Free The Master Falconer by C. J. Box

 
    G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
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    Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
     
Copyright © 2011 by C. J. Box
    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada
     

     
    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
     
    While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
    eISBN : 978-1-101-53205-8
    http://us.penguingroup.com

ALSO BY C. J. BOX
     
    THE JOE PICKETT NOVELS
     
    Nowhere to Run
     
    Below Zero
     
    Blood Trail
     
    Free Fire
     
    In Plain Sight
     
    Out of Range
     
    Trophy Hunt
     
    Winterkill
     
    Savage Run
     
    Open Season
     
    THE STAND-ALONE NOVELS
     
    Three Weeks to Say Goodbye
     
    Blue Heaven
     
    Connect online:
www.cjbox.net
facebook.com/AuthorCJBox

“Man has emerged from the shadows of antiquity with a peregrine on his wrist.”
     
    —ROGER TORY PETERSON, Birds Over America
     

 
     
    IN THE MIDNIGHT FORESTS OF THE BIGHORN MOUNTAINS, BELOW timberline, all movement and sound ceased with the approaching roar. Elk quit grazing and raised their heads. Squirrels stopped chattering. The increasing roar caused the ground to tremble. And suddenly the stars blacked out as the huge aircraft skirted over the mountaintops, landing lights blazing, landing gear descending, the howl of jet engines pounding downward through the branches into the earth itself. The tiny town of Saddlestring, Wyoming, was laid out before the nose of the plane like a dropped jewelry box, lights winking in the night against black felt, the lighted runway just long enough for a plane this size to land on, but just barely.
     
     
    THE NEXT MORNING, Nate Romanowski slipped out of Alisha Whiteplume’s quilt-covered bed on the Wind River Indian Reservation, pulled on a loose pair of shorts, and searched through the cupboards of her small kitchen for coffee. He tried not to wake her. There were cans of refried beans and jars of picante sauce, home-canned trout in Mason jars, but no coffee except instant.
    As two mugs of water heated in the microwave, he opened the kitchen blinds. Dawn. Early fall. Dew and fallen leaves on the grass, dried into fists. A skinned-out antelope buck hung to cool from the basketball hoop over the garage.
    Nate was tall, rangy, with sharp features and a deliberate, liquid way of moving.