The dogs started to bark—rapid, high barks—as if they were on the trail of something. Lillie nodded to Quinn and followed the barking around the back of the property. The storm had passed, but thunder rolled in the distance as he walked up onto the porch and into the house. Another dog headed out to greet him, wagging its tail.

Quinn reached for a small flashlight he kept on his belt and shone it around the inside of the shack, the place smelling like a damp ashtray, wet dogs, and kerosene. He aimed the light over an easy chair and old couch, mounds of clothes and trash scattered around the floor. Quinn had been in the shack before and never knew how a human being could live in such filth. As he turned back to a far window, the electricity cut on, the overhead lights brightening the room, the television flashing on as Royce’s satellite worked to regain the signal. Matt Dillon appeared as a drawing that morphed into the man as he reached for his six-shooter and shot toward the screen. The volume turned up high for Royce’s deaf ears, filling the silence. James Arness as Matt Dillon. Dennis Weaver as Chester. Milburn Stone as Doc. And Amanda Blake as Miss Kitty.

He heard a snuffling and rooting around in the kitchen, Quinn seeing the backs of two dogs hunkered over something that had fallen on the floor. There was the smacking, lapping sounds of dogs eating. As he passed by the kitchen table, he saw a man’s legs and a pair of muddy boots, the cracked linoleum floor splattered with blood.

Another gunshot cracked. Quinn looked back to the TV but it wasn’t Gunsmoke. Two more quick shots from a handgun.

Quinn ran outside and back around Royce’s house, Lillie standing by a stretch of apple trees, her arms stretched out with the Sig.

“He had a gun,” Lillie said.

Quinn nodded, scanning the woods line, searching for the shooter as he reached for his radio. Rain pelted Quinn’s back as Lillie wandered up close to him.

“Royce is dead,” Quinn said.

“This boy wouldn’t stop,” Lillie said. “When I yelled out to him, he turned and raised his gun. I hit him, Quinn. He couldn’t have gone far.”

Quinn reached down for a hat on the ground, a flat-billed Oakland Raiders baseball cap. “Could it be one of our guys?”

“Looked like a Native kid to me,” Lillie said. “Just like Royce said. I guess even liars tell the truth once in a while.”

“We better get this secured fast,” Quinn said. “Royce’s dogs were already getting to him, making a mess of the crime scene.”

“Dogs,” Lillie said, shaking her head. “They’ll damn near eat anything.”

*   *   *