“One more thing,” he said. He took out his iPhone and quickly prompted an app called My Altitude. Preset to southeast Wyoming’s general elevation as a baseline, it quickly placed this spot at 1,505 feet above sea level. He wanted to save that for future use.

“Now, the shooting platform?” he said. “This bird is so careful, and so committed to preparation, that he’ll have the distance down perfect.”

“Yes, sir.”

It took an hour.

“Got it!” someone cried, as all had moved a mile to the east and began to pick their way carefully through a scattering of elms and oaks, before it gave way to denser pines.

The men congregated at the site of the announcement, and indeed there it was, maybe seven feet up, a stout platform, well-braced and well-built, hammered into the vee of a giant tree. Branches had been clipped to allow for clear lines of fire to the faraway target, and a few wooden slats had been nailed into the trunk as steps to get up and down.

“Do I mess things up if I go up there?” Swagger asked.

“I don’t see how. There’s probably no prints on the bark, as it doesn’t take to prints. DNA? Maybe, but I’m guessing it’s more important to get the distance data than prove that a guy we know was here was here.”

Swagger was gloved and masked, and with a little help, managed to haul his old frame up to the platform. There, he saw what he couldn’t from below: a shooting bench, solid, built at the edge of the platform to provide stability for the rifle as the shooter oriented toward the target. That told Swagger that wherever Juba would be shooting from, he’d be sure he was solidly anchored.

From this position, Swagger looked out across the meadow. He had never made a shot at anywhere near that distance, only an eight hundred and fifty in Vietnam with his .308—so long ago, it was impossible to recall details.