“I know,” Rachel said, gripping her arm harder, “but it’s what he asked me. He’s going to quietly tell the others what we saw and get them to help him jump Jed and tie him up until we can get help. He doesn’t want you two in the camp in case things go bad.”

“Justin’s coming with us,” Danielle said, pulling away from Rachel and folding her arms over her breasts. “I won’t leave him behind.”

Rachel grimaced, but she seemed to realize she’d come up against an immovable object.

“Get him,” she said. “We leave in five minutes.”

* * *

Gracie and Danielle walked up the hill into the camp. They tried to not betray their anxiety or their plan. Gracie noted that Danielle was better at deception than she was, and she could only imagine how she looked so she covered her head with her hood and kept her eyes down. Jed wasn’t there, and neither was her dad.

What was going on?

She followed her sister to where Justin was sitting on a rock. Danielle approached him, held out her hand, and Justin took it with a quizzical but amused look on his face. She led him away.

Walt didn’t say a word.

As they led Justin back toward the horses, Gracie chanced a look over her shoulder. Donna Glode, Knox, and Walt stared at the fire, absorbed in their own thoughts.

36

From the edge of the clearing where he was resting the horses, Mitchell called, “Hey, Hoyt. When you get a minute you may want to come look what this guy has in his saddlebags.”

Cody didn’t ease up on the pressure he was applying with the muzzle of the rifle. He said, “In a minute, Bull.”

But he noticed something pass across Wilson’s bloody face.

“Christ,” Wilson said. “You’re Cody Hoyt?”

“That’s right.”

“Shit, I should have figured it out. I knew your uncle Jeter. We used to drink together at the Commercial Bar in Townsend.”

Cody let up a bit simply because he was trying to process what Wilson said.

“You’re a damned Hoyt,” the man said. “A damned Hoyt.” As if it meant something.

“Then who the hell are you?” Cody asked. “I’ve never heard of anyone named K. W. Wilson.”

Wilson clammed up, and Cody stepped back and kicked him hard in the ribs. When the man grunted and curled away, Cody dropped on him with a knee in his back and snatched his wallet out of his jeans pocket.

The Montana auto license was in the front sleeve. “Jim Gannon,” Cody said. “Shit, I know that name.”

Gannon, like his uncle Jeter, was an outfitter who used to work out of Lincoln. Cody had never met him, but he’d heard stories. Gannon was a hard-drinking, hard-charging fourth-generation Montanan. He had a reputation as a poacher and a wild man, and Cody remembered hearing he’d been brought up on charges and had his outfitting license revoked and his hunting lodge shut down.

Cody said to Mitchell, “Bull, you know who we’ve got here?”

“Jim Gannon,” Mitchell said, ambling over. “That’s what I was going to show you. He’s got a bunch of personal crap in his saddlebag with his name all over: ‘Property of Jim Gannon.’ I told you we were dealing with an outfitter. Hell, I thought he looked familiar. I guess I must have seen his picture in the paper once when they brought him up on charges.”

Cody swung his rifle back over. “Why’d you register for this trip as someone named Wilson?”

Wilson/Gannon rasped, “Why d’you think?”

Cody said, “So Jed or anyone else in his office wouldn’t recognize the name. It would have seemed kind of suspicious for a bent guide like yourself to pay all that money to go on a trip with dudes.”

Gannon nodded, still trying to get his breath back from the kick.

“I think you should just shoot him now,” Mitchell said, leaning against a tree. “He gives outfitters a bad name. I never knew him because he wasn’t in the Montana Outfitters and Guides Association. Hell, he doesn’t even know how to handle horses worth a damn.”

“So I ask again,” Cody said, “what the hell is going on?”

Gannon gathered himself and sat up with a moan. “Every inch of me hurts,” he said.

“More is about to,” Cody said, and shot him in the knee.

“Jesus!” Mitchell said, jumping back. “Why’d you do that?” The spent casing landed between his boots.

Cody said to Mitchell, “I’ve seen this particular method of interrogation work pretty well before.” Thinking about the year before in Denver. It had certainly worked then, to a point.

Gannon howled and grabbed his mangled leg with both hands. Cody hoped he wouldn’t pass out from shock before he started talking. Nevertheless, he took careful aim at Gannon’s other knee.

“Please, no, no…,” Gannon begged.

“Hoyt, I don’t know about this,” Mitchell said, shaking his head.

“Tell me why you’re on this trip,” Cody said to Gannon.

“We’re trying to find that plane,” Gannon shouted, fighting through the pain. “That goddamned plane that went down.”