Free Comes a Horseman by Robert Liparulo

shirt; he had skinned and tanned the material for the pants, and Ingun had cut and sewn them. His sons had been with him when he picked up the boots from the leather smith. They had oohed at the craftsmanship and praised his stature when he slipped them on.
    The trooper pulled a flashlight from a loop on his belt and switched it on. He stepped up to the rear window and peered through. “California plates,” he said, as if Olaf would appreciate the knowledge.
    â€œYeah, San Luis Obispo.”
    â€œThat the place with the birds?”
    â€œYou’re thinking of San Juan Capistrano. I’m five hours northwest.”
    The cop nodded. He stepped around to Olaf ’s side of the van. He was in his midthirties, a little younger than Olaf. He had earnest eyes that said he loved his job, and deep frown lines that said maybe he loved his job a bit too much for a healthy family life. Olaf pictured the man volunteering extra hours to train rookies and spending a lot of time at the shooting range. If anybody was going to give him a hard time, it was this guy. He wondered if the man knew about the latest murder. Unlikely. It was less than two hours fresh, and law enforcement agencies weren’t that quick about disseminating crime information, especially interagency and when they didn’t have a clue about who they were looking for or what type of vehicle he was driving. He was sure nobody had seen him make his way to Palmer Lake from the west, a direction with no thoroughfares and few residents.
    The trooper aimed his beam past Olaf into the open door. “Lotta trash.”
    â€œI’m a pig when I travel.”
    â€œWhere you heading?”
    â€œTaos. See a cousin.” He anticipated the cop’s next question and added, “Came in on I-70 so I could visit friends along the way.”
    â€œ Lotta trash.” He was shaking his head, playing the beam over the garbage. His nose crinkled; he grimaced. He had just caught the odor.
    Olaf stifled a smile. There was only one reason he, himself, tolerated the stench: to knock people like this trooper off balance. If the cops wanted to search the van, he was reasonably sure it would be a quick search, and the searchers probably would not be at their best. And if they were looking for someone with dogs, they wouldn’t detect them with their noses. It was no violation of law to possess a vehicle that smelled like an outhouse. The crimes the outhouse helped conceal were another matter.
    The trooper took a step back. “Got your driver’s license?”
    Olaf reached behind him. “Am I in trouble, Officer?”
    â€œNot at all.” The words were amicable, but they fell from scowling lips like an insult.
    Olaf produced a tattered nylon wallet; he fished out his ID, which was newly minted but looked a thousand years old.
    Something snapped in the trees nearest them. The trooper’s head whipped around. His flashlight followed. He was holding it in a bent arm, at shoulder height—a javelin of light. His other hand had sprung back to his gun.
    â€œAnything wrong, Officer?” Before the sound, Olaf had caught a glimpse of one of the dogs. They had circled around the perimeter of the meadow and were now positioned just out of sight.
    â€œAre you alone?” Olaf could tell the cop was kicking himself for not asking the question sooner.
    â€œâ€™Course I am. Why, something out there?”
    â€œWould you please step over there, sir?” He directed Olaf to a spot farther away from him and halfway to the tree line, where he could see both Olaf and the shadowy area from which the sound had issued. He inched closer to the trees, panning the light back and forth.
    â€œDon’t think it’s a wild animal, do you?”
    The cop didn’t answer. He dropped to one knee, bending to peer under the branches . . . scanning. Then he cocked his head at Olaf, but he wasn’t looking; he was listening. After a minute of