“You got it,” Manny says, levering himself up. He pulls a small camera from his pocket and pops off half a dozen shots, the flash bouncing glare off the snow. “Be sure you don’t step anyplace you can’t see the ground; there’s gonna be more of these fuckers.”

“How do we know where to look? They could be anywhere.”

“Not quite. See that chain?” Manny points to the base of the tree where the open trap lies half-buried in snow. “Gotta have something to anchor to, tree or fence post. We walk this line of woods first. Then we try Callaghan’s fence.”

The second trap has been set less than a hundred feet away, secured to the base of a slender birch. Andrews spots its chain, still new and glinting in the sun that filters through the branches. Carefully Manny brushes fallen leaves away from the tether, following it to the open jaws of the trap itself. A sharp jab at the center with a fallen branch snaps it shut with a sickening crunch. A third has been sprung, but nothing remains of its victim except a tuft of hair and a red-brown smudge along the jagged line of the teeth. Manny bends to rub the soft, stippled fur between his fingers, noting its length and silky texture. “Rabbit,” he says. “Somebody beat the bastard to it, coyote maybe.”

“Where now?”

“Let’s try—down!” Manny throws himself flat as a bullet whines past just millimeters over his head and buries itself in the trunk of the tree behind him. Andrews sprawls in the wet leaf mould beside him, tugging at the holstered pistol riding at the small of his back under his jacket. A second shot streaks past, and a third. “It’s coming from the fence line over there!”

“Who the hell—?” Andrews falls abruptly silent. From the north side of the line of woods comes the snap of a twig, then another. Someone moving carelessly, confident enough not to be concerned about giving away his position.

Manny pulls his own sidearm and pumps a round into the chamber. The footsteps are clearly audible now, moving along a line perhaps fifty yards to the east of them. Pushing up on his good elbow, Manny can just make out a ripple of movement in the thicker underbrush, a shadow darting from tree trunk to shadow to tree trunk again. Andrews shoots him a questioning look, raising his pistol; Manny waves it down again.

Wait. Until we know how many they are. Until we know what they are.

Abruptly, the footfalls change direction, no longer moving on a tangent parallel to their position. The snap of dry twigs grows louder, coming straight toward them now. Closing his eyes, Manny remembers snowy mornings years gone by, crouched among a tumble of stones above the deer trail, waiting in silence as his breath made white fog above the white drifts about him. He calls that silence to him now as his father and grandfather have taught him, drawing it about him like a cloak, willing himself into the landscape, his skin to bark, his spine to living wood. When he has become the center of perfect stillness, he rises to his feet, not so much as the sound of a breath to betray his movement. Like a shadow he slips around the oak behind them, bracing his injured arm against the trunk, sighting over the blunt blue steel muzzle of his gun held steady in both hands. And he waits.

In the seconds that remain, the rustle of underbrush grow suddenly quieter, the footfalls softer and further apart. The end comes quickly, then, a rush of movement, a tall man with a weatherbeaten red face and salt-and pepper hair brushing the collar of his buckskin jacket bursts into the clearing, sweeping its perimeter with the barrel of his deer rifle, settling his aim almost delicately on Andrews where he still lies belly down among last year’s leaf fall.

“Well, now, boy. You been robbing my traps, have you?”

From his vantage point just wide of the trapper’s line of sight, Manny watches as Andrews’ fingers slip from the butt and trigger of his handgun. Very quietly he says, “No, I haven’t. I’m just out to get a rabbit or two for supper.”

“Where’s your friend, then? Oh, hell, yeah, I know there’s two of you. And I know what you been doin. Been pacin’ you ever since you found that goddamn wolf.” The man hawks and spits. “Bad luck, there. Bear got to him. Wolverine, maybe. Pelt’s ruined.”

After a moment he says, “Who the hell are you? You’re not local.”

“I’m from the Base. We’re hungry, too.”

“I just bet you are.” The trapper raises his voice. “Hey, you out there! Show yourself or I’ll give you one less mouth to feed! Won’t need so many ‘rabbits.’”

Manny slides around the side of the tree, gun still leveled. “Drop it, bastard. Now.”

The man turns slightly to his left, the rifle’s muzzle swinging up to aim at Manny’s head. The roar of its discharge mingles with the report of his own weapon, and Manny watches as the long gun flies windmilling out of its owner’s hand to strike the ground butt first, firing again harmlessly into the air, the man himself staggering backward with crimson blossoming suddenly between and above his eyebrows, his Stetson carried off his head in a spatter of blood and brain. He falls on his back, vacant eyes staring, and is still.

Andrews picks himself up, brushing dirt and black leaf rot from his knees. “Manuel my man, your timing was a bit close, you know that?”

“Nah, I had you covered the whole time. Let’s see who we got here.”

A brief search of the dead man’s pockets yields a South Dakota driver’s license issued to one Dietrich, William E., and a ring of heavy keys. Several are the small brass variety that open padlocks, and Manny counts them with growing disgust. “Six. That means there’s at least six of these goddam traps, assuming that each key opens only one lock. We got our work cut out.”

“What’re we gonna do with him?” Andrews gestures toward the dead man with his handgun before slipping it back into its holster. “There’s a hungry coyote family out here somewhere who can use the protein, if you ask me.”

Manny catches the other man’s eye briefly. He is not joking. “Nope. Wish we could, but we’d better take him back and go through the legal motions. Think you can wrestle the truck up here? It’ll be hell of a lot easier than trying to carry him back all that way.”

It takes twenty minutes, with much grinding of gears and spinning of wheels, but Andrews jerks the pickup to a stop just on top of the slope and just short of the trees.

He slams the door behind him emphatically. His freckles stand out against the flaming red of his face; sweat runs down from the brim of his h. He says equably, “Fuck you, buddy. You, and the horse you rode in on, and your grandpa’s paint pony. It woulda been easier to push the goddam rattletrap. You got any idea how we’re gonna get it down again?”

“No sweat. We just drive it along this level section here till we get to the end of the treeline.” Manny pats his pocket. “Then we cut the fence and use the road. Give me a hand here, will you?”

Without ceremony, they bundle Dietrich into a length of plastic, careful to retrieve his hat and weapon. Getting almost a hundred kilos of dead weight into the truck bed three-handed leaves Manny swearing with frustration at his useless shoulder. The wolf, still frozen and seventy pounds lighter, is easier. Andrews draws the body carefully onto a waiting blanket, then onto a tarp. Together they carry him gently as a child back to the truck and, after a moment’s hesitation, settle him in the back of the cab.

“You sure you don’t want to bury him out here?” Andrews asks as he folds a disturbed length of plastic back into place. “Taking him in—it doesn’t feel right.”

“It isn’t right,” Manny answers grimly. “He’s evidence of a crime, though. And nothing against you, buddy, but he’s the best corroborating witness as to why I shot that piece of shit.”

Over the next hour, they find three more traps. The coyote, caught by his tail, looks up at them with wary eyes that still hold a glint of mischief, and his lip rises in a defiant sneer as Andrews raises the Winchester to place the tranquilizer dart accurately in his thigh. A few moments later he is out cold and in one of the wire cages, a blanket tucked around him against the chill. The badger in the fifth trap, caught by a foreleg gnawed down to bone, is beyond help, eyes glazed with fever, sides rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths that make an audible gurgling sound. Andrews raises the dart gun questioningly, and Manny shakes his head. “That’s sepsis,” he says. “Pneumonia. Nothing we can do except end his suffering.”

Andrews reaches for his pistol, but Manny stops him. “Wait.” Opening the trap, he gently draws the steel teeth back from the shattered leg. The badger watches him dully from dimming eyes, making no resistance. “Easy, boy. Easy.” Then to Andrews. “Now. Let him die free.”

The last trap holds the bobcat. She is freshly caught, her wound bleeding bright scarlet into the snow. At their approach, her nose wrinkles in a snarl, baring fangs fit to tear off a man’s hand. Hissing, she backs away from them, dragging trap and chain with her to the limit of its length. “Oh boy,” Andrews observes, unnecessarily. “This one’s not gonna cooperate.”

When he finally does get a clear shot, they lay her carefully in the other cage, her wide unseeing eyes black, rimmed with gold. Manny runs his hand gently over her flank as he settles a blanket over her, rubbing behind her fine ears, still unmarked by fighting. “We’re gonna help you, girl,” he whispers. “You’re a real beauty, you are.”

Andrews grins as he starts the truck and it lurches along the flat strip parallel to the treeline. “You never told me you were a cat person. You’ve got a thing for that bobcat like your cousin the vet has for wolves.”

“Yeah.” After a moment he says, “That’s why I put up such a fight to get into Allen’s squadron. Bobcats.”