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us.”
    “Yes I am.” His words were like thunder on the mountain.
    The presumably unstoppable sisters took a tentative, testing step toward the certainly immovable Ute.
    He spoke oh-so-softly: “Don’t make me do it.”
    Beatrice’s query carried a slight tremor: “Do what?”
    Moon’s response was blunt: “Pick both of you up, one under each arm. Stuff you into the back of Chief Parris’s unit. Lock you inside.”
    They knew he could. And would.
    Beatrice’s voice regained some of its edge. “Tell us what has happened.”
    Charlie Moon hesitated. “We’re not sure.”
    “Hi, Bea. Cassie.” Scott Parris had materialized. “This is my friend Charlie Moon. He’s my deputy—whatever he says goes.” Having made his point, he took a deep breath. “Ladies, I’m awfully sorry, but you can’t do anything here but get in the way of an official police investigation. So the best thing is for you to go home. I’ll call you as soon as—”
    “We are not leaving!” Beatrice stamped a spotless white slipper on the worn brick walk. “Not before you tell us what has happened to Astrid.”
    “Okay.” The suddenly weary policeman pointed at the dwelling. “Here’s the deal. It looks like an intruder entered her bedroom through the French windows. Astrid is dead.” Dead. There, it’s been said. Now it was official.
    These were not ordinary women. These were the Spencer sisters, who had been raised by parents only two generations removed from those hard-bitten pioneers who had arrived in wagons, on horseback, fought Apaches, Navajos, and Utes, endured sudden mid-May blizzards that froze small children who got caught in a far pasture, suffered through summers hot enough to fry eggs on black basalt boulders. There were no shrieks or wails. No wringing of hands. Only a cold, stony silence before Beatrice said, “You are absolutely certain that our sister is dead?”
    “Yes.” I’m sure somebody’s dead. The chief of police, who had suffered through his minutes in the wrecked bedroom, waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Until further notice, the area will be treated as a crime scene. Aside from police and the ME, no one goes inside, or off the driveway. Soon as the sun comes up, the dwelling and grounds will be examined for evidence.” Like footprints. “We can’t afford to miss a thing—we’ve got to find out who’s responsible for what happened here.” A flash of white-hot sheet lightning split the sky asunder, then a heavy rumble of thunder. Parris cringed at the threat. Oh no, Not rain. Please don’t let it rain and wash any tracks away ….
    Big fat drops plop-plopped onto the brim of his hat.
    More thunder.
    And then the waters came. Oh, how it did rain.
    Faced with the pair of determined men and a deluge that was soaking them to the skin, the sisters retreated to Bea’s automobile, where they would remain until Andrew Turner arrived.
    By then, the place was crawling with lawmen of every stripe.
    The loamy Yellow Pines soil was ankle-deep mud. The deluge was a great blessing to desperate farmers and ranchers. A serious piece of hard luck for lawmen who would have given a month’s pay for a single footprint.

    As the cloud-filtered rays of a gunmetal-gray dawn announced the beginning of a new day, Chief of Police Scott Parris felt oddly alone in the crowd of cops. What he sensed was a certain emptiness. His deputy was nowhere to be seen. His eyes attempted to penetrate the morning mist. Ol’ Charlie’s out there somewhere…looking. I hope he gets lucky.

    Charlie Moon had begun by walking an ever-widening spiral around the dead woman’s home. But, despite a hopeful search for a tuft of hair on a piñon branch, a deep paw print that the torrent of rain had not completely obliterated, luck was not walking with him. Now, within the fringed hem of Spencer Mountain’s forested skirt, he was particularly alert. The Ute sensed a presence.
    It was as if all the feathered and furry creatures who