“You can’t do this,” Herb Kowalsky said, but the dejected tone in his voice argued that he knew Phillips could. And had.

Brennon looked at his men for a moment. They had stopped unpacking equipment. Their eyes were on their employer, waiting for instructions.

Brennon turned his gaze back to Phillips.

“What if we go ahead and decide we’re going to build that dam anyway? What are going to do about it?”

“Stop you,” Walter Phillips said.

I looked at the polished black holster on his hip. Walter Phillips had probably taken his gun from that holster a few times on the job. He looked at Brennon, and his eyes, like his voice, revealed no fear or even nervousness, only resolve.

Brennon turned to Sheriff Cantrell.

“Whose side are you on?”

Sheriff Cantrell nodded at Phillips.

“His.”

Sheriff Cantrell raised his voice so Brennon’s crew could hear him. “And so is my deputy. If one of your men so much as dips his toe in that river I’ll lock him and you both up.”

“You’ve no right to do this, Sheriff,” Herb Kowalsky said, “no more right than Phillips does.”

“I’ll worry about what rights I got, Mr. Kowalsky,” Sheriff Cantrell said. “I’m sorry about your daughter, I really am, but one man has already died trying to get her out. I’ll not let that river kill another.”

“This is going to cost you your job,” Brennon said to Sheriff Cantrell.

Sheriff Cantrell smiled at Brennon.

“Sheriff’s an elected office in Oconee County, Mr. Brennon, and we don’t tend to get many write-in votes from Illinois.”

“I’m calling Luckadoo soon as I get back to the motel,” Brennon said. He motioned to his men to begin picking up the gear.

I waited for Kowalsky to make further threats himself, but the face he’d worn at the meetings and on the river fell away like a discarded mask. He looked like his wife when she’d spoken at the community center. Something had broken inside him now as well, or maybe, up until now, he’d just been able to hide that break beneath his anger and indignation. He did not follow Brennon and his crew up the trail. Instead, he walked ten yards downstream and sat on a rock. I wondered if he was pondering what he would tell his wife. Or perhaps merely delaying those words a few minutes longer.

Ronny started walking upstream.

“You best leave that diving equipment where it is, Ronny,” Sheriff Cantrell said. “I’m going to hold on to it for a few days.”

Ronny did not acknowledge Sheriff Cantrell’s words, but he didn’t try to pick up his diving gear either. He was walking toward Reverend Tilson’s service when he suddenly turned and backtracked to the trail. He followed the last of Brennon’s men up the ridge.

“Where do you think he’s going?” Phillips asked.