“Fine.”
Kino ignored the ire behind the single word Clay spit at him and continued following the tracks.
Clay blocked his path.
“Why do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Captain says to coordinate with border patrol, you don’t. They say to go left, you go right. Clyne and Gabe tell you to stay home, you come here. They’re shorthanded as it is. It was a rattlesnake rattle they found. Anyone can get them.”
“But not everyone leaves them inside dead bodies.”
And, yes, his brother Gabe wanted him home in his absence. And, yes, as a Shadow Wolf, it was his job to find smugglers. But, really, he didn’t want them. He wanted the one who was killing them.
“Family first,” said Kino again.
“Your family is at Black Mountain and up there in South Dakota. That’s where we should be.”
“I’ve got business here.”
Because word had reached him that they were finding Mexican smugglers with rattlesnake rattles shoved into the bullet holes in their dead bodies. He’d read the reports. Sometimes the rattles were in the victim’s cheek, or the shoulder, the breast or in the belly, right next to the navel. But always, the rattle was there, just like the one they found ten years ago in the body of Kino’s father. And Clay knew exactly how Kino had known it was there.
Clay rubbed the back of his neck.
“You gonna help me or what?” asked Kino.
“I should be helping Gabe and Clyne. They’re going to the powwow without me.”
“This is more important.”
Clay gave him a look that told him he disagreed. “Grandma wants us there.”
Kino waved his arms. “Why’d you come, then?”
“Not to chase a ghost.”
“The Viper isn’t dead.”
“I wasn’t talking about him.”
Did he mean their dad, then? Was Clay so willing to let his father’s murderer go unpunished? Kino wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Look. He’s here. I can feel it.”
Clay sighed and swept his hand forward so Kino could continue along the trail.
They traveled nearly a mile and were climbing a ridge when Clay slowed Kino with a touch.
“Stay down.” Clay motioned to the rocky ridge. “Don’t give them your silhouette.”
Kino nodded, lowering his profile as they neared the top. The prints were fresh. Their quarry was close.
That was when they heard the distinctive pop of four rifle shots. Both men exchanged a glance, hunched down and ran in the direction of danger.
They crested the small incline and fell in unison to the ground. There, below them, was a red pickup truck. Four men lay motionless on the ground. Another man stood over them, a rifle relaxed in his left hand.
Looked like four Mexicans from appearances and, given their parallel positions, Kino guessed they’d been kneeling then shot execution style. The ethnicity of the one still standing was questionable.
Clay lifted his rifle and took aim.
Kino placed a hand on Clay’s shoulder. He knew his brother was an excellent shot. Not as good as Kino, but excellent.
“Wait,” whispered Kino. He was already certain, but he wanted to see the man do it and then he wanted that shot himself.
Clay took his finger from the trigger but continued to watch through the scope.
Kino did the same.
“I can’t see his face,” whispered Clay.
“Damned cowboy hat,” replied Kino.
The man was slim, broad-shouldered, obviously fit, and spitting tobacco as he went methodically from one body to the next, checking each with the toe of his boot.
None of the Mexicans moved.
“Rancher?” asked Clay.
“Don’t think so. Too light for an Indian. Why is he on Indian land?”
Clay shrugged. “Not border patrol. No gear.”
The man wore a white work shirt and jeans cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt that held a knife housed in a black nylon sheath. He also had a pistol holstered to his hip. On his head rested a straw, sweat-stained hat. His truck was old, faded red in color and rusted at the wheel wells. There was a gun rack behind the seat.
The shooter held his rifle in a casual grip. Right-handed, Kino noted. He stooped and recovered four camo-colored backpacks one at a time and casually tossed them into the truck bed. Kino recognized the backpacks as the type often favored by Mexican drug smugglers.
The man tucked the rifle under his arm and reached into his front breast pocket, withdrawing what appeared to be a can of chewing tobacco. The man turned his back as he handled the container. Then he used one hand to retrieve his knife.
“What’s he doing?” whispered Clay.
“Not sure.” But Kino had a feeling. Hope bubbled in his throat and his body tingled all over. Was this his man?
Clay settled against the earth, getting comfortable.
The cowboy squatted and flipped the nearest smuggler onto his back. He set aside his rifle and used his knife to slice open the camo shirt covering the body.
“Looking for drugs?” asked Clay.
The guy could be raiding the smugglers. There was certainly a living to be made stealing from men carrying drugs. But it was a dangerous game, robbing from the cartels.
The cowboy now had exposed the chest of one of the dead men. Kino could see the bullet wound oozing dark blood.
The man lifted something from the container and shoved it into the bullet hole.
“What was that?” asked Clay.
“It’s him,” said Kino, raising his rifle to take aim just as a cloud of dust rose up to obscure his view. “What the hell?” He opened his other eye to see a blue pickup rattle into view.
“More company,” said Clay.
Kino took his eye from his scope because it now showed only billowing dust and noted the position of the dead men and the arriving truck. Was it possible that the driver of the blue pickup might not see the cowboy or the dead bodies strewed on the thirsty ground? Or was this the shooter’s
