“I just saw a shape,” he said quietly. “Moving on the ridge up there, against the moon.”

Nora stood and looked. “What kind of shape?”

“A person.”

“Sure it’s not an animal?”

Skip squinted up at the fuzzy moon, already disappearing back into the scudding clouds. “Maybe. But it seemed too tall and thin for an animal.”

Nora scanned the mountain ridges, now black in shadow. “No one in their right mind would be up there at this time of night.”

“Well, if they decide to pay us a visit, I’ll say hello with my Remington 870.”

“Don’t let your trigger finger get too itchy,” Nora said. “But keep that shotgun loaded and in your tent.”

“I’ll cuddle it all night,” Skip said with a laugh.

The steaks were now done, and Skip served out dinner. Nora ate with gusto. Skip, as usual, had prepared the food to perfection, the steaks juicy and pink, the poblanos charred just right, the corn roasted in the husk, shucked and slathered with butter. A few times she glanced up at the mountains above them but saw no light or trace of life—nothing but blackness.

“Hey, Skip,” Nora said when they were finished. “Bring out your Gibson and give us a song. Let’s chase away the gloom. I managed to give myself the creeps telling that story.”

“‘Old Chisholm Trail,’ coming right up.” And Skip ducked into his tent.

35

NORA WOKE IN the middle of the night, her heart suddenly pounding. It was pitch black, the moon having been obscured by clouds.

“It’s me,” murmured Skip, hovering just outside her tent flap. “Talk in a whisper.”

She sat up. “What’s going on?”

“There’s someone out there in the dark.”

“Are you sure?”

“I heard voices. Get dressed.”

Nora quickly pulled on her jeans and shirt. She poked her head out of the tent. Skip was crouching by the tent, hidden in the dark, holding the twelve-gauge. The fire had gone out, and the blackness was complete.

“Where are they?”

“There,” said Skip, pointing. “Listen.”

She listened intently, but all she could hear was the faint sound of wind stirring the fabric of the tent. She stared into the darkness, and then, suddenly, she saw a brief flare of light, as if someone had lit a match and then immediately snuffed it.

“Shit, you see that?” Skip whispered.

“Yes.”

They waited. Nothing. Nora’s heart was pounding harder in her chest now, so hard she was having trouble focusing on the sound out in the darkness. The seconds ticked by.

There was a faint crack of a broken twig.

Nora held her breath, trying to get her heart rate down. Skip raised the barrel of his shotgun and aimed it into the unbroken sea of darkness against the mountains.

“They can’t see us,” he whispered, “unless they’re wearing night vision. Which I doubt.”

“What do we do?”

Skip was silent, still aiming the shotgun. Nora heard—or thought she heard—the sound of a faint whisper. She touched Skip, and he nodded that he, too, had heard it.

“I’m going to ease over there,” he said, “and circle around to flank them.”

Another crackle or rustle came from the darkness.

“And they’re creeping up on us.” He lowered the gun and cradled it, getting ready to move off. “We have no choice but to go on the offensive. Do nothing, make no sound. Keep in mind they’re as blind as we are.”

Nora answered by squeezing his arm, then letting her hand slip away.

Skip crept, with immense caution, into the darkness. Nora waited, staring in the direction of the sounds. Even as she did so, she heard another faint crunch of a footfall. It couldn’t be more than twenty feet away. Skip was right—this was a deliberate, vigilant approach.

Skip’s warning may have been wise, but Nora realized she couldn’t wait there, helpless, like a sitting duck. Silently, she turned and reached back into the tent, fingers probing in the darkness for her folding knife, stored in a tent pocket along with her flashlight. She found both and slowly withdrew them. She laid the flashlight at her right foot and unfolded the blade of the knife—a blacked-out Zero Tolerance 0888. It locked in place with the faintest of clicks. If anyone came at her, she’d make damn sure they regretted it.

Another whisper came: breathy, closer. Jesus, it was dark. She extended her hand, gripping the titanium handle, crouching and tense and ready to thrust and slash. The balance and heft of the weapon—a limited-edition blade, mailed to her anonymously after she assisted Corrie Swanson at Donner Pass a few months before—was reassuring.

What was Skip doing? She could hear nothing of his movements, which was probably a good thing, but it left her feeling abandoned nonetheless. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. The darkness was so absolute that the intruder, or intruders, might be mere inches from her and she wouldn’t know. She arced the knife through the darkness before her, slowly. Nothing.

More seconds ticked by. Could she turn on the flashlight and toss it, as a diversion? No—as soon as she turned it on it would reveal her location, make her a target. Her mind went through various other scenarios, but none of them seemed to have much chance of success. She simply had to trust in Skip. He was the one with the shotgun.