beside her, so she hurried to erase the naked frolicker who seemed to have taken up residence there beside them. “We’re looking for… a friend of a friend. Danny Cervantes?”

“Dead,” said One, his eyes gloomier than ever. “Don’t you read the paper?”

“Danny spent many a evening here, drinkin’ Coronas,” said Two.

“Seems obvious this is just plain what it looks like, a case of Danny being Danny,” said Three. On this sobering thought, the rest of the guys drank again.

“You really think he set those fires?” Paul asked.

“I don’t think he had a thing to do with those fires,” said Cowboy Three. “I ain’t gonna speak ill of the dead.”

“Last time he was in here, you sure had a different version. Started with F and ended with loudmouth asshole,” said Cowboy Two.

Cowboy Three sucked in his cheeks. “That’s because he was with Coyote that night.”

“Now, Coyote, he was Danny’s good buddy.”

“Uh huh,” said Nina.

“So what’s your interest in Danny?” said the artist.

“Actually, it’s Coyote I’d like to talk to,” Nina said.

“Why?”

How easily the lie flowed. “Danny’s uncle, Ben, found something in Danny’s room that belonged to Danny’s friend-I guess that’s Coyote, and my friend and I were coming out here anyhow to walk around the dam, so we said we’d ask around.”

This was rewarded with nods and pursed lips. Paul nodded too.

“Couldn’t be money,” Cowboy Two finally said. “Coyote sure ain’t got any of that, and Danny wouldn’t have saved it for him if he did.”

“Could you tell us where Coyote’s camp is?” Paul said.

“He’s got a camp out Arroyo Seco way.”

“Way out there,” Nina said.

“But you could just leave him a message at the one place we all go to when it all comes down.”

Nina nodded and smiled.

“Where’s that?” Paul said, and the whole bar, including Nina, said, “The Mid-Valley Safeway.”

“Ah. Right. We all have to buy groceries,” Paul said.

“Right,” Two said. “Even if he lives mainly on grilled squirrel.”

“What else can you tell us about Coyote?” Paul asked.

Two laughed. “He only talks when he’s drunk, but then you can’t shut him up. He collars you. The bar empties out when Coyote gets to talking about how he caught that big steelhead and gutted it and how good it tasted fried in a pan over a campfire.”

“How about the rest of you?” Paul asked. “You know the man?”

“He’s just… prickly. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why he yells at you if you say hey,” said Three, setting the roll of his stomach into movement as he chuckled. “Or even try to use the head, if he’s in there. He lives so deep in the boonies, he probably thinks the running water here is really special.”

“I remember he said once he grew up around Lake Tahoe,” said One. “But that’s right. Mostly he talks about hunting and fishing.”

Nina and Paul looked at each other.

“Hey, Donnelly, you were drinkin’ with him last week!” Three said suddenly.

Donnelly, the artist, had been watching them. He seemed to be working up some steam. “Boys, I don’t trust these people,” he said. “They come in here and they want to know where a man who likes his privacy lives. Who are you people?”

Surprised, Nina gave him her full attention. He had a twitchy, drumming presence that made Nina think about the dangers of crack cocaine. He seemed old to be abusing stimulants. In her experience older addicts preferred to mellow out.

“Just what we said,” Paul said with his innocent look.

“Lies. You’re the System.”

“The System?”

“The fucking exploiters and spies.”

“Oh, them. No, we’re just friends of Danny’s uncle.”

“IRS,” the artist said, counting on his fingers. “County sheriff. Welfare. Repo man. Child support. Which is it?”

“Look, I’m not after your friend at all. Danny left two hundred bucks in an envelope marked Coyote and his uncle wanted him to have it. Nobody cares what it’s for-drugs, loan, work, whatever. Screw it. We tried. We’ll buy dinner at the Sardine Factory instead. Let’s get out of here,” Paul said, turning to Nina and nudging her off the bar stool.

“Wait.” Two’s strong hand grasped Paul’s arm. “So it was money after all? Let’s see this envelope.”

“She has it.” Paul nodded casually toward Nina.

She opened her mouth and closed it. Opened it again. “I tossed the envelope,” she said. She opened her purse and pulled out ten twenties she had just received from the ATM and flipped the edges like a deck of cards.