“No, and if I did, I would tell you.”
“All right. We’ll keep looking then.”
The young man nods and withdraws without another word.
We watch him go. Then Dalton says, “You buy that?”
“He seems sincere, but Ty was certain he knew where it came from. That kid really doesn’t want us getting closer to their settlement. I’m not ready to drop this on his say-so.”
“Agreed.”
* * *
We follow the young man at a distance. According to Dalton, he’s heading toward the settlement. Moving quickly, too.
We start closing the gap between us. It’s better to catch up with him on the outskirts, where it’s too late to blow us off again, yet it’s clear we aren’t trying to ambush his settlement. I spot smoke rising over the trees ahead when Dalton grasps my arm. His hand drops to his gun, and I pull mine.
Dalton pivots. “Step out. There’s a gun trained on each of you.”
His gaze flicks in the other direction, and I turn that way, my gun rising.
Silence.
“Look,” Dalton says. “I don’t want to pull this shit. We’re walking to your village. We talked to a kid from it, but we need more information, and he didn’t seem the right person to give it. We appreciate your caution, but our guns do a helluva lot more damage than your bows, and they work a helluva lot faster. Also, you’re making our dog nervous.”
As if on cue, Storm growls.
“Just step out please,” Dalton says. “Then we’ll all lower our weapons and talk.”
No answer.
“Fuck,” Dalton grumbles. He turns to me and says, loud enough for them to hear, “Don’t you just get tired of this shit?”
“I do.”
“Do people pull this crap down south?”
“No, but we have cell phones. We can call before we show up.”
“Well, that’s what we need. Cell phones. Can we get a few of those?”
“Sure. First, you need a cell tower.”
“Fuck.”
“Or we could do it the old-fashioned way,” I say. “Ring their doorbell.”
“Hell, yeah.” He raises his voice more. “You guys got a doorbell? No? How’s this?” He raps his knuckles on the nearest tree. “Sheriff Eric Dalton, of Rockton, calling with my wife, Detective Casey Butler, also of Rockton. May we come in?”
A man appears from Dalton’s direction, shaking his head. “I suppose you’re trying to be funny,” he says, no rancor in his voice.
“Yeah,” Dalton says. “I make a better asshole than a comedian, but I’m trying a new tactic.”
The man’s lips quirk as he walks over. “Might want to keep working at it, but I appreciate the effort.”
He’s in his mid-forties, a tall, rangy man with weathered skin. He’s dark-haired and round-faced, and his countenance reminds me of the young man’s. A relative, I’d guess.
The other man comes into view but stops short as he sees me. “Tomas?”