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didn’t have to know as much about the state and federal wildlife regs as the wardens did. In addition to the 600-plus hours Mack had put in to get her peace officer certification, her curriculum included another 750 hours of instruction at the Game Warden Training Academy. And all this on top of her undergraduate major in Criminal Justice and a Wildlife Biology minor from Sam Houston State. Texas Parks and Wildlife liked to brag that its game wardens were the best-trained conservation officers in the entire United States. From what Mack had observed of her fellow wardens in the five years since she’d graduated from the Academy, that was pretty much on the mark.
    Next door, the rooster who lorded it over her neighbor’s flock of hens noticed the first brush of pink in the sky and cheerfully unfurled his dawn song. From the grassy paddock behind the house (one of the reasons she liked this little place), Cheyenne, Mack’s paint quarter horse, nickered softly, and a couple of backyards down the block, a neighbor’s sorrel mare replied with a pleasant whinny. The two horses often seemed to communicate, Mack had noticed, like friends gossiping across the back fence about what was going on in the neighborhood.
Did you see that Bartlett kid with his BB gun? Deliberately shot out the garage window and claimed it was an accident. And how about Sam Gruber—drunk again on Saturday night. If I were Mrs. Gruber, I’d leave him.
Cheyenne needed exercise, but since hunting season began, there hadn’t been time to ride her—and there wouldn’t be time until the hoopla was over, at the end of January.
    Mack set her coffee mug into the truck’s cup holder. Then she pausedbeside the open passenger door to do a quick equipment check. The dash-mounted GPS, light-control switch box, and radio were in working order. The console held her log and map folder, spotting scope, binoculars, and flashlight, along with a digital camera, mini-cassette recorder, and first-aid and evidence kits. Her rain gear and highway flares were under the seat, along with a spare flashlight, extra batteries, and a basic truck tool kit. Her AR-15 was already locked into the cab ceiling rack. Like all wardens, she spent most of her waking hours in her truck. She tried to keep stuff stowed neatly and the trash shoveled out.
    She opened the door of the rear cab and dropped her insulated lunch pack and thermos of hot chocolate on the floor. Designed to transport prisoners, the truck’s rear cab was separated from the front by a sturdy cage-wire panel and a bullet-proof sliding glass pane, and the doors couldn’t be opened from the inside. She straightened up and checked her duty belt: her holstered .40 caliber 15-round Glock 22, handcuffs, pepper spray, Maglite, disposable gloves, and handy multi-tool—the Leatherman that had belonged to her father.
    Satisfied that she hadn’t forgotten anything, she slid onto the seat, flipped open her patrol log, and noted the date (11/22), time (0500), and weather (clear, 30F). She’d gotten into the habit of recording the weather after she discovered that it helped her to remember incidents more clearly when it came time to write up the full report on the computer back in her office, the second bedroom of her tiny, two-bedroom house.
    â€œReady to hit the road, Molly?” She smiled at the dog perched on the passenger seat. In answer, Molly wagged her butt—like most ranch dogs, her tail had been docked so it wouldn’t get stepped on by a cow or a horse or caught in a gate. In this kind of weather, Molly got to do ride-alongs severaltimes a week. Summer was a different story. It was against regulations to leave the truck and the AC running when she made a stop, and the temp in the cab could reach triple digits in a matter of minutes. In the summer, Molly had to stay home.
    Mack started the truck and backed out of the driveway. She drove up Oak Street, then turned