Clay shrugs. “Found him rooting along the ridge. When I’ve got the bullets, hunting’s as easy as picking food off the ground.” He flicks out his hunting knife and begins to butcher the hog. He deftly slices the blade up the pig’s belly, releasing a mess of blood and guts. I wrinkle my nose at the warm, wet smell of animal innards.

I slip out of the Jeep and stand over him, watching. “That’s what I don’t get. How come you’re such a crack shot and those Riders weren’t worth a damn? They didn’t stand a chance.”

Clay’s making quick work of the pig. He strips the skin and sets to work on the haunches.

He keeps his eyes on the hog as he talks. “Road gangs are all the same. Big on guns. Short on one little thing.” Clay pauses and squints up at me. “Bullets. These gangs don’t got a handful of lead between ’em. Even if they get a shipment, they’ve never had enough to practice with. Couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

He saws through more of the musk hog, his hands smeared red. He wipes them on a cloth and squints out at the last strip of light in the west. “My pa kept us eye-deep in lead. Said he rather go short on whiskey than ammo. And my pa loves whiskey.” He pauses, wipes his forehead with his shirt sleeve. “Pa used to take me out and we’d shoot all day. Wouldn’t let me quit till I could hit a bottle at 300 yards.” His face tightens. Then he stands, wipes his hands and pops the kinks out of his back. He digs through his pack and hands me a flint. “Start the fire, will ya? Can’t burn her long, but I won’t eat raw hog.”

I set off to gather scrub brush and branches. It’s a good excuse to mull over everything he said. As I pick up the scrub, I think about Clay’s father-son target practice sessions. Did the Sheriff smile and pat his son on the back when he blew a bottle into little glass shards, or did he backhand him when he missed? Somehow I can’t imagine them smiling, sharing a flask of homemade whiskey and whistling on the way home.

Above the ridge, the moon highlights the rocky peaks against deep valleys of shadow. The coyotes howl mournfully in the distance. It’s been a while since I’ve spent a night in the desert. I’ve forgotten how cold it gets when the sun goes down. I gather my armload of prickly shrubs and hurry back to where Clay’s set up camp. The stars begin to spread out before us, pinpricks of light in the dark blanket of sky.