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Frank pulled off his hat. “Just need a minute of your time, Jack. I’ve got something here I was hoping you might be able to help me with. Mind if I come in for a moment?”
    Jack stepped back, wondering what the hell this was about. He turned on another lamp and offered the sheriff a seat.
    “I won’t be staying that long. If you’d just take a look at this...” He pulled a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket. Inside was a coiled thin rope. Even from a distance, Jack could tell it was hitched out of horsehair. He’d watched enough of the inmates at Deer Lodge making everything from reins and ropes to belts and hatbands.
    Hitching involved twisting three or four strands of dyed horsehair into what were known as pulls. The pulls were used with cotton cord and a wood or metal rod to hitch the horsehair in a circular pattern. A series of hitches created a variety of colorful patterns, most commonly diamonds and spirals.
    What amazed Jack was how long it took—a couple of hours to do only an inch of hitching. When finished, the cord or rod was removed. The item was then soaked in water and clamped between two heavy plates of steel to dry.
    A lot of the inmates sold what they made, getting as much as four to eight thousand dollars for bridles. Belts, hatbands and quirts were cheaper, because they were faster to make.
    “Do you recognize the pattern?” the sheriff asked. “Is it one from Montana State Prison?”
    Jack took the bag and held it under the lamplight. The colors were brighter and the pattern different from ones he’d seen in prison. “It’s not from Deer Lodge,” he said and handed it back. “At least it isn’t like any I saw up there.”
    The sheriff nodded. He put the bag back in his pocket. “You do any hitching while you were up there?”
    Jack laughed. “I was working the prison ranch, so I kept plenty busy. I’ve watched a lot of guys hitch, though. Takes more patience than I have.”
    “Well, thanks for your time.” He started to leave, but stopped and turned. “Oh, by the way, while you were up at the state pen, did you happen to run across Cullen Ackermann?”
    The infamous Ackermann. The sheriff had asked the question casually enough, but it still put Jack on guard. “I made a point of staying away from crazy old cons—especially that one.”
    Frank Curry nodded. “Was he still preaching revolution and the Armageddon of this country as we know it?”
    Jack nodded, a little surprised by the sheriff’s interest. But, then again, Cullen Ackermann was Beartooth’s most infamous charismatic crazy, even though he’d never been considered a true local since he wasn’t born here.
    “I suppose he found an audience up there before he died,” Frank said.
    “He definitely had his followers in prison,” Jack said. “Young, anti-government wannabe survivalists were big fans of his. A few of them bought into what he was selling.” To fill the silence that followed, he added, “I think most of them were more interested in Ackermann’s cache of gold he allegedly hid before he got sent up.”
    “That tale still circulating, huh?” The sheriff shook his head and looked as if he wanted to ask more, but apparently changed his mind. “Well, you have a nice night.”
    Jack followed him out onto the small porch in front of the cabin and watched until the patrol pickup headed toward Big Timber, then he went back inside. He hadn’t asked where the sheriff had gotten the rope or why he wanted Jack’s opinion on the hitching pattern. Nor had he asked about the dried blood that stained the horsehair in the evidence bag.
    Jack had learned a long time ago not to ask questions where he didn’t want to know the answers.
    * * *
    N ETTIE WAS STOCKING groceries, trying to keep her mind off what the sheriff had shown her, when the girl came into the store. It had taken Nettie a few moments to get to her feet from down on her knees. Most of the time, she didn’t feel her age—it was easy to tell