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bony. And when Joe Kemp’s band of refugees had come limping into the valley from the south, they’d had that same starved look. Even Steve, when Eliza brought him back from Vegas, hadn’t lost his hollow, hungry look for weeks.
    These refugees were not fat by any means. Not even well fed. But they weren’t starving either. And there were several young children and old adults. Not the sort of people to survive a famine.
    Something or someone was feeding these people.
    He was about to whisper his observation to Eliza, who had come up next to him as Miriam also stepped out of the Humvee. Only David stayed with the vehicle, up top with the machine gun. But then a man stepped over the logs and approached them.
    His filthy, layered clothing, unkempt beard, and matted, dirty hair made him look like the homeless men Jacob had seen in Salt Lake when he was a medical resident. The homeless had slept on cardboard mats beneath the freeway overpasses or had come shuffling out of the Salt Lake Rescue Mission. Most were mentally ill or suffering from a substance abuse problem.
    But this man carried himself with a confidence that belied his appearance. He wore a pistol in a nylon shoulder holster, like an FBI agent or police detective. The sight of it made Jacob and his companions stiffen.
    “Stay calm, all of you,” Jacob said, although the comment was mostly directed at Miriam.
    Her typical behavior was to shoot first and then ask questions, except never mind the questions. Who needed to question a dead body? And the dead guy was probably a servant of the devil, anyway.
    Thankfully, she remained still, her gun in its own holster. Instead, she met the man’s gaze, her mouth drawn tight, then cast a significant glance up to David at the machine gun. A message and a warning to the approaching man. Jacob could live with that.
    The man approached warily until he stood about fifteen feet off. “What do you want?”
    “I’m Jacob Christianson. I’m from Blister Creek, and I—”
    “Yeah, I know who you are. We all know. Now get the hell out of here before you start another war.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    Jacob stared back at the man, unwilling to simply turn around and go home. The man stared back. His expression darkened further.
    “I don’t want trouble,” Jacob said. “Keep your people back. We’ll talk. There’s no harm in that.”
    For a moment he thought the man would resist, and then there would be trouble, but then the man turned to the approaching squatters, some of whom were preparing to come over the barrier.
    “Stay calm, all of you. I’ve got this.”
    “Send them to the camp,” Jacob said.
    The man glared at him for a long moment, then ordered his people back.
    Again, they obeyed, retreating into the camp, some seventy or eighty yards distant. There they massed, watching, whispering amongst themselves. They were still too close. A couple of snipers hidden down there could kill Jacob and his companions before they could reach the safety of the vehicle. But that would be the death of the snipers. First, David would light into them from behind the safety of his gun shield. Then the machine gun would chew through the camp, killing hundreds. And then, when Blister Creek heard about the treachery at the reservoir, they’d mount a full campaign.
    “So what do you want?” the man said.
    “All I want is to talk. But first I brought you something. Can I give it to you?”
    “Yeah?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What kind of something?”
    “What is your name?”
    “Go to hell.”
    “It’s a name, that’s all.” Jacob was growing impatient. “Do you want to be enemies?”
    “Too late for that, asshole. We tried, you came in shooting.”
    “You didn’t ‘try’ anything. This is our land, we own it. You invaded, destroying everything and making demands.” As soon as the words came out, Jacob regretted them.
    Miriam tapped Jacob’s shoulder. She leaned in and whispered. “Let me talk to him.”
    Jacob