The order of the riders, horses, and mules was established in the parking lot by Jed. Once everyone was mounted, he’d explained that the reason for the order of riders was not based on merit or preference, but by how the horses behaved with each other.

“If you want to change the order,” he said, “we can maybe work it out at some point. We may find we want to change things up as well to keep the peace. But right now, just memorize the look of the rider’s butt and the horse’s butt ahead of you and follow those butts. Horses have an established pecking order. They also have friends and enemies. We know these horses better than we know you folks at this point, so trust us on this. Safety first, folks. If you change up the order you increase the chance of a wreck.”

* * *

Gracie rode next to last on Strawberry. When Jed handed her the reins of the pink horse, he told Gracie the animal was a sweetheart and “Don’t have an ounce of mean in her anymore if she ever did.” Strawberry was older than Gracie, he said, and this may be her last trip before she was retired to be a brood mare. All Strawberry required, Jed said, was kindness and she’d pay Gracie back with loyalty and predictability. “You look like a nice girl,” Jed had said.

“Most of the time,” Gracie answered.

“You’ve ridden a little?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” she said.

He gave her a paternalistic smile. “We’ll see,” he said.

11

Cody Hoyt said, “So, do you have a headlight that will work?”

It was ten thirty in the morning and the mechanic leaned against a rolling, red-metal standing tool chest and drank a cup of coffee. Above his head was a Snap-On Tools calendar featuring a blonde winking while holding a wrench. The little garage was dark and close and smelled of oil and gasoline. Dust motes floated through the shafts of light from the cloudy windows. The mechanic wore gray coveralls and a Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation cap. He was short and wiry with deep-set eyes and short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He’d shaved but had missed a triangle of whiskers above his Adam’s apple. Cody had waited for him outside the shop for an hour while the mechanic had leisurely morning coffee with other locals at the diner next door.

“I might have one,” the mechanic said, “depending on your attitude.”

Cody nearly launched himself across the floor at the guy, but managed to take a deep breath and look away. Orange spangles danced around the edges of his vision. He wanted to flash his badge or show his gun. He wanted to put the mechanic in a sleeper hold and threaten his eyes with pepper spray-anything to get the guy moving. He hated being a civilian. And he hated the fact that he had to operate below the radar and on his own. If he’d told the trooper the night before where he was going and why, the patrolman would have been duty bound to call it in and check the story. Cody couldn’t afford to have the sheriff know he was gone, and Townsend was close enough to Helena that Bodean might send someone to get him and bring him back. So, gritting his teeth against his nature, he’d followed the trooper back to town and nodded meekly when ordered to “Park it.”

If he leaned on the mechanic the trooper would come back and he might never get out of Townsend, Montana, population 1,898.

“Look,” Cody said, “just please put your other jobs aside long enough to wire in a new headlight.”

The mechanic eyed Cody with a squint, sizing him up. Waiting for more groveling, Cody imagined.

“I’ve been here all night,” Cody said. “The trooper said you’re the only mechanic in town right now. I’m really desperate to get on the road and he won’t let me go until I’ve got a headlight that works.”

Finally, the mechanic said, “I doubt I can match the headlight. I might have to order one out of Helena or White Sulpher Springs-”

Cody broke in, “It doesn’t have to look pretty. It doesn’t even have to fit. It just has to light up.”

* * *

The morning was cool and sunny and there were no pedestrians on the street. The Commercial Bar across the road was open, as it always was. Cody watched as a ranch truck parked at the curb and a beat-up old cowboy got out and went in for his breakfast beer. He wore irrigation boots and a sweat-stained straw hat. Jesus, he thought, a breakfast beer.

As he walked he thought of Justin, and his stomach turned sour. Therefore, he had to keep it going. He had to find his son and keep that going. He owed the world the favor.

* * *

He pulled out his cell and speed-dialed Larry’s extension.

“Olson.”

“Larry, it’s me.”

There was a beat before Larry cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, what did you say your name was?”

“Come on, Larry.”

“And you’re with what company again?”

“Ah,” Cody said, “Bodean’s in the room. Got it.”

“Yes,” Larry said, clipped.

“Can’t talk?”

“No. How did you get this number?”

“I’ll call back on your cell, then.”