sister?â
âSay that again and weâll have to fight.â
Bad Bob was shaped like a barrel and had a face as round as a hubcap. His hair was black and it glistened from the gel he used to slick the sides down and spike the top. He was wearing buckskins with a beaded front and Nike high-tops. Bob owned Bad Bobâs Native American Outlet convenience store at the junction, which sold gasoline, food, and inauthentic Indian trinkets to tourists. He also rented DVDs and computer games to boys on the reservation. The back room was where the men without jobs gathered to talk and loiter and Bob held court.
Smiling and holding his hands palms up, Bob said, âOkay, Iwonât say it again. But your scalp would look good hanging from my lance.â
âWhy are you talking like an Indian?â
âI am an Indian, Kemo Sabe.â
âNah,â Nate said. âNot really.â
Bob poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped it, looking over the rim at Nate. âYou havenât commented on my garb.â
âI was waiting for you to bring it up.â
âTen of us are in a television commercial,â Bob said. âTheyâre shooting it up on the rim. The new Jeep Cherokee, I think.â
Nate took a moment to say, âI guess they donât build a Northern Arapaho.â
âNo,â Bob said, grinning, thrusting out his jaw. He was missing every other bottom tooth, so his smile reminded Nate of a jack-oâ-lantern. âIâll suggest that to them, though. You should see the director. Heâs from L.A. Heâs scared of us.â
âMust be the Nikes.â
Bob laughed, the sound filling the room. âWe told him we wouldnât do it unless they increased our talent fee from five hundred a day to seven-fifty. We scowled. He caved.â
âCongratulations.â
From the bathroom, Alisha called out, âIs that Bobby?â
âGood coffee!â Bob yelled back.
âBobby, I need my television back! Youâve had it for a week!â
Nate looked at Bob.
âMine went out,â Bob explained. âWe needed to watch the poker tournament.â
Bob drained his cup and refilled it. While doing so, he saw the digital clock on the microwave. âShit, I need to get going. They wanted to shoot with the sun at a certain angle. The director loves dawn light.â
Nate said, âWho doesnât?â
âIf we miss the dawn light, we just sit around until dusk and smoke cigarettes and shoot then,â Bob said. âItâs a good job.â
âThatâs what counts,â Nate said.
âHey, did you hear that plane last night?â Bob asked, backing out the door so he wouldnât spill his coffee. He was taking the mug with him.
âNo.â
âI heard thereâs a big-assed jet sitting at the airport,â Bob said. âSome kind of foreign writing on the fuselage.â
With that, Bob left.
To himself, Nate said,
Damn
.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
N ATE R OMANOWSKI lived in a small stone house on the bank of the Twelve Sleep River, in the shadows of hundred-year-old cottonwoods and a high, steep bluff across the water. As he crested the long rise from the east, his place was laid out in front of himâhouse, round pen, sagging mews where he kept his birdsâand he could tell instinctively that someone had been there.
Pulling off the two-track, he climbed out of his Jeep and walked back over to the road. Three sets of fresh tire imprintscut the night crust of the dirt where a vehicle had gone in and out and back again to his home. The tracks were wideâan SUV or a pickup. The tread was sharp, indicating new tires or a brand-new vehicle. Then he saw what had triggered his suspicion in the first place: the mews door was slightly open. Meaning his falcons had been disturbed or were gone. Which meant somebody was going to get hurt.
He stood and squinted, determining whoever