Fran nodded. “After I look to this one, I'll go.” She pointed at Smith's truck. “You best go hose out that truck. Try and get the blood as close to the stock tanks as you can, in the tall grass behind the barn where we slaughter the beef cows. Then you get that truck inside that empty grain silo in the back pasture.”

“Okay,” I said. Fran's hair was impossibly neat, not a strand out of place. I wondered how she managed it with those pencils, thought I'd ask her sometime about her technique.

“Grace,” she said. Her voice was sharp, like a slap. “You get that truck out of sight quick now. Quick, girl.”

“Okay.”

The earth swallowed Smith's blood, the grass covering everything. The silo smelled sweet, fermented, like cider. I walked back to the house. Fran came out with a bundle of linens. She threw her bundle and the towel I'd used in her burn barrel, doused them with diesel, and lit the whole thing up. I stood there for a minute, mesmerized by the flames and the fumes, trying to get my head to focus, to formulate some sort of plan. The fire was not part of a holiday, not a summer celebration. This was not the end. There was still the coop, and Jerry, and whatever was left of Hitchcock.

“Jerry?” I asked.

“He's okay. Got him bandaged up and comfortable. Needs the hospital soon, but that's not your biggest problem, girl.”

“Smith is going to die?”

“Ha!” Fran laughed. It was musical, like someone hit the middle C. “Dead men tell no tales. Darling, your problem is that this one is going to live.”

“Is he awake? Like is he talking right now?”

“No.” Fran was holding her hands over the fire, even though it was plenty warm outside. “Does anyone know he was at your place?”

“Not sure. He brought me a rose, is all. Asked me to dinner.”

Fran gave me a long stare, right in my eyes. “Did he see your birds?”

“Yes.”

“Jerry shot first?”

“Yes.”

Fran shook her head. “Gracie,” she said, “you have to make some decisions.”

“What should I do?” I asked. Fran, all sweet and white-haired on the outside, with her piano lessons and her knitting needles, just stared at me.

“You do what you want,” she said, “but listen. I'm going to burn my slash pile tonight. You got anything needs burning, I can throw it on.”

Fran was like Montana. Beautiful. Nurturing. Ruthless.