Montana Unbranded. Nadia Nichols

       CHAPTER THREE

      DANI PAUSED AT the old line camp just long enough to shed her pack and sort out her camera gear. The boot tracks she’d been following hadn’t stopped at the cabin, but had continued on toward the high park. Nobody had been at the cabin for several weeks. Now managed by the forest service, the camp was available by reservation year-round for twenty dollars a night, and Dani had reserved it for herself well in advance, though not many hiked up here in mud season. It was a simple setup: two bunks, a plank table with two chairs and a woodstove for heat. With the grizzlies out of hibernation and roaming the mountains, four solid log walls were a comfort. She stashed her pack at the cabin and hiked immediately toward the park. From there she would most certainly be able to spot wild horses. She called the dogs to heel and they fell in beside her. They knew not to chase after things or to leave her side when she spoke to them in that stern tone of voice. They knew work from play, and they knew this was her time to work. They also knew there would be plenty of time for play afterward.

      She paused for a moment to take a deep breath of sweet, cool mountain air and drink it all in. It was so beautiful up here, so wild. One day she’d live on the edge of a wilderness just like this and be able to walk out in it every single day. And maybe, just maybe, there’d be a special guy in her life to share this with. Someone who wasn’t gone all the time. Someone who’d worry if she didn’t come home on time, and who would always be glad to see her when she did.

      Dani laughed at herself. She’d sworn off guys after Jack left, and now she was spending way too much time thinking about Molly’s big brother. Foolishness. Joe Ferguson was a city boy. He’d never take to this life. Besides, he was probably juggling a handful of women. Someone that good-looking couldn’t be single. Get to work, she chided herself, and hiked onward.

      She saw the vultures before she saw the horses, wheeling circles on mountain updrafts in their telltale, teetering flight. Something was dead or close to it. Rounding the crest of the broad sweep of high meadow, she spotted more vultures on the ground not a quarter mile distant. There were twenty or better scattered over the meadow in three undulating clumps, each clump feeding on something large and deceased. Vultures were big birds, and from a distance it was hard to make out what they were feeding on, but Dani’s good mood instantly vanished, replaced by a growing feeling of dread.

      Walking slowly, she descended the gentle slope. Ravens in nearby trees croaked an alarm and took to the air as she approached, and on cue all of the vultures flew away. Their takeoff was heavy, loud and slow, and Dani stopped abruptly when she saw what the flight of the vultures revealed. She’d half expected this, but the shock ran through her like an electric jolt as she processed the scene. Three horses lay sprawled in the high park.

      Three of the eight wild horses that made up Custer’s band. Dead.

      Shaken, Dani stood paralyzed. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. How could this have happened? How could three have been killed all at once? Lightning sometimes struck them in these higher elevations, but not in this number and not this early in the season. Was Custer one of the dead? Wild, beautiful Custer? The dogs looked up at her. They smelled death and sensed her distress. Their tails were still, their expressions solemn. This wasn’t what she’d come to the Arrow Roots to photograph. Nonetheless, this was something that needed to be captured for others to see. Photographs needed to be taken. Whatever had happened to the wild horses of the Arrow Roots, people needed to know their fate. Dani blew out her breath and steeled herself for the task at hand. “Okay, boys, you stay right beside me,” she said to the dogs. “Heel.”

      She shouldered her gear and started walking down the hill. The dogs walked close beside her to keep her safe.

      * * *

      CUSTER WAS AMONG the dead. Of course he would be. This was his little band of mares. This was his home range. He would have fought to protect all that was his. Dani was overwhelmed by the enormity of the tragedy. The three dead horses were widely scattered. From the hoofprints left behind in the soft spring earth it looked as though they had been running in a wild panic, changing directions, not knowing which way to turn when whatever happened, happened. And it had happened very recently. Late yesterday, perhaps? Though the spring sunshine was warm and flies had begun to gather, the carcasses had not yet begun to bloat or smell. Vultures, coyotes and ravens had begun their feast, and Dani saw the fresh imprint of a large bear in the churned-up earth near one of the carcasses. The dogs were uneasy and their hackles raised when they sniffed at the track. She knew from experience they didn’t like the smell of bear. She snapped photos with her digital camera swiftly, but the hair on the back of her neck prickled. Where was the bear? Not far, she was sure, and it wouldn’t like her being anywhere near the dead horses.

      She took multiple photos of Custer, that wonderful wild stallion that she’d been photographing for the past few years, then bent and zoomed the lens in on the neck of a bay mare that was not as mutilated as the others. She focused on what could only be a bullet hole. Large caliber. Not fatal, but she had several other bullet holes in her chest area that were. These horses had been shot multiple times. Deliberately slaughtered. Both mares had been pregnant. Dani thought about the tire tracks back where she had parked. Big tires with aggressive tread. Truck tires. And the boot tracks that had walked here and returned to the parking area. Big footprints. A man had come up here with a rifle, spotted the herd grazing in this high meadow and shot them.

      Who? And why?

      Dani pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and turned it on. No signal. But she dialed Molly’s cell, anyway, just in case, and got nothing.

      “Damn it.” This was the downside of true wilderness. No cell phone towers.

      Remmie and Win were looking toward the bushes at the edge of the meadow. Their ears were cocked. Dani took a few steps closer and saw the legs of a fourth horse protruding from the brush. This mare was lying well apart from the others near the edge of the tree line and mostly hidden by the brush. A dun-colored mare with a long black mane and tail. Dark stripe down her spine. Dark barred stripes on her legs. A beautiful Spanish mustang with classic markings, and except for the bullet holes in her neck and shoulder, she’d been untouched by the scavengers. She was the perfect subject to prove the horses had all been shot. Dani moved closer, raised the camera and took a burst of shots. The mare’s eyes were open, which wasn’t unusual in death, but at the sound of the camera’s shutter, the mare’s ears flickered ever so slightly, then she blinked and moaned, a deep gut-wrenching sound of agony. Dani lowered the camera, a different kind of shock paralyzing her.

      This horse was still alive.

      “Easy, girl,” Dani soothed, but at the sound of her voice the mare thrashed her legs, struggled desperately to gain her feet, then lost strength, groaned again and collapsed flat on her side. “Easy, girl, I won’t hurt you.” Dani’s thoughts were as panicked as the horse. The mare was wild and didn’t want her near, but she was badly injured and suffering. Dani cast around frantically, as if help might appear on the horizon, but all she saw were the three other dead horses, a sky full of circling vultures and two loyal dogs. She was on her own.

      The dogs suddenly looked beyond her, ears cocked, and she heard the crashing of something in the thicker brush beyond the mare. She backed rapidly away, her heart in her throat. Bear? She saw a flash of pale color. Bears were dark. Was it another wounded horse? Please, God, no.

      But it wasn’t a bear or another wounded horse. A cream-colored foal stepped out of the scrub on long wobbly legs that could barely support it. When it spotted her it made a noise, the sound of a frightened young thing that needed its mother. The foal was a newborn. Tiny. Scared. Dani looked again at the mare. The blood from her gunshot wounds had masked the blood from the birthing. This mare had been shot twice and then, lying near death, had somehow birthed this foal, and very recently. The foal’s coat was still damp. It staggered unsteadily toward its mother, who raised her head off the ground and made a noise in her throat that knifed into Dani’s heart. The foal responded and came to her side, but the mare could do no more. Her life was nearly gone, bled out into the grass.

      “I’ll