I mumbled a thanks and turned around, went back to the counter and asked for another cup of cocoa. I couldn’t believe what I had just done. Was I totally insane? Where had all my intelligence gone? My resourcefulness? My sense of adventure, my in­vincibility? To beg a policeman for money! Angelina!

I was so ashamed, I wished I hadn’t approached them, told them my stupid story. I wished I hadn’t taken the money, and now I’d ordered more hot chocolate and had to sit here in front of them and drink it, instead of running away, and worse than that, I had to pay for it. He didn’t give me money for hot chocolate. Oh, God, I was miserable.

I picked up the Santa Fe newspaper and opened it up to distract myself from self-­destructive thoughts, and my mind gagged on what it saw.

Boyd’s picture was on the front page. The head­line read: “Colorado Slaughter Linked with Nevada Murders.”

Seven Slopes, Colo. (UPI)—The mur­der of a crippled newsstand proprietor in Seven Slopes may be connected with three murders committed two years ago in Westwater, Nevada, according to a Westwater man in town to assist police with the investigation. Boyd Turner is in Seven Slopes to see if the murders have certain elements in common. “If they do, then I think we can piece some clues together. We may come up with the identity of a prime suspect,” he said. The police chief declined comment.

The grisly murder of Vietnam vet Josh­ua A. Bartholtz has terrified the local popu­lation of Seven Slopes. Deadbolts have sold out of the local hardware stores. The town has emptied of tourists, and in addition to the prospect of a homicidal maniac loose in town, business people are faced with eco­nomic disaster. This is all very similar to a situation in Westwater two years ago when three people were murdered in one bizarre holiday weekend. Those murders remain un­solved.

I couldn’t read on. I could only look at the photo of Boyd, captured with mouth open as he talked to reporters. His Stetson was riding high on his fore­head, pushed back, no doubt, in a reflexive show of frustration. He wore his corduroy jacket with sheep­skin lining, and he stood in front of the Snowson Hotel in Seven Slopes. A little tug of homesickness tweaked me in the midst of my horror.

Now Boyd was hunting me. He’d given up on small animals and birds. Now he had a quarry worthy of his tracking skill.

My senses seemed to snap back into place. I quietly folded the newspaper, finished the cocoa, hefted my pack, and picked up my cane. I walked back to the policemen and lay the five-­dollar bill down in front of the officer who had given it to me.