We move Bennett and his father into a little rock crevasse. Clay slides loose rocks over the opening to discourage scavengers and then lingers around the bodies for a while. I head back to the Jeep to see if Ethan’s awake. Walking past the man I killed makes my legs go to jelly. The blood pool has seeped into the dirt, but as I walk past, his moccasin gives a twitch. I jump in the Jeep and focus on keeping food in my stomach.

Clay leans against the Jeep tailgate. His face is ashen and slack. When he spots my brother, he frowns. “Why’s he still out?” It’s his turn to put his hand on Ethan’s chest.

I shrug. “His breathing’s regular. His pulse is fine. I think he got a heavy dose of those damn tranqs.”

“Didn’t we all? Goddamn that Bennett.”

“Yeah,” I say, clutching my knees. “How’d you find us, anyway? Last I saw, you were face down on the rug.”

Clay leans against the side of the Jeep. He tracks a vulture that’s already circling. “When I came to and you were gone, I had a pretty good idea of what happened. I followed your tracks for a while. When those disappeared, I took a chance that they’d be trading to the Riders. It’s a pretty regular post.”

My eyes narrow. “Wait a minute. You’ve traded with the Riders?”

Clay turns his eyes to the rise of buttes in the north. The pain’s written on his face.

Now I remember all the reasons not to trust Clay.

Around us the sounds of dusk start up, the shrill insects, a howl of a predator, filling in the gaps created by our awkward silence.

Clay breaks it. “Your brother looks a lot like mine.”

My eyes trace the line of Ethan’s mouth as it moves in his sleep. “You left your brother behind?”

“Nope,” he says, throwing a rifle over his shoulder and turning toward the ridge. “He died.”

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Night falls. Ethan won’t wake. The worry sits on me like a soaked comforter. I spend the time while Clay’s gone checking Ethan’s pulse over and over.

When the moon’s big and yellow in the sky, Clay returns with a musk hog, dead and dangling over his shoulder. He drops it with a thump into the dirt and sets the rifle in the passenger seat.

“Where’d you get the pig?” I ask, sliding forward on the tailgate, the metal ridges pushing into my knees.