Once the fire’s going, we set to work building a spit and setting the meat over it. Clay and I sit before the budding fire and warm our scraped and numb hands. I shoot a glance at Clay. He’s abnormally quiet and fidgety. The flickering glow highlights his cheeks a ruddy orange. His look is distant, his eyes wrinkled at the corners as if he’s still pondering all he left behind.

Now’s my chance to unravel some of this boy’s mystery. I take a deep breath and try to sound causal. “What was town life like?”

Clay eyes follow the dancing tongues of flame. “Easy most days. Hard on others.”

“What’d you mean?” I run my hands over my arms and watch the fire burn up my scrub brush. The smaller twigs pop and bend as the flames consume them.

He leans back against a rock, his hands laced behind his head. “Being the Sheriff’s brat made life easy as pie. We had fresh meat, books, toys— a lady to housekeep. I had my own bike, a red ten-speed with a bell. I’d pop wheelies and tool around town all day on that puppy.” He smiles. Then his face darkens. “Then I turned thirteen and my pa said it was time to man up. Taught me the trade.” He says trade like it’s a dirty word.

“What’d you have to do?”

Clay glances at me, his brow creasing. “Pa took me on raids. Had me sit in the car when he did business with the Riders and other gangs. At first I thought it was exciting, you know, fun to travel around, watch my pa do business. People talked to him like he was the Almighty. They’d give me gifts. One man made his boy give me his lunch. I’ll never forget the look on that kid’s face when he handed over the sack. Looking back, he probably hadn’t eaten in days.” Clay turns his eyes to the moon, his frown deepening.

“What then?” I ask, picking up a stick to poke the fire.

Clay sighs, big and heavy. “Well, then I turned fourteen, my brother died. After that, my dad didn’t just want me to do ride-alongs anymore. He gave my shootin’ irons,” he says, caressing the silver revolver slung on his hip with the pads of two fingers. “Made me get my hands dirty.” He looks down at his palms. Then he clasps them together so tightly the knuckles whiten. I flick my eyes away as he looks over at me.

“What you want to know all this for?” he asks, throwing more scrub on the fire. “You know what they say about the curious cat.”

I blush and shrug. “Just wondering what goes on under that ten-gallon hat of yours.”