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transmissible neurological disease that attacked the brains of deer and elk and was similar to mad cow disease. From a few isolated cases in the southwest of the state, the disease seemed to be moving north and was turning into a significant threat to the wild game population. Joe was concerned, as were many others. Too many animals were showing positive results for CWD, although not yet in crisis proportions.
    He never knew what his schedule would be from week to week. The requests came via third party or from the wardens themselves. They never came straight from Director Pope, who had chosen not to communicate directly with Joe in any way. Joe liked it better that way as well, but he never forgot for a moment that Pope had fired him and would do so again in an instant if he could find justification. Joe’s relationship with the governor was vague, and after the case in Yellowstone Joe wasn’t sure he could trust him. But Rulon had not given Joe any reasons to doubt his sincerity since then, other than his generally erratic behavior, a sign of which was hiring Stella Ennis as his new chief of staff.
    The two trucks raced up the state highway, wigwag lights flashing. A herd of pronghorn antelope raced them for a while before turning south in a flowing arc toward the breaklands. Cows looked up but didn’t stop grazing.
    They passed the entrance to Nate Romanowski’s place. Nate was an outlaw falconer with a mysterious background who’d made a pledge to protect Joe and his family after Joe proved his innocence in a murder investigation. Currently, Nate was in federal custody involving the disappearance of two men—one being the former sheriff—two years before. He’d asked Joe to continue to feed his falcons, which Joe did every day he could. Sheridan filled in when Joe was out of town, getting a ride to Nate’s old stone house from Marybeth. Nate’s trial had been postponed twice already. Joe missed him.
    Farther up the road, Joe saw Sheriff McLanahan’s GMC Blazer and two additional county vehicles waiting for them. The sheriff and his men let them pass before joining in. Joe caught a glimpse of McLanahan as they rocketed by. McLanahan had completed his physical and mental transformation from a hotheaded deputy to a western character who spoke in semiliterate cornball folkisms. The huge handlebar mustache he’d grown completed the metamorphosis.
    “It looks like the posse is now complete,” McLanahan said over the radio. “Carry on, buckaroos.”
    Joe rolled his eyes.
    THE CARAVAN of law-enforcement vehicles was forced to ratchet down its collective speed as it entered the Big Horn National Forest. Kiner eased to the shoulder to let Joe overtake him and lead the way. The gravel road gave way to a rougher two-track that led through an empty campground and up the mountain in a series of switchbacks. Frank Urman’s camp was located over the top of the mountain through a long meadow.
    The dispatcher called out his number and asked for a location.
    “This is GF-52,” Joe said. “I’m with GF-36 and local law enforcement. We’re headed up the mountain now to the subject’s camp.”
    “Hold for Director Pope.”
    Joe grimaced.
    “Joe?” It was Pope. Joe could hear the whine of the state airplane in the background.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Joe, we’re about thirty minutes out. When we land we’ve got to get vehicles and get up there to the scene. About how long will it take for us to get there?”
    “At least an hour, sir.”
    “Damn it.”
    After a beat, Pope said, “Do you know what happened yet? Is it as bad as we hear it might be?”
    “We don’t know,” Joe said, “we’re not yet on the scene.”
    “Who is the RP?”
    “The reporting party is named Chris Urman,” the dispatcher broke in. “He’s the victim’s nephew.”
    “How many people are involved?” Pope asked.
    “Involved?” Joe asked. “As far as we know there is one victim.”
    “No, I mean how many people know about this? How