THE HAWKINS RANCH WAS A CHECKERBOARD OF PRIVATE land and state and federal leases spread across the lee side of the foothills, and Joe had to cross through seven barbed-wire fence gates to get to it.  Most of the ranch was blanketed with tall sagebrush and scrub oak, buffalo grass and biscuit root, except for several large fingers of heavy timber that reached down from the mountains through saddle-slope draws.

Joe pulled into the ranch yard, a packed-gravel courtyard surrounded by structures.  The Hawkins place was an old-line working outfit, unlike many of the hobby ranches that were taking over the state.  The largest buildings in the yard were vast metal Quonset huts that served as vehicle sheds, barns, and equipment storage.  A maze of wooden-slat corrals bordered the small, white-framed ranch house.  There were no adornments of any kind anywhere; nothing to suggest anything other than what the place was - the business center for a large-scale beef-and-hay operation.

Joe turned toward the small house and saw Mrs. Hawkins step out on an unpainted porch and gesture sternly to the mountains.  There was no need to stop and visit, Joe thought, and he drove through the middle of the ranch yard until his wheels fell into the long-established ruts of a dirt road that pointed straight toward the timber five miles away.  Ahead of him in the ruts were the fresh tread tracks of several vehicles.


APPROACHING THE SCENE, JOE NOTED that two identical GMC Blazers belonging to the Twelve Sleep County Sheriff's Department, and a light-blue Ford pickup, were parked nose-to-tail on the two-track where the scrub thinned and the pine trees began.  To the right of the vehicles were three figures in the middle of what appeared to be a glacial-boulder field.

As Joe closed in, the front of his pickup bucked suddenly and a cascade of maps fell from a clip on the sunshade.  Maxine lost her footing on the dashboard and scrambled back to her place on the seat, looking at him for an explanation.

"Rock," he said. "Didn't see it."

The figures turned out to be Deputy Kyle McLanahan, Sheriff Barnum, and a visibly upset Don Hawkins.  What Joe had thought were boulders strewn across the ground were actually carcasses of cattle, at least a dozen of them.  The sour-sweet smell of death filtered into the cab of the pickup through the vents, and Maxine sat up ramrod straight, her brow wrinkled with concern.