C. Box - Out of Range

If she filled her backpack with clothes and started walking, she wondered, how far could she get before the sun came up?

Barnum knocked heavily on the door. With the other hand, he held a bar rag soaked with blood to his mouth. The front of his shirt was covered with it. Even the underside of his hat brim was flecked.

He saw a band of light appear beneath the door and the peephole darken for a moment, then heard the bolt being thrown.

Randan Bello stood wrapped in a towel, his eyes in slits. "What in the hell happened to you?" he asked.

"Never mind that," Barnum croaked. "I know what you're doing in Saddlestring, and I'm here to help."

Bello stepped back away from the door and examined Barnum from his bloodstained boots to his hat.

"Come in, Sheriff," Bello said.

Outside the motel, Nate Romanowski cruised through the parking lot in his Jeep with his headlights off. His.454 Casull lay unholstered on the passenger seat.

Hunters, mainly. Plates from Colorado, Michigan, Pennsylvania. Hunting states. Except for the SUV Barnum had parked next to, the one with the Virginia plates. Interesting.

Nate slowed to a crawl but didn't tap his brakes so his brake lights wouldn't flare. He leaned across the passenger seat and looked up at the windows that were lit. He saw a man with a profile that looked familiar-someone from a long time ago-approach the window and reach out with both hands for fistfuls of curtain. But before the man pulled the curtains closed, Nate saw the silhouette of Bud Barnum's crushed cowboy hat over his shoulder.

Nate thought of his red tail flaring two days before.

Instinctively, he rubbed the hand grip of his weapon with his thumb.

Smoke Van Horn was a huge man who seemed to fill up the cabin when he entered the room, accompanied by the smell of wood smoke, grease, horses, and leather that hung in his oversized sheepskin coat. His face was massive and naturally thrust forward, like a fist.

"Nice night out there," Smoke said to Joe. "We need some snow, though, to get the elk moving."

He let his coat slide off his shoulders, then tossed it on the bed across the room as if he'd done it a hundred times before. Perhaps he had, Joe thought. Under the coat, Smoke wore the same clothes Joe had seen him in that afternoon in the meadow, as well as the holster and.44 Magnum.

"I was just scouting the territory when I saw the light from your cabin," Smoke said in a too-loud voice, "so I thought I better check it out. I've thrown more than a few backpacker types out of your place before, you know. A couple of years ago some hunters moved in before Will got up here, and I sent them packing too. I figure this place is paid for by my tax money and license fees, so I don't want nobody trashing it."

"I appreciate that," Joe said, as he dished steak and potatoes onto his plate. "Can I offer you some?"

"I filled my belly with pemmican while I was riding," Smoke said, shaking his head, "but that sure smells good."

Joe filled a second plate and sat it on the table in front of the outfitter. He tried not to turn his back on Smoke at any point, but to stay in front of him. The outfitter exuded an aura of pure physicality and danger, even though he had not yet said or done anything that could be considered threatening. Joe watched as Smoke withdrew a collapsible camp cup from a shirt pocket, shook it out, and filled half of it with Wild Turkey from a bottle he had brought in with him.

"Want some?" Smoke asked, already pouring it into Joe's tin cup.

"Thanks," Joe said, adding water from a canteen.

"That's ruining two good drinks," Smoke said, raising his cup, a wide smile cracking the fist. "Here's to fall in Wyoming and two good men."

While they ate, Smoke noticed Joe looking at the.44 Magnum.

"Something wrong?" Smoke asked through a mouthful.

"Do you ever take that off?"

"Nope."

"Have you ever considered carrying bear spray?"

"Nope."

"Have you ever had to use it?"

"Yup," Smoke said. "This steak needs something. You got any ketchup or hot sauce?"

Smoke surprised Joe by gathering up the dishes and dumping them in an old plastic tub that he'd filled with hot water from a pot on the stove. Joe said, "You don't have to do that."

"Camp law," Smoke said, not turning his head. "You cooked, so I clean. Have another snort. And give me a re-ride on mine, will you?"

Joe picked up the bottle and began to pour it into his cup, then thought better of it. He refilled Smoke, and put the bottle back down with a thump so Smoke would think Joe had taken some. Instead, Joe added more water to his cup.

"I've got to admit," Smoke said, washing a plate with his back still to Joe, "you are more wily than I gave you credit for when I met you outside of the Sportsman's. You must have known at the time you'd be coming up here into the backcountry, but you didn't give it away."

Joe didn't respond.

"That was an old trick of Will's too. He liked to keep everyone guessing. Shit, if I was the game warden, I'd probably do the same damn thing. This is a lot of country for just one man, ain't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"You ever seen anything like this before?"

"My district is in the Bighorns," Joe said. "We've got some rough country."

"Nothing like this," Smoke said, turning and taking a long drink, "nothing like this."

He banged the empty cup down. "How 'bout another re-ride?"

"It's your whiskey," Joe said, pouring again.

Smoke cleaned the last of the plates and suspended the skillet over the soapy water. "Do you wash your cast iron, or keep it seasoned?"

"Seasoned, I guess," Joe said.

"Good man," Smoke said, wiping out the skillet hard with paper towels. "Not many folks know anymore how much good taste and character you lose in your food when you wash the damn skillet every night with soap. Cast iron is meant to be seasoned."

Smoke sat down at the table when he was through, the drying towel still draped over his arm. "I suppose I ought to think about getting back to my hunters pretty soon," he said. "They'll be wondering if a bear got me."

Joe felt a tightening in his chest. It didn't feel right to let

Smoke go back happily to his camp, only to arrest him in the morning.

"Something wrong?" Smoke asked, studying Joe's face.

"Let's have a nightcap," Joe said, putting off his decision.

"Nightcap, hell," Smoke said, pouring generously again, "let's tie one on."

"This is my thirty-second year up here," Smoke said wistfully. "I love it as much as my first."

Joe nodded.

"Things have changed, though. I see it in Jackson all the time. But I never thought I'd see it up here, and it pisses me off."

Smoke shifted and leaned across the table, his face thrust at Joe. Joe stanched an impulse to jump back.

"I'm a third-generation outfitter," Smoke said. "I got the same camp my dad and my grandpa used. A couple of years ago I sat down during a blizzard when we couldn't hunt and I figured out that we've probably brought twenty-five hundred dead elk through that camp over the years. That's a hell of a lot of meat. I also figured out that over the years we've probably contributed over a half a million in license fees, and we've spent about four million in the county to keep our business running. I'm the best there is at what I do, so I feel pretty damned good about it, overall. I get to show these out-of-staters there is still some wildness left in this world, and that they'd better show some goddamned respect for it. I've been known to send a whiner or two home, even at a financial loss to me, if that son of a bitch don't respect what we've got up here."

"Twenty-five hundred elk is a lot of elk," Joe said.

Smoke weighed Joe's comment for a minute, his eyes narrowing, then decided it was neutral, not critical.