The two men exchange glances.

“We ain’t seen no dog.” The man who’d punched the woman stops ten feet away from me, looks me up and down. “You probably saw a coyote.”

I look past him at the fallen woman and switch to English. “Was there an accident here? Are you injured?” I motion toward the snowmobile, then turn my attention to the man. “Isn’t it against the Ordnung for you to be riding them?”

The woman stares at me, mouth open, breaths puffing out in a vaporous white cloud. A small dribble of blood on her chin. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she’s frightened. That she doesn’t understand English or Pennsylvania Dutch.

The man sets his hand on her shoulder and pulls her against him, so that her bound hands are out of sight. I pretend not to notice and address the woman directly. “Did you fall off the machine?”

When she doesn’t respond, I turn my attention to the man. “Look at her,” I scold. “She’s cold and hurt.”

I start to go to her, a mother hen whose chick has been pecked by an aggressive rooster.

“She’s fine.” The man steps toward me, blocking my way. “We don’t need your help.”

I stop.

“Go home, lady,” the second man calls out. “You’re trespassing on Schrock land.”

“I’m sure Bishop Schrock will be interested to know about these machines,” I shoot back.

The man who’d hit her moves closer. For an instant, I think he’s going to lay into me. Behind the ski mask, his eyes blaze with fury. I brace, remind myself the .22 is in easy reach.

But he stops, gives me another once-over. “She’s fine. Now get out of here. There ain’t no dog out here.”

The woman says something in a language I don’t recognize. Eastern European, maybe. She’s young. Barely twenty. This is not a domestic situation. I’d lay odds she doesn’t know the man she’s riding with. But there’s little I can do.…

I look away, pretend I didn’t hear her. But my heart is pounding, my brain churning: What the hell is going on?

I can tell by the way the men are acting that my presence is making them nervous. Not because they’ve broken Amish rules, but because they’re up to no good and don’t want a witness. The man nearest me looks like he’s considering doing something about it.

I step back, putting some space between us. “You sure she’s okay?”

“She’s fine,” the man tells me. “She drinks too much. I’m taking her home. That’s all.”

I give the woman a judgmental look. “Der Siffer hot zu viel geleppert.” The drunkard has sipped too much. “That’s what happens, I guess.”