Breaking Point

were hired to guide?” Butch asked Farkus.
    “Yes, Butch.”
    “The sheriff . . . ex-sheriff . . . hired you?”
    “Yes.”
    Butch said, “Remind me never to take you hunting with me again.”
    Farkus swallowed hard and studied the top of his boots.
    Butch turned back to McLanahan. Farkus noted a desperate and sad cast in Butch’s eyes, a look he’d never seen before.
    Butch said to McLanahan, “Doesn’t take much for you to turn on your own, does it?”
    McLanahan started to defend himself, but something in Butch’s expression convinced him, for once, to hold his tongue.
    “Sit down, all of you,” Butch said, backing away toward the packhorse. “I don’t want to have to hurt anyone. I just want to see what goodies you brought me.”
    Roberson grinned as he pulled gear and equipment out of the panniers. Most he discarded to the side. Farkus watched as Butch found a .45 pistol, checked the loads, and put it in his pack. He also kept two satellite phones.
    —
    W ITH ONE OF the satellite phones clipped on his belt and three plastic double-loop flex-cuff restraints sticking out of his cargo pants’ thigh pocket for later, Butch Roberson had directed them to bury the body of the poor gut-shot hunter. He said, “I don’t know who he was, but he deserves better than to leave him to the predators.”
    Farkus and Sollis did most of the work using a collapsible camp shovel Butch had found in the panniers. It was tough going, lots of rocks an inch beneath the carpet of grass, and it took them nearly an hour to dig a shallow grave. McLanahan spent the time trying to convince Butch to give himself up, that it would be better for him and his family if he came back with them voluntarily. Butch ignored him and finally swung his rifle over until the muzzle was a foot from McLanahan’s nose.
    “Say another word,” Butch warned the sheriff, “and they’ll be digging more graves. Did you forget you came up here to kill me? I haven’t.”
    McLanahan’s beard stopped opening for a while.
    —
    A FTER ORDERING the three of them to cover the shallow grave with big twists of pitch wood and football-sized rocks from the fire ring, Butch cinched the flex-cuffs on each of them with their wrists in front, then glared at Sollis for such a long time Farkus began to feel the hairs on the back of his neck twitch.
    Butch said, “I hate to have to do this, but I can’t trust you guys.”
    —
    F ARKUS WENT FIRST into the dark timber, followed by Sollis and the ex-sheriff.
    Whenever Farkus paused, Butch prodded him on. He seemed to have a specific destination in mind, Farkus thought, although Butch didn’t reveal what it was.
    They trudged past the crumpled remains of the predator drone Butch had shot down. It was shockingly white and clean but in dozens of sections on the forest floor. As they passed, Farkus could see intricate wiring through splits in the seams and smell fuel leaking out of the damaged tank. Farkus saw several well-placed bullet holes in the damaged nose of the aircraft. The crash of the drone had brought down several dead and dying trees, as well as shearing a gash in the overhead canopy.
    “You’ve got to figure they know where it went down,” McLanahan told Butch.
    “Which is why we’re going a long way from it,” Butch had said.
    “How did you know it would go down?” Farkus asked.
    “I didn’t,” Butch answered.
    —
    T HE LIGHT CHANGED as the sun kissed the tops of the mountains when they emerged from the dense trees and into a small rocky clearing. For the first time since they’d left, Farkus could get a sense of where they were and how much country there was surrounding them. He could see the last rays of the sun light the snowcapped top of the range in front of them, and the ocean of forest undulating away in the other three directions. They weren’t far from the tree line, where it would be too high to sustain growth.
    Butch said they could sit, which Farkus did quickly. There was a sheen of sweat beneath his clothing from the climb, and his thighs ached. McLanahan grunted an old-man grunt as he lowered himself to a boulder. Sweat streamed down his face from beneath his hatband.
    Butch didn’t even seem out of breath. He plucked the satellite phone out of the holster, turned it on, and hit three numbers: 911.
    When he connected with the emergency dispatcher in Saddlestring, he said, “This is Butch Roberson, the man everybody’s looking for. I’ve got Sheriff Kyle McLanahan and