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innocence for another murder. Upon his release from prison, Nate had pledged his loyalty to Joe and the Pickett family, and had not wavered in his blind commitment. There were rumors involving Nate’s background that included years in covert operations for a secret branch of the defense department.
    While he didn’t know the specifics, Joe knew this to be true. He also knew that Nate was capable of precision violence, and well connected to questionable people and groups throughout the country and the world. Joe had no clear explanation as to Nate’s means of support. All he knew was that he sometimes vanished for weeks (always calling ahead to cancel Sheridan’s falconry lesson) and that he sometimes cautioned Joe about coming out to his place at certain times when, Joe guessed, certain visitors were there. It was something they never talked about, although a few times Nate had offered tidbits. Joe didn’t want to hear them.
    The buffalo stood in the center of a newly constructed fourrail corral. The corral was built solidly, but the east side of it was pitched out a little, most likely from the buffalo leaning against it or trying to push his head through.
    Joe wondered if the corral would contain the animal if it really wanted out.
    Joe draped his arms over the top post and set a boot on the bottom rail. He was impressed, as always, by the sheer size and presence of a buffalo. The bison was a giant brownblack wedge, frontloaded with heavily muscled shoulders and a woolly, blunt head. Bison, he knew, were pure frontwheeldrive creatures, with the ability to accelerate to forty miles per hour from a standing start. Conical pointed horns curled back from its skull. Marbleblack eyes glowed from beneath thick, dirty curls.
    Nate tightened the cinch and the buffalo flinched. Joe prepared for a violent explosion, and he found himself stepping back involuntarily. The buffalo turned his head and stared at Nate.
    “This is as far as I got last week,” Nate said, looking over.
    “What happened to you?”
    Nate touched his eye. “He didn’t like the saddle at first.”
    “But he does now?”
    Nate shrugged. “Not really. But he finally understands what I’m up to, and he seems resigned to the fact. I’ve tried to persuade him it will be fun.”
    Joe nodded. Nate communicated with animals on a base level, in a wholly mysterious way. He didn’t train them, or break them, but using cues and gestures he somehow connected with them. It was a methodology learned from working with falcons, who, after all, had the option (rarely acted upon) to simply fly away anytime they were released to the sky.
    “Your saddle in the back of your truck,” Nate said, slid
    ing a halter ever so slowly over the head of the buffalo. “Are you going somewhere?”
    “Jackson,” Joe said. “The game warden there committed suicide. They’ve assigned me there, temporarily.”
    Nate looked up, obviously trying to read Joe’s face.
    “What?” Joe asked.
    Nate said, “Things are different in Jackson. I’ve got some acquaintances over there. I’ve spent some time there myself.”
    Joe waited for the rest, but it didn’t come.
    “Do you have a point?” Joe asked.
    He shrugged. “My point is things are different in Jackson.”
    “Thanks for that,” Joe said, leaning on the fence.
    For the next few minutes, Nate soothed the big bull, running his hands over him, speaking nonsense soothingly. Joe could see the buffalo relax, which was confirmed by a long sigh. He could smell the bison’s grassy, hot breath. Nate gracefully launched himself up on the saddle.
    “This is the first time he’s let me on,” Nate said quietly.
    “He seems to be okay with it,” Joe said, although they could both see the buffalo’s ears twitch nervously. “Does he buck?”
    “See my face?” Nate said. “Yes, he can buck.”
    Joe waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Nate just sat there.
    “Now I’ve got to get him to move and turn,” Nate