They were deep into the Sulphur Springs Valley now, rich grazing land and good, fertile soil for crops. It was the land of fences, and they used the fences to their own advantage, carefully prying out staples and holding the wire for the others to pass. One man could stand straight up on a bottom strand of wire and hold the top wires above his head, while the others could lead the horses through the fence. The staples would be driven back in their holes, and there would be no evidence that anyone had come this way. Besides, it was the right thing to do. Cowboys spent much of their lives riding and repairing fence lines. There were few men lower than the ignoramus hunters who came through land and simply snipped fences and left gaping holes that would have to be spliced and rehammered. And that could be done only after the stock, which had walked through the busted fence, had been rounded up and brought back to the right side of the fence.

Years earlier, John had caught two men, strangers, probably from Tucson or some other refuge of the worthless, driving cars across the valley in search of quail, snipping fences as they went, just driving right over and away from the ruins. When he had caught them, he had beaten the tall one with the stock of the little turd's own pretty shotgun, while the short one crouched inside the cab of the truck and whimpered. “I would appreciate it,” John said, “if you was to go back where you came from and share that beating with the other worthless bastards you know who go around cutting fences so they can shoot a bunch of damn little birds.” He rode off then, daring either of them to summon the courage to fill his back with birdshot.

They passed a couple of ranches, one with electric lights powered by a generator, chugging along in the early evening. If a ranch had electricity, it likely had a telephone, too, and they wanted none of that. Besides, ranches were full of dogs and chickens and other manner of noisemakers that could summon far too much attention.

Instead, they chose a small house on the edge of town where they could see the flicker of kerosene lamps sputtering in the windows. There were no wires going into the house. And they saw no dogs until they were almost to the front door, when an old black hound, maybe the oldest dog in the world, slunk toward them, head down, tail wagging. Tom went to the door and knocked while John and Sisson hung back, Sisson petting and rubbing the stinking old hound, whose tail wagged like a slow, creaking old metronome.