Bent over, Watts followed the tracks until he disappeared behind some boulders. Five or ten minutes passed, then they heard him shout. “Come in!”

They followed his trail around the boulders. He was standing to one side, taking photos with his cell phone.

“Circle around here and let me show you something.”

They came over.

“Okay, here’s my reconstruction. The man came in here the way we did—there are his prints. He’s got a rifle—you can see where he set it down temporarily, leaning it against that rock, where the rifle butt made a mark in the sand. He was here for a while—just hanging out, it seems. Then he took the rifle up again, walked to that other spot, and knelt. He then fired seven shots.”

“Seven shots.” Corrie thought back. “That’s right. How did you know?”

“Seven casings. See them, stuck in the sand?”

“Right,” said Corrie, embarrassed she hadn’t noticed them herself.

Watts went over and bent down, picking one up with the tip of a pencil. He fished a Ziploc bag out of his pocket and dropped it in. “Going to fingerprint these,” he said as he picked up the rest.

“Those are big casings,” said Nora.

“Damn right they are. It’s a .56-.56 rimfire cartridge from an old Spencer repeating rifle.”

“Wasn’t that some kind of Civil War weapon?” she asked.

“Exactly. It was a heavy-caliber, short-range rifle that fired a low-velocity round. It’s a terrible weapon if you want to kill someone from a distance.” He tucked the Ziploc bag away. “So then, after firing, he stands up and walks back over that way, and leaves. Goes back a different way than he came, I think, because I only saw ingoing prints, not outgoing.”

“Why would some crazy guy be taking potshots at us with an antique rifle?” Nora asked.

Watts shook his head. “I think it’s a lot more likely this was just some jackass plinking in the mountains without a proper backstop. He didn’t see you.”

Corrie stared at him. “Are you kidding? The rounds were hitting all around us!”

“How close?”

“Like ten feet.”

Watts smiled wryly. “Ten feet? Come over here.”

Corrie came over, and Watts said: “Here’s where he was kneeling when he fired. You kneel down right here, too.” He placed his warm hands on her shoulder and steadied her as she knelt. “Now, hold your arms up like you’re firing a rifle and sight down to the ruins.” He helped adjust the re-creation with his hands, arms around her back. “Like that. Now: What do you see?”

Corrie looked toward the ruins. “Not much but that pillar of adobe.”

“That’s right. He was shooting at that pillar, which makes for a prominent target. You just happened to be hiding behind it, out of sight.”

“Bullshit. He was shooting at us.”

Watts turned to Nora. “What do you think?”

Nora hesitated. “It’s hard to say.” It was clear to Corrie the archaeologist didn’t want to openly disagree with her—but it was also clear that she saw Watts’s point.

“That Spencer,” said Watts, “holds seven rounds in a tube magazine. He shot seven rounds. Seems like he came out here to try out the gun, fired a full set of rounds, then left. Those antique rounds cost thirty-five dollars each. You can’t buy them new. This guy was a serious gun collector, not a sniper.”

“Do gun collectors often fire their weapons?”

“Oh yes. A true collector buys working weapons and wants to fire them at least once, just to have the experience. That’s part of the romance of collecting a fine old weapon. Maybe I’ll get lucky with the prints. Unless you want to take them to the FBI lab?”

“God no,” said Corrie. “I don’t even want them to know I was out here. And getting shot at by some dumbass cowboy firing a gun?” She shook her head.

Watts grinned. “So you’re coming around to my point of view?”

“I guess so,” said Corrie grudgingly. “But if he was such a serious collector, why didn’t he take the shells?”

“They aren’t worth anything.”

“But you’d think he’d collect them, if only as souvenirs. Unless he wanted us to find them.”

Watts shook his head. “You’re overthinking this, Agent Swanson. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

Corrie did mind, but she said nothing. Just then, her cell phone rang.

“Amazing to get cell coverage out here,” she said, pulling it out and seeing it was Morwood.

“Corrie?” Morwood’s voice sounded wrong. She was instantly on the alert.

“Yes, sir?”

“We’ve just gotten a report: Huckey’s body was found up in High Lonesome. At the bottom of an old well. It looks like an accident, but we’ve got the ERT up there.”

“What was he doing?” Corrie asked, amazed.

“It seems he was, ah, looting the place.” Morwood paused. “I’m heading up now. Meet me there as soon as possible.”

31

IT WAS A long, bone-rattling drive from Anzuelo Canyon to High Lonesome. By the time they arrived, Corrie was heartily glad to get out. It was already late in the day, and the sun had sunk into a pile of distant thunderheads, turning them into towers of blood and casting a strange reddish light over the landscape. The entrance to the ghost town had been blocked with crime scene tape, and several cars and vans were parked just outside.