Shadow Wolf. Jenna Kernan

“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 contact?

      As the dust billowed, Kino returned his scope to his target. Waited.

      “Tell me what you see,” he said to Clay as he searched for his shot. Clay was ten feet to his left and had a different perspective. Plus, by not using his scope, Clay could see the entire picture.

      “Looks like a woman. She’s waving, pulling parallel. Maybe Native. She’s got water barrels in her truck bed. He’s stepping out to greet her. Waving, too.”

      “Contact,” he whispered. Two birds, one bullet, he thought.

      Kino could see his target already rounding the front of the newly arrived pickup, rifle in hand. He fingered the trigger just as the man stepped behind the cover of the cab.

      Kino muttered a curse. “No shot.”

      “Might be together,” said Clay. “Or she’s part of the aid organization filling the water stations.”

      “They aren’t supposed to be on Indian land, either,” said Kino.

      “Tell her,” replied Clay. “Anyway, if she’s unexpected company, he’ll kill her for sure.”

      Kino needed to take the shot but he couldn’t see his target. All he could see across the bed of the red pickup was the passenger door of the blue truck, scratched and dusty, window open. On the opposite side of the seat he saw a woman’s figure, the driver, sitting behind the wheel, visible from shoulder to waist through the open passenger window. Shapely, her dark hair was braided in one long plait that hung over her right shoulder. She wore a pale blue T-shirt that hugged her breasts and slim torso. Her face was obscured by the roof of the cab, but her hands were slim, cinnamon brown and bedecked with a silver-and-turquoise ring and wide-cuff bracelet, both Zuni, from the style.

      “He’s lifting his rifle,” said Clay.

      The woman’s hands extended and left the steering wheel.

      “I’ve got no shot,” Kino repeated, his accelerating heart rate now interfering with his aim. All he could see was the man’s elbow and the barrel of the rifle.

      “He’s going to shoot her,” said Clay, his voice holding a rare note of alarm.

      Kino did the only thing he could think of. He took out her windshield. Glass exploded and his target vanished on the far side of the truck. The woman threw herself across the seat, hands over her head.

      Kino shot out the rearview mirror and then the driver’s-side mirror for good measure.

      “Where is he?” said Kino, scanning the area.

      “No sign,” said Clay.

      A moment later the red pickup began to roll.

      “Must have gone under the truck,” said Clay, taking a shot at the red truck.

      Kino had no target, but he now knew where the guy was. He started shooting, trying for a lucky hit through the cab of the truck. From beside