“Don’t warn me!” Joe ripped away the bough over Augustino’s head and then swung the Winchester against the trunk. The rifle cracked in half. Barrel and breech flew away while the stock stayed in his hand. He threw it aside. “Don’t warn me.”

“Go on,” Captain Augustino said, his tone changed. He hadn’t budged when the rifle had sliced over his head, though the color went from his face, making the half-moons under his eyes even darker.

Joe started across the snow for the elk cow. The top of her neck was blown off and her legs sprawled in every direction, but her eyes were still wet and alive. The pregnant belly rose distended and hard above the rest of her.

“Let me tell you,” Joe yelled. “Your wife says you have a prick the size of a wet inchworm. It’s got to be twice the size of your brains.”

He walked faster in the snow, unbuckling his coat away from the .45 that rode inside his belt. He felt Augustino raising the rifle behind him. Heart shot? Head shot? With the .45 free he took the last ten steps on the run. When Augustino shot, he was already diving.

The cow kicked as the second bullet hit. He landed on the other side and rolled back against the elk. Captain Augustino stood, disdaining cover, and levered another round into the breech. Joe rested the .45 on the cow and put the captain in the square notch of the gun’s sights, for all the good it would do, considering the accuracy of an automatic. He squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked and a branch exploded five feet above Augustino’s head. “Shit!” He squeezed off another. Bark blew off a tree next to the captain.

Augustino slipped behind branches. All Joe could see of him was the vapor of his breath and the tip of the rifle. His own breath came like the steam of an engine. The cow was too small. If Augustino started to stalk and come at him from a different angle, he was dead.