From outside, the long melancholy horn of a freight train filled the valley. Daniel left and Craig watched him go, wondering why he trusted Hawk, a mere constable, more than the sergeant who’d stepped into Joe’s shoes since his death. Indian-struck. First Joe, now Daniel. People would start to talk soon. He smiled to himself, then stopped smiling when he resumed looking at the photos of Joe.

This was a great drive in the summer. The road went all the way round the back of Silver and then started to climb up through the trees, before the dirt road for the Hawk place turned off to the right and climbed another half-mile through the pines. Of course the geeks in campers spoiled it in the high season. You never knew when you were going to swing round a corner and find them parked in the middle of the road, looking at a bird or a view or sometimes at nothing at all. They sure got a fright when they realized the truck they’d nearly caused to crash had some blue and red lights on the cab and that the angry guy getting out had his hat on and a book of tickets in his hand. But they were a small price to pay for the beauty of the sunlight filtering through the trees and the elks and the white-tails dancing across the road in the morning.

In the winter it was still breathtaking, but it was a bastard to drive. Especially at night. Daniel was still about three miles from his drive end, and the snow had started again with a vengeance. He was just going to have to take it easy. He let his mind drift back to work as the snow came at him like bullets.

Sam Hunt. Everything Craig said at the briefing was true, but his gut was yelling at him that Hunt had something to do with this. A lot to do with this. It was the Redhorn murder that was bugging him.