Scrambling up a dry wash littered with signs of coyote and mountain lion, Henry Smith topped the ridge and paused in the sparse shade of a juniper. Scanning the plateau, his attention was drawn from the gray-green clumps of sagebrush to an approaching curl of dust. As he watched, his finger released the safety on his rifle. Wild animals weren’t the only predators in this desolate canyon country.
      If he hadn’t seen that Ford pickup and livestock trailer parked below, partially hidden by trees near the spring, he wouldn’t have given the dust cloud much thought.
      Henry picked his way down the wash to the horse he’d tied out of sight. The roan gelding twitched an ear as he tightened the cinch before climbing into the saddle. The spring was a quarter mile into the canyon, where a bright patch of green stood out like an unexpected spot of color in a monochromatic photo.
      He scanned the trees as he rode cautiously toward the truck and trailer.
      The trailer door hung open. Empty. He glanced at the makeshift loading chute as he nudged the roan closer to the truck, noting the Mesa State College license plate frame. Standing in the stirrups, he looked through the truck windows. Nothing in the cab except a daypack and a neatly rolled sleeping bag.
      Dismounting, he left the roan in a patch of scrub. Henry circled the truck, keeping the rifle ready while examining tracks in the soft earth. Someone had unloaded a horse, mounted and rode east. He pushed back his Stetson and wiped his face with a worn bandana. Returning to his horse, Henry pulled his canteen and a half-melted Snickers bar from the saddlebag. He wrestled with the sticky candy bar wrapper, his thoughts on the Ford pickup.
      Henry knew that truck. He remembered Aubrey Miller buying it just before they had graduated from college. But his employers, the ranchers in the Northeastern Colorado Plateau Cattlemen’s Association, expected him to take care of problems like this. No matter who was involved.
      Then again, maybe Aubrey had sold the truck.
      He finished the Snickers bar and wiped his fingers on the bandana. Swallowing a mouthful of lukewarm water from the canteen, Henry settled down in the lengthening shadows of the trailer and waited. The late afternoon sunlight faded into dusk. The roan twitched his ears, listening. Soon Henry heard it, too. The low bawling and the shuffle of tired hooves. The sound grew louder, echoing off the canyon walls. He placed his hand over the roan’s nose to keep him from whinnying.
      A rider came into view, herding the small group of yearlings toward the loading chute. The cattle shied away at first, but were urged forward until they clambered inside the trailer. Henry watched the rider lean forward to close the door, near enough to recognize.
      His jaw clenched.
      “I’ll get that for you, Aubrey,” Henry said, stepping forward.
      Startled, the rider swore. “Whispering Smith! How long you been out here?”
      “Long enough,” Henry replied. He swung the door shut and leaned against the trailer, cradling his rifle. An owl hooted somewhere near the spring. “Lazy K sure has some good looking yearlings, despite the drought.”
      Aubrey dismounted. Even in the moonlight, Henry could see the dust covering him from his battered cowboy hat to his boots. 
      Twisting the reins in his hands, Aubrey looked at the ground as he spoke. “So what happens now?”
      Henry stared at him. What did he think happened to rustlers? He clenched his fist, wanting to knock sense into him. Instead, he calmly asked, “What were you going to do with the cattle?”
      Aubrey shrugged and tied his horse to the trailer.
      “Wouldn’t have anything to do with a fellow name of Lockhart, would it?”
      When Aubrey didn’t answer, Henry took it as a yes. He knew Lockhart was a nasty piece of work, reputedly ruthless in business dealings but good at getting rid of stolen cattle quickly. He'd been lucky at staying ahead of the range detectives, especially the one found trampled to death in Utah. Lockhart’s luck had held with the lack of conclusive evidence. Now it looked like his luck might change.
      “Where were you meeting him?” Henry moved away from the trailer and shifted the rifle to his left hand.
      Aubrey licked his lips and said, “You know I can’t tell you that.”
      “Maybe you’d better think about saving your own skin,” Henry said, biting back a sharp comment about honor among thieves. He leaned against a tree and took a deep breath.
      Aubrey must have sensed his anger. He looked away and kicked a stone.
      Henry watched the stone bounce, realizing Aubrey’s boot was not the same one that made the tracks he’d found by the truck. The distinct metallic click of a round being chambered came from somewhere behind him. Even as Henry reacted, Aubrey rushed him, driving him to the ground and knocking the rifle from his hands. Henry heard a bullet rip bark from the tree he’d been leaning against. The report of a gun followed.
      Rolling free, Henry reached for his rifle. Aubrey was closer and grabbed the rifle first. Keeping low, Henry’s hand closed on the pistol in his holster as he watched the muzzle of the rifle waver in his direction. Aubrey wasn’t looking at him, though. His attention was on the brush surrounding the spring.
      “That idiot,” Aubrey whispered, hands shaking as he passed the rifle to Henry. “If I’d known he was going to pull a stunt like this, I would have told you he was here.”
      A second shot slammed into the trailer. Henry saw the bright tongue of flame flash in the darkness. He grabbed the rifle, fired three quick shots at the flash then dropped to a prone position, searching the shadows. The gunfire had startled the livestock and the cattle inside the trailer were bawling and thumping the trailer walls, making it impossible to hear anything else.
      “Let those cows out,” Henry barked.
      “Do what?”
      “And keep low.” 
      Behind him, Aubrey swore loudly as he untied his panicked horse. It reared, then wheeled and kicked at the trailer before running into the darkness. Within a few seconds, Henry heard the clank of the latch followed by the groan of the metal door on its hinges. He glanced around and saw Aubrey jump away from the cattle and flatten himself on the ground near the trailer. The cattle scrambled over each other in their haste to escape, crashing through the brush and out of the canyon.
      Eerie silence enveloped the spring.
      “Lockhart,” Henry said, “Henry Smith here. I’m a range detective for the Northeastern Colorado Plateau Cattlemen’s Association. It’s best if you come on out now, before things really get out of hand.”
      Lockhart’s reply was a bullet that kicked up dirt a few feet to Henry’s right. Henry fired three more shots in quick succession, spacing them apart, just in case Lockhart was on the move. Shifting to his right, Henry watched. With his foot, he pushed the trailer door in hopes the squealing hinges would elicit another shot from Lockhart. Nothing.
      After several minutes, Henry crawled to the rear of the trailer and got to his feet behind the door. He checked his pistol then reloaded the rifle.
      “Lockhart,” he said, his voice carrying in the stillness. “If I have to come after you, one of us won’t make it through the night. Odds are it’ll be you.”
      Lockhart fired another shot. The bullet ricocheted off a rocky outcrop on the slope behind the trailer. Henry noted the location of the muzzle flash near the spring. Moving around the trailer, he slipped into the scrub beside the truck. Keeping to softer ground to muffle his footsteps, he crept toward the spring.
      The slight rustling of leaves led him right to his quarry. In the moonlight, he saw Lockhart hunkered behind a rotted log, wrapping a bandana around his blood-soaked leg. The rifle was beside him, leaning against a spindly tree.
      Henry slid his pistol from its holster. Using a large tree trunk for cover, he said, “Move away from the rifle and keep your hands in sight.”
      Lockhart jumped. In one move he dropped the bandana and grabbed the rifle, quickly firing off a wild shot. He was trying to chamber another round when Henry stepped from behind the tree, his pistol trained on Lockhart.
      “Drop it, Lockhart! Now!”
      Lockhart ignored the warning, raised his rifle. Henry squeezed the trigger without hesitation. The bullet struck Lockhart square in the chest.
      Henry kept the pistol trained on Lockhart’s still body, watching for any sign of movement. Stepping forward cautiously, he placed a foot on Lockhart’s rifle then checked for a carotid pulse. He found none. Taking a deep breath, Henry looked away, knowing the image of those empty eyes staring back at him were going to be forever burned in his memory.
      Holstering the pistol, he took another deep breath and glanced up through the tree branches. Stars were still hanging in the night sky. And somewhere in the darkness he heard a coyote howl. A slight breeze moved the cottonwoods. He heard the cattle slowly returning to the spring. Henry checked the handcuffs on his belt and felt his chest pocket for his Miranda card before walking toward the truck to arrest an old friend who’d just saved his life.