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He thought again of the killing field, which both disgusted and depressed him.

He was astonished at the thoroughness of the people responsible.  First they had started with Miller's weasels and then moved on to killing the outfitters.  That progression indicated that perhaps they weren't yet through.

***

Joe loaded Lizzie into the horse trailer and put the saddle and tack in the back of the pickup.  He shared the last of his water with his horse then climbed stiffly into the cab of the truck and started the engine.

When he cleared the timber, the Twelve Sleep Valley opened up below him.  In the distance, he could see the early evening lights of Saddlestring like a jewelry box dumped on the prairie.  Directly below him was the campground, and the winking yellow lights of hunters' lanterns and propane lamps.  Between the two, miles in the distance and hidden in the folds of the foothills, was his house on Bighorn Road.

God, he was angry.  He was furious at his own situation and at the people who had put him there.  He was enraged when he thought of the killing field and the purposeful, deliberate way a species had been completely wiped off of the face of the earth.  In all of his studies and all of the gossip he had heard over the years, this was the first instance he knew of in which there had been a purposeful and determined effort to wholly terminate a species.

It was nearly dark, and it was getting colder.  An icy wind raced up the mountain from the valley floor.  The sky had cleared to the horizons, but it seemed to be regrouping for later.  Long, thin faraway clouds paralleled the western horizon looking like multiple red knife wounds slashed across purpling flesh.

***

"We have some beautiful sunsets, don't we, honey?"  Sheridan's mom said.

"Yeah," Sheridan answered blankly.  She had other things on her mind.

In the car, on the way to their house on Bighorn Road, Sheridan's mom had asked her to tell her what was wrong.  It was just the two of them, she said, and she was getting a little worried about her big girl.  She could tell that something was really bothering her, and she wanted Sheridan to tell her what it was.  She said Sheridan's eyes looked very tired.

"I'm okay, Mom," Sheridan said.  Her backpack was on the floor of the car.  She had brought it, she said, to put her books in.  But now it held a full bread sack of table scraps.

"Did you hear some of the things your dad and I discussed last night when he got home?"

Sheridan shook her head no.  Her mom seemed relieved.  Sheridan was glad it was nearly dark outside, because she knew her mom could read her face.  It was as if her mom could tell what she was thinking sometimes.  Sheridan felt guilty about not telling her mom about the creatures and the man.  Mom was wonderful, and very smart, even though she could be stern.  Sometimes she couldn't believe how wonderful her mother was, especially as Sheridan spent more time with Grandmother Missy.  Sometimes it seemed like her mom was the adult and Grandmother Missy, Sheridan, and Lucy were the children.  But her mom sure could worry, and Sheridan knew how much she would worry if she knew what Sheridan knew.  Worrying wasn't a good thing for a  woman who was so pregnant.  This Sheridan was pretty sure of.

"I want you to feel you can tell me what's wrong, Sheridan," her mom said.  She wasn't letting this go.

Sheridan had part of her problem solved.  When they got to the house, Sheridan would go into her bedroom and fill her backpack with some of her own books from her bookshelves.  She doubted her mom would want to look at the books to see if they were from the school library.  The hard part, though, would be figuring out a way to get outside alone. She had a little flashlight in her backpack for shining under the garage.  She hoped she would see them under there, and she hoped they would be all right.

"I think I don't like that house we're staying in," Sheridan said. "It seems too fancy.  It seems like we're living in somebody else's house."

"I know you feel that way," mom said. "We are living in someone's house.  Wealthy people like your grandmother do it all the time, but I realize it's new to you. But isn't it nice to have your own big room for a while?  And that TV with all of those channels?  What about that wonderful fireplace and all of those books on the shelves?"

"They're all right," Sheridan confessed. "But I still like our old house better."

"Sometimes change is good," her mom said.

"Most of the time it's bad," Sheridan echoed darkly.

Her mom laughed. "You can be so dramatic, sweetie."

The car slowed and her mom turned the steering wheel. "Well, it's still here," her mom said.

Sheridan looked through the windshield.  The house was very dark.  It looked like her father's truck was parked where it usually was on the side of the house.  But it wasn't her father's truck.

"Wacey must have gone with Dad and left his truck here when they took the horses," Mom said.

"I didn't realize he was going, too."  She turned off the motor.

"Anyway, let's not take all night," Mom continued.

"Grandmother Missy is making lasagna, and we don't want to miss that."

Grandmother Missy had come to the conclusion that everyone in the family loved her lasagna.  The fact that no one finished their dinner hadn't changed her mind. The truth was that the only person who liked Grandmother Missy's lasagna was Grandmother Missy herself.

Sheridan was behind her mother while her mom found the keys, opened the front door, and went in.  Mom reached to click on the lights, but she stopped before she did so, and Sheridan bumped right into her.

Her mom didn't move.

"What?  ..."

Suddenly, her mother was bent over and her face was close to Sheridan's. "Don't turn on the lights, honey.  Just be still."  Her mom's voice was urgent--and serious.  Sheridan had rarely heard that tone, and it scared her.

"What's wrong?"  Sheridan's eyes were wide.

"I don't know for sure," her mom said. "But I can see some kind of light in the backyard."

Sheridan couldn't speak.  She looked around her mother and could see it, too. Yellow light came in through the kitchen window and swept across the ceiling. Then it flashed the other way.

Sheridan's mom guided Sheridan to the couch and sat her down. "Just stay here for a second.  I'm going to go see what it is."

Sheridan sat, clutching her backpack.  She watched her mom walk through the front room and into the kitchen.  Her mother's silhouette was framed by the window.

"Mom ..."

Her mother turned. "There is a man out there by the woodpile with a flashlight.  He's kicking it apart."  Her voice was a tense whisper.

"I think he intends to steal our firewood."

Sheridan was jolted the instant she heard that someone, a man, was in the woodpile.  It came to her in a brilliant flash of panic: the truck parked outside, the fact that Mom didn't know about it, the friend of her dad's.

What was his name?

"Mom!"  Sheridan screamed, hurtling off of the couch toward the kitchen, even as her mother reached over and clicked on the floodlights that illuminated the backyard.

"Get away from that wood!"  her mother yelled, smacking the window with the palm of her hand as if the man were a stray dog rooting through the garbage.

Then the window shattered and there was a sharp crack outside.  Her mother was thrown backwards to the floor, her head bouncing hard on the linoleum.  Outside, a man was shouting.

Sheridan tossed the backpack aside and fell to her knees, sliding into her mother on the floor.  Sheridan put her hands on both sides of her mother's face.