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distance, but mostly the operation was idle today. Two men were smoking cigarettes, until a foreman shooed them away, presumably to a safer area to smoke than a natural gas vent. Coiled like a snake were what appeared to be miles of flexible drill lengths, which would be used to bore into the ground to find the porous veins of natural gas. Next to the stacks of drill lengths was something that looked like a cage full of basketballs, but with grooves like those on a screw, and protruding edges, sharp, with glinting metal. Drill bits ? Mahegan wondered. They looked like medieval weapons, maces, with their triangular teeth jutting from one end.
    Mahegan turned around and looked west. The sun’s position indicated the time was about 3:00 p.m. He could see through the forest to Jordan Lake, about a mile or two away. He guessed the fencing was necessary to keep equipment poachers out, as well as the bears and deer that might wander into the construction site.
    Mahegan studied the valley, which, he considered, appeared to be a bowl with an opening to the south, scouting for any sign of a Gunther, father or son. He was expecting a big, shiny truck or SUV, but all he saw was the black Ford F-150 that Scarface had driven and the myriad drilling equipment concentrated around the prefab cone. There were trailers—living quarters, he presumed—a quarter mile to the north. In his periphery he saw Scarface walking from the eastern ridge back toward the graded saddle. When he was at the bottom, Scarface walked briskly past the idle crew, bucket loaders, and bulldozers sitting parked like resting animals, and shouted, “What the hell is this? Break time?”
    Mahegan lifted his posthole digger with one hand and pointed it at the far side of the ridge, which Scarface couldn’t see, and said, “Cement is drying.”
    â€œWell, dig another goddamned hole, idiot!”
    Mahegan nodded, wishing briefly that Scarface was related to Gunther, then turned and walked back to continue the fencing work.
    After another two hours they found themselves at the northwest end of the ridge. They had started due south, where they had entered the area in the truck, then had worked west and north. The sun was still hanging high enough for another couple of hours of work, and Mahegan thought they could probably finish the job. But he was glad when Scarface reappeared and said, “Quitting time.”
    Mahegan and the two Mexicans walked down the hill to where Scarface was waiting for them. Mahegan surveyed the prefab cone and thought he had it about right. He imagined that the frackers used the opening to extract natural gas the way a surgeon operated through one location on the body.
    â€œWe’re not done,” Mahegan said, putting up a mock protest as he stopped in front of Scarface.
    â€œAnd you’re not going to be done today. I’ll pick you three back up tomorrow morning. Right now I need to get you out of here.”
    â€œWhy so soon? We could finish tonight.”
    Mahegan could see Scarface’s mind calculating why he might be pushing the issue. “Don’t worry. You’ll get paid today and tomorrow. That’s how Gunther does it. Pays out every day.”
    Mahegan nodded. “Does Gunther do the paying?”
    â€œI do. Why?”
    Mahegan shrugged. “We get paid before we get in the truck?”
    Papa Diablo and Dos had planted themselves on either side of him, as if to reinforce his message. Mahegan noticed again Scarface’s leather coat listing to his right side. He was certain there was a pistol hidden in his coat. Mahegan looked around. The rig workers had disappeared somewhere. The four of them were alone.
    Mahegan took a step closer to Scarface. He calculated that the posthole digger was five feet long and, coupled with his arm length, put him within striking distance of Scarface. He gripped the posthole digger and flipped it onto his shoulder like a baseball bat, causing