Corrie followed her into a cozy room with a stone fireplace, with plaques and trophies adorning the walls and mantelpiece. An old man was sitting in a BarcaLounger, wearing suspenders over a checked shirt. He pulled a lever, and the chair went into the upright position.

“Please don’t get up,” Corrie said, but he was already on his feet and shaking her hand.

“Edna, our guests need some cookies and coffee. Or milk, perhaps?”

“I don’t need anything, thanks,” said Corrie.

“I never say no to homemade cookies,” Fountain replied with a smile.

“Good. Bring in the pot, please, Edna. And a few extra cookies, anyway.” The sheriff’s grandfather eased himself back down in the chair with the help of a nearby cane. “Have a seat over there, young Agent Swanson.” Then he pointed to an overstuffed love seat. “And you, Mr. Fountain, take the place of honor.”

“Thank you,” Fountain said, blue eyes sparkling from behind his round glasses. “And I’ve told you: when we’re outside of the courtroom, it’s Charles.”

“Speaking of courtrooms, I never did pay you for your time on that damn eminent domain business.”

Fountain waved this off. “Anything for your family.”

Corrie sat down, propping her accordion folder next to her chair. The sheriff took a chair on the far side as Mrs. Watts returned holding a tray laden with a coffeepot, cream, sugar, cups, and cookies.

“Maybe I will have a cup,” Corrie said. She had been dying for more coffee all morning and it smelled heavenly, strong and black, not the weak-ass stuff you got in Albuquerque.

“I knew it,” said the old man, pouring her a mug. “I took you for a coffee drinker the moment I saw you.”

Mrs. Watts also sat down. “How’s your ear?” she asked Homer.

“Fine. Just took off enough to leave a bit of a battle scar. Something to brag about when I’m sitting in that recliner someday.”

“I still think you should have shot that no-good Rivers’s head clean off,” the old man said.

The sheriff laughed. “Federal prison will take good care of him.”

There was a moment of silence. Corrie, making conversation, said, “That’s quite an impressive collection of awards you’ve got. Were you a sporting champion in your youth? Football or something?”

Fountain chuckled to himself, while the old man guffawed loudly.

“Those ain’t mine,” he said. “Those are marksmanship awards, and they belong to Homer, here.”

Corrie looked over at the sheriff to see, with surprise, that his face had gone a little red.

“You didn’t know?” the old man asked. “Homer’s a dead shot. Hell, he has three High Master awards from the NRA National Championships alone.”

“Knock it off, Grandpa,” Homer mumbled.

The old man laughed afresh. “All those trophies and things were just laying about his place, under the bed or in a closet, collecting dust. If he’s not going to display them, I sure as hell will.” The old man winked at his grandson. “Least he can do in exchange for my pair of Colts.”

Corrie glanced at the pair of revolvers on the sheriff’s hips with newfound respect.

Homer took a sip of coffee and sat forward, obviously eager to change the subject. “Agent Swanson has some pictures she’d like to show you.”

“Yes, indeed, and I’m curious to see them.” He looked at Homer. “Does this have something to do with that theory of yours?”

“God, no.”

Corrie looked at them. “What theory?”

When there was no answer, the old man said: “Well, are you going to tell her about your crackpot ideas, or am I?”

“It’s nothing,” Homer said, almost shyly. “You know, we’ve always had a problem with looters and relic hunters here—like just about every place else in the remote Southwest. I keep an eye on the usual suspects. But recently, although there’s been no uptick in looting, there’s been an increase in antiquities hitting the market without any provenance.”

“Could be a private collector who’s short of cash,” Fountain said. “Selling off pieces of questionable origin under the table.”

Homer nodded. “Could be.”

“Or it could be that my grandson has spent too much time with his head in the sun,” the old man said.

“My head’s just fine,” the sheriff replied. “You called it a theory—I just call it curious. Anyway, this person we’re trying to identify has been dead seventy years.”

Corrie picked up her accordion folder. “Before I show you the pictures, I want to explain that what you’re seeing is only a facial reconstruction, based on what we know from the anatomy of the man’s skull. It almost certainly isn’t going to be an exact likeness. But if it even merely resembles someone you knew, please tell me. Take as much time as you need.”

He nodded. “When did the feller die?”

“We think around 1945 or a little later.”

“I was five years old in 1945!” said the sheriff’s grandfather. “How am I going to recognize him?”

“I realize it’s a long shot,” said Corrie.

“I’ll do my best. Now, let’s see the pictures.”