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by that.”
    â€œSometimes I’ll track a brown bear through those peaks two-three days and finally we’ll stand face to face and I’ll aim my rifle at him, and that’s that. I hunt bears — to prove a point to myself, I guess — but I’ve never killed one.”
    â€œYou mean you don’t pull the trigger?”
    â€œWhat would I do with a dead bear? I’m not a trophy collector and I don’t like the taste of bear meat.”
    â€œBut Charlie —”
    â€œHe’d kill anything that moved. For fun.”
    â€œYou must get a lot of clients like him.”
    â€œNot many. You’d be surprised. Most hunters have some dignity. And we’re still carnivores, aren’t we? Biologically there’s nothing dishonorable about that. You can’t condemn hunters if you eat meat yourself. But I’m talking about hunters. They eat what they kill. They make use of it. They don’t just kill it for the fun of killing and leave it there to rot. You want another drink?”
    â€œNot especially, thanks. Tell me, Sam, why’d you take up this line of work?”
    â€œI like to think of myself as a pioneer mountain-man type. It’s clean, you know. It keeps me outdoors.”
    â€œClean,” I said, “except when you have to go out with somebody like Charlie Cord.”
    â€œAeah.” He met my eyes and smiled. “Except then. Look, is this getting us anywhere?”
    â€œMaybe. What was Charlie after? Specifically, what kind of game?”
    â€œHe said he wanted a bobcat and a mule deer buck.”
    â€œBut?”
    â€œHe kept asking me about Rocky Mountain goats.”
    â€œThey’re a protected species, aren’t they?”
    â€œWhat’s left of them, yes.”
    â€œBut he wanted one.”
    â€œOne or a dozen. I think if he’d seen any goats he’d have killed them, yes.”
    â€œHow was he with a rifle?”
    â€œGood. Not spectacular, but good enough.”
    â€œIs it customary for the guide to stay in camp while the client goes out hunting?”
    â€œSome hunters want you right with them all the time. But it wasn’t unusual. He was just scouting around. He said he didn’t want to waste his time sitting around watching me set up tents.”
    I unfolded my county map. “Show me where it happened.”
    He put his finger on it. “About there.”
    â€œNear Goat Peak.” I folded it and put it in my pocket. “Anybody live up in that area?”
    â€œIt’s National Forest. You can’t own property up there.”
    â€œSometimes you tan lease it. Do you mind answering my question?”
    For the first time Mallory looked uncomfortable. It was subtle — I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t been waiting for it. A knotted muscle rippled briefly along his jaw; that was all. He said, “There’s a sourdough who lives in a lean-to up there. Been searching for years — for the mother lode, I guess.”
    â€œWhat’s his name?”
    â€œI don’t remember.”
    â€œCome on, Sam.”
    He pretended to be thinking, exercising his memory. Then he snapped his fingers. “Collins, that’s it. Hugh Collins.”
    â€œI don’t suppose he’s got a phone.”
    Mallory laughed. “Up there?”
    â€œI’d like to talk to him.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œHe lives on Goat Peak. He may have seen someone.”
    â€œI doubt it. He lives on the far side of the peak.”
    â€œCan you take me up there? I’ll pay for it.”
    â€œWaste of money.”
    â€œI want to talk to him,” I said gently. “It’ll go a little faster if you’d be willing to guide me.”
    â€œSuit yourself. We can leave in the morning.”
    â€œMake it ten o’clock. I’ve got something to do first.”
    You didn’t put two jacketed .30-caliber bullets into a space smaller than a