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Rimrock was better than a newspaper. A lot of things went on that a newspaper just wouldn’t print. But Ima Jane didn’t believe in censorship. If something was said, she repeated it. No newspaper would do that.
    Of course, the locals regarded it as irrelevant that Glory, Wyoming, wasn’t big enough to have a newspaper. Strictly speaking, Glory wasn’t even considered a town anymore. Fifty years ago, when the population dropped to fifty-one, it lost its post office. Most maps of the state didn’t bother to include Glory. There wasn’t even a sign on the state highway identifying the collection of buildings grouped along its right-of-way. A snowplow had knocked it over three years ago, and the state hadn’t gotten around to erecting a new one.
    Strangers to the area rarely glanced twice at the little roadside community unless they were hungry or in need of gas. When they did, they invariably noticed the tall, red block letters spelling out the word RIMROCK painted across the bar’s second-story front and assumed it to be the town’s name. Few were ever curious enough to inquire about the accuracy of their assumption.
    Once, a freestanding sign close to the road had proclaimed the structure to be the RIMROCK BAR & GRILL , setting occasional travelers straight—or, at least, prompting them to ask the town’s name. But rotting wood and a strong wind had turned the sign into one of the area’s distant memories, something to be recalled with the same absent fondness as the Glory Post Office.
    Ima Jane and Griff Evans had opted to pocket the insurance money rather than spend it on replacing the sign, reasoning that such advertising was wasted on the locals. As for the infrequent stranger, there was a neon COORS sign in one front window, and a second that read EATS in the other window. A person would have to be literally blind not to figure out there was food and drink inside.
    Both signs were aglow when Luke swung his pickup into the parking lot. It was half past six on a Saturday night, the sun still lingering in the western sky, but the lot was already crowded with its usual collection of pickups and utility vehicles, along with a sedan or two.
    Luke parked his truck in one of the few empty slots remaining and switched off the engine. After slipping off his sunglasses, he hooked them on the visor and opened the cab door, pocketing the keys. As he stepped out, an old blue pickup pulled into the lot. Tobe West was behind the wheel, a towheaded Dulcie barely visible beside him and Fargo Young propped against the passenger door. Luke waited while they parked not far from his location.
    When they joined him, Fargo rubbed his growling stomach and complained, “I’m so hungry I could eat the hair off a hog. I wonder what Griff fixed for a special tonight.” He sniffed the air, searching for an aroma that might tell him.
    Tobe didn’t have food on his mind. “Do you think Ima Jane has heard anything new about our skeleton, Luke?”
    Neither subject held any interest for Luke, something neither man would have understood if he told them. Knowing that, Luke replied, “Why don’t we go find out?”
    When he headed toward the door, Tobe and Fargo fell in step with him. Dulcie trailed behind her brother, a pale and silent shadow.
    The Rimrock was the kind of small cowboy bar that could be found in every town, large or small, throughout the West. Its decor ran to wood paneling on the walls with local brands burned into it at intervals. Mixed in with a scattering of mounted antlers and horns were framed photographs of area heroes caught in action at the local rodeo, riding rank bulls or broncs, bulldogging a steer, or snaring a calf.
    The minute they set foot inside the bar, Fargo chuckled with glee. “Hot dang, if he didn’t fix ribs tonight,” he declared. “How did Griff know I had me a taste for a man-sized slab of ’em?”
    All but