The Thirteenth Skull

By Bonnie Ramthun

Discovering an ancient skeleton can be murder, as homicide detective Eileen Reed discovers when her parents ask for her help in a missing person's case. The missing man, an archeologist, has been excavating a Lakota buffalo jump at the Reed Ranch near Devil's Tower, Wyoming. The discovery of his murdered corpse and the treasure he took from the ancient skeleton are complicated further when a hired assassin targets Eileen's fiancé, Joe Tanner, a top-secret defense programmer. The big-city killers come to do murder in a small Wyoming town, and Eileen Reed finds herself in a fight for her life and the lives of her family, trying to solve a very personal murder and keep two very impersonal murderers from their intended slaughter. Her investigations include the mystery surrounding the flawless crystal skull unearthed from the arms of the Aztec warrior who died trying to deliver it to the Lakota tribe. The crystal skull exhibits mysterious properties that seem to defy explanation. Eileen must unlock the secrets of the skull in order to save her family from the killers and fulfill the Aztec's ancient mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bonnie Ramthun
• Release date: Aug 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466150669

Bonnie Ramthun

Bonnie Ramthun lives in Erie, Colorado with her husband and children. Her novels for adults include Ground Zero, a thriller published by G.P. Putnam, Earthquake Games, a 2000 Colorado Book of the Year nominee, and The Thirteenth Skull. The White Gates, her middle grade mystery published by Random House in 2008, is a Junior Library Guild Premiere selection and was a finalist for the Missouri Truman Award. She is a former chapter president of Mystery Writers of America, a member of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, and former war gamer for the Department of Defense. There are two cherished compliments that Bonnie Ramthun has received for her writing. A reader wanted to know if the childhood events that happened to Eileen Reed in Earthquake Games had actually happened to Bonnie as a child. She considers this a high compliment - she made a lonely Wyoming car crash and an abandoned child so real that her reader thought it actually happened. The second compliment was when a reader wrote her a letter and praised The Thirteenth Skull, Bonnie's third Eileen Reed book. The reader loved the novel and hated the villain so much that she thought he should have died more slowly. Bonnie will never forget this compliment either, for it means that she created a character so evil and so hateful that the reader wanted him to die...harder. Bonnie's favorite stories are the ones where ordinary people are placed in world-changing events. The people who live in her stories are fictional, but she tries to make them so real you want to have coffee with them. Or kill them.

Book preview

Don't miss The Thirteenth Skull! An engrossing mystery with a breathtaking setting in the Wyoming wilderness, a smart, determined sleuth, and a plot with enough twists and surprises that you'll want to keep reading late into the night. Margaret Coel, NYT Best-selling author.

The Thirteenth Skull is another hair-raising tale of murder and suspense that will keep you on the edge of your seat all the way from the mysterious beauty of the Wyoming prairies into the deepest secrets of the ancient Aztecs. -- Marne Davis Kellogg -- best-selling author of the Kick Keswick jewel thief series.

"Bonnie Ramthun scores yet again, assuring her reputation as a premier thriller writer. The Thirteenth Skull is her best yet, original, riveting, powerful. Readers will race to the heart-wrenching -- and unexpected -- finale." -- Carolyn Hart, Agatha Award winning author of 34 mystery novels.

Bonnie Ramthun is like Sherlock Holmes meets the X-Files. -- Robert New, Entertainment Attorney, Century City, California.

The Thirteenth Skull

By Bonnie Ramthun

This novel is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to the give the fiction a sense of authenticity. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

The Thirteenth Skull

Originally published by Loveland Press, 2003

Rights returned to the author by Loveland Press in 2011.

All rights reserved by the author.

Copyright 2011 by Bonnie Ramthun

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

Production credits:

Edited by: Barbara Teel

Cover Design, Layout and Production by: Sandi Nelsen

Dedication:

This is for my husband, Bill.

Chapter One

The Reed Ranch, Wyoming

Oh, no, Eileen Reed said. We’ve got trouble. The archeologist is here.

The one who thinks her partner was murdered? Lucy Giometti asked. She rose on her tiptoes to see out the kitchen window. They were both standing at the Reed Ranch’s enormous kitchen sink, up to their thick yellow glove-tops in soapy water. Eileen was washing dishes and Lucy was rinsing. Lucy had pitched in to help Eileen with her mother’s cook pans. Big cook pans, too, for a crew of hunters who were scouting the Reed Ranch and an additional crew of archeologists who were excavating a buffalo jump.

I think so, Eileen said, peering through the kitchen window at the dusty brown truck in the yard. The shadowy figure behind the wheel was looking down, rummaging for gum or cigarettes or perhaps some paperwork. Eileen kept scrubbing the pot that had held gravy. Which is why mom wanted me up here, me being a cop and all.

A homicide detective, Lucy said with a little grin. She took the pot from Eileen’s hands and rinsed it. And me a little nobody friend of yours from back East, and let’s keep it that way.

Of course, Secret Agent Man, Eileen said from the corner of her mouth, trying to do a Bogart imitation. Lucy Giometti worked for the Central Intelligence Agency and couldn’t tell anyone that she did. Eileen knew, but only because of her own homicide work within the Defense Department. They’d met on a difficult case two years ago and hit it off immediately, two women who hunted bad guys for a living and liked it. Though they couldn’t be more different in temperament and looks, Eileen had found herself with an unexpected best friend.

When Eileen became engaged she hesitated before asking Lucy Giometti to be her matron of honor. Would Lucy think she was pathetic, asking a friend a continent away to stand up for her, a friend that she saw maybe once a year? Lucy, at her call, had broken into whoops of joy. She’d never been a matron of honor, she confided to Eileen. Always a bridesmaid, and once a bride, but never the one to hold the bouquet while the bride accepted the ring. She was honored. She was thrilled, and she made Eileen laugh with relieved joy.

The wedding was now four months away and Lucy had come out to help Eileen with finalizing the thousand small details. Lucy had been enchanted with the idea of traveling to the Reed Ranch. She had done the fittings for her matron of honor dress, but she admitted the endless wedding details were wearing her out. Eileen, too, was relieved to be doing something, anything, else. They’d gleefully thrown the color swatches and bouquet pictures back on Eileen’s desk, packed up Hank, Lucy’s little boy, and headed for Wyoming.

The archeologists were the main headache to Eileen’s parents, and the reason Eileen and Lucy were in Wyoming. Paul and Tracy Reed had recently turned their cattle ranch into a guided hunting business. Elk, deer, mountain lion, wild turkey and bear were plentiful in the eastern Wyoming Black Hills. The Black Hills National Forest joined their property on the south. Six miles away the enormous stone trunk of Devils Tower created an additional attraction, although both Paul and Tracy had rejected the idea of renaming their ranch something trendy like Devils Tower Ranch and Hunt Service. The Reed Ranch it remained, and even with the plain name the Reeds were doing very well.

In late May Paul started working on the new bunkhouse, a lavish log cabin that would hold rich hunters in near-hotel accommodations. He’d started the first clearing work with his backhoe and braked to a stop within minutes, confused and a little frightened. The dirt under the green grass was packed with bones, so thick and white they looked like outcroppings of chalk. After sitting still for a minute or two, looking at the bones, Paul got off his backhoe and took a look.

To his relief, he found they were buffalo bones. The bones were packed to a depth of six feet and it was then that Paul realized the bluff above the bones had been the site of a Native American buffalo jump. Six weeks later the Reeds were picking out a new site for their bunkhouse and a crew of archeologists from the University of Wyoming were practically wetting themselves at the foot of the bluff. Now one of the archeologists was missing, some extremely rich hunters were scouting at the ranch, and Tracy Reed had called her daughter for help.

So do you think the missing archeologist is dead? Lucy asked. They’d been roped into cleaning dirty dishes the morning after they arrived, which didn’t bother Eileen. On a ranch, work was whatever needed to be done, right now. Lucy, easygoing and cheerful, pulled on cleaning gloves and set to work.

I don’t know. He’s missing, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could be tossing the dice in Las Vegas with a downy thing he picked up at a bar. You know? Missing doesn’t always equal dead.

Hank Giometti trotted into the kitchen with a black and white Border collie at his side. He was wearing a bright red T-shirt and shorts. His curly black hair was dusty and his cheeks were flushed. He was grinning. The collie, named Zilla, was panting. They had the same grin.

Zilla sat down and wagged her tail. She was a champion cattle dog, now a housedog after an accident with a bull. With three legs she was as quick as most other dogs were with four and her passion for herding things never left her. Tracy Reed, Eileen’s mother, had named Zilla after a Hebrew word that meant protective shade. Eileen thought Zilla’s name fit her perfectly.

Lucy, Hank, and Eileen had arrived at the ranch late at night. Hank, when he awoke, fell in love with Zilla at first sight.

Hank went right to Lucy and threw his chubby arms around her legs. She bent over and planted a kiss on his dusty curls, keeping her wet gloves in the sink.

How are you, baby? Need a diaper change?

No, no, no, Hank announced. Blocks!

I had many a wonderful hour with those blocks, Eileen said with a smile, turning her gaze away from Hank and looking back out the window at the figure who was still sitting in the truck. My dad made about a million of them for me. I’m glad he kept them around.

Hank had spent much of the morning building towers in the living room with Zilla’s attentive help. When they got tall enough, he would knock them over and squeal with delight. Zilla would yip encouragingly. Eileen and Lucy had been listening to the silence, crash, squeal and yipping while they washed dishes.

Mommy, he giggled, clutching Lucy. Zilla wagged her tail.

Oh, hey, she’s getting out of the truck, Eileen said. Lucy stood up on her toes, looking out the window. Hank, apparently satisfied with his mommy visit, left the room with Zilla at his heels. There were more blocks to stack, squeal and yip over.

Mom doesn’t like these University ladies. She hasn’t said, but I can tell, Eileen said. Not that we’ve had much time to talk, you know. She scrubbed hard on the next pot.

Outside, the door to the dust-spattered truck finally opened. Out stepped a woman in jeans and a blue work shirt, a woman with a shoulder-length spill of honey blonde hair so thick and shiny it glittered like gold in the sun. She had a face to match the hair, fine-boned and full-lipped. Her eyes were sky blue and she had thick, naturally arched brows that were drawn down in dislike or temper. As she shut the door the rest of her body came into view. She had full, boys-fantasy size breasts, a hand span waist, and lush hips. She was, in short, spectacularly beautiful.

Eileen looked at Lucy. Lucy looked back at Eileen. Lucy’s gloves were dripping with soapy water and her hair was uncombed. She had a smudge on her little nose and her eyes were still tired from the long drive the day before. Eileen knew she didn’t look any better than Lucy.

Let’s kill her, Lucy suggested solemnly.

Eileen started snickering. She leaned over the soapsuds and tried to stop, knew that she couldn’t, and leaned back. She roared with laughter, and Lucy laughed, too.

Suddenly the door to the kitchen burst open and Tracy Reed shot inside, her tall lanky body telegraphing distress.

Jorie’s here, she cried. "She’s back and she’s going to ruin everything."

We know, Lucy said.

Eileen snorted and Lucy sniffed hard.

What is wrong with you two? Tracy asked. She looked at them and her face relaxed. Got the giggles, I see.

I guess so, mom, Eileen said. She thought about explaining and then didn’t. She’d just start laughing again.

Well, get it together, Tracy said. If Jorie starts harassing my hunters again I’m going to lose them, I know I am.

Harassing? Lucy asked. How’s that?

She’s an anti-hunter, anti-beef, anti-everything type, Tracy said with an exasperated flapping of her hands. "You know the type. Militant feminist. Human hater. Thinks we should all live in tepees or better yet just die off. Plus she hates Howard Magnus. Hates him."

That’s not good, Eileen said, stripping off her gloves. She regarded her pruney fingers. You never got to that part.

You’ve only been here since last night, Tracy said. I just got to the point where we have a famous rock musician scouting our business and the three of you were already asleep on the couch.

It was a long drive, Eileen said meekly.

I’m glad you’re here, honey, Tracy said with one of her lightning changes of expression, smiling at Eileen with a look that lit her face. Eileen grinned. She loved her mom. She reached out and Tracy hugged her.

Blocks! Hank announced again from the doorway, Zilla at his heels.

Knock ’em down! Tracy said without missing a beat, grinning at Hank. She and Hank hit it off within seconds of his arrival. Tracy liked kids.

Hello? Hellooo?

That would be Jorie, Tracy said with a grimace. She let go of Eileen and ran her hands through her flyaway gray hair. In the kitchen, Jorie, she called.

Jorie Rothman walked through the door and Eileen sobered instantly. Perhaps the head archeologist, Dr. McBride, was getting sloppo in some bar in Gillette or whooping it up with whores in Las Vegas, or maybe he really was dead. If he was dead, Eileen was going to have to be very careful not to mess this one up. She didn’t want to let her folks down.

Hello, Jorie said, in a chilly, surprised little voice, looking back and forth between Eileen and Lucy. Jorie was even more stunning close up. She had white, even teeth and flawless skin. She wore no makeup and her long, capable-looking hands were bare, though seamed with dirt. Her nails were chipped and dirty. Her shirt and jeans were reasonably clean but not new.

This is my daughter, Eileen, Tracy said with a satisfied look. She’s a homicide detective from Colorado Springs. Do you remember, I told you about her? And this is her friend, Lucy Giometti. Lucy is visiting from Virginia.

Hello, Jorie said. Her full lips tightened just a bit when she looked at Lucy. Eileen smiled inside. Eileen thought of herself as not particularly attractive, but she knew Lucy Giometti was. Lucy was short and perfectly shaped and had masses of curly black hair surrounding a lovely heart-shaped face. She had a triangular little smile that reminded Eileen of a very young Elizabeth Taylor. Lucy was more than a match for the glittery charms of this Jorie woman, even though Lucy had red eyes and a smudge on her nose.

This is my son, Hank, Lucy said. Jorie gave Hank the kind of flickering glance that dismissed him as a human being.

Nice to meet you. Are you going to work on this murder case? Jorie asked, directing her question to Eileen.

I’ll go check Hank’s diaper, Lucy said smoothly, picking him up. He laid his head against her shoulder and smiled at Jorie as Lucy left the room. Zilla ghosted along behind with her quick three-legged gait, wagging her tail.

I’m here to help my mom and dad, Eileen said. I’m sure you’re very concerned about your friend and I’ll do what I can.

That sounds like bullshit, Jorie said waspishly. Same kind of bullshit your dipshit county sheriff tells me every time I talk to him.

Well, Tracy said with satisfaction, dusting her hands together. I’ll get back to my work, then. Paul and the hunters will be coming in from the South Ridge this evening and they’re sure to be tired and hungry. Why don’t you two sit in the family room so I can get supper started?

Sure thing, mom, Eileen said, suppressing a sigh. This way, Miss Rothman.

Eileen glanced at her mother as they left the kitchen. Tracy grinned widely and gave Eileen a little wave that meant She’s all yours now.

Tracy had decorated the family room in a western style, with leather couches and an enormous elk head over the mantle, softened with shelves of bright books and lamps and a thick wool rug. Tracy had pulled the blinds and curtains open earlier and the room was drenched with light. A few dust motes danced in the air. Outside the window there was a lovely view of her parents’ land as it fell away towards the distant Belle Fourche River. Trees shaded the house and made the grass outside the window look cool and green. Eileen took a calming breath, enjoying the soothing smell of sunwarmed leather and old books.

Have a seat, Eileen suggested. Tell me everything. I’m the good guy, remember.

Whatever, Jorie said, looking at the leather couches with disgust.

Jorie, Eileen said, as she took a seat on the leather armchair and deliberately relaxed into it. Two months ago I testified at the trial of a man who raped and killed a young environmental engineer. The man had been polluting a creek and she found out and he killed her. There was a lot more to the story than that, of course, but Eileen was telling what she thought Jorie should hear. Eileen knew that she didn’t look much like a cop. She was never going to scare people with her imposing authority, or cow them into confessing. Jorie’s face reflected what Eileen had seen ever since she became a cop: A look of suppressed or even open contempt. This look was often replaced by one of surprise when the handcuffs went on or when the verdict came back guilty.

I caught him, and he’s going to prison. If something happened to your friend, then I’m going to find that out, too.

Jorie looked at her for the first time, her eyes so blue Eileen had trouble looking at them. Her thick brows rose a little and for a moment Eileen thought she had her, thought that whatever person lived behind the perfect features would come out and they could connect. Then the brows drew down and Jorie shrugged elaborately.

I’ll tell you what I know, she said.

Lucy came in from the living room and sat down in the other big armchair.

Hank’s back at his blocks, she said. Can I listen?

Do you mind? Eileen asked. Jorie gave Lucy that glare – which looked like jealously, Eileen secretly chortled – and then shrugged again. Jorie liked to shrug, Eileen was finding out. It seemed to be her predominant gesture.

My boss is Dr. Jonathan McBride. Was, I think. He’s a professor of Archeology at the University of Wyoming. His specialty is Plains tribal hunting techniques before the Spanish brought the horse to America.

Which means buffalo jumps, Eileen said, tucking her feet up in her armchair. Jorie remained at the edge of the leather couch, her rounded haunches barely touching the edge. She laced her fingers and settled them on one knee. Lucy crossed her legs and put her elbows on her knees, making herself a collected little package. Sitting that way she didn’t look much bigger than her son.

What’s a buffalo jump? Lucy asked. We’ve been so busy I haven’t asked yet.

A buffalo jump is the primary way the Lakota Sioux and other Plains tribes hunted buffalo, Jorie said. Her face became more animated as she spoke; evidently she shared her professor’s passion on the topic. Before the fifteen hundreds, when the Spanish brought the horse, the Native Americans had no way to reliably kill a single buffalo. So they would slowly drive a buffalo herd towards the edge of a bluff or cliff. Then they would stampede the animals off the cliff and the fall would kill or cripple enough buffalo so the people would have what they needed.

How would they stampede the buffalo? Lucy asked.

Here’s the good part, Eileen said. She, too, knew about buffalo jumps. She grew up in Wyoming and schooled in South Dakota. Every schoolchild learned about the Plains tribes and how they survived. Or not, depending on your point of view.

Yes, Jorie said impatiently. But it was a tremendous honor to be chosen.

Chosen for what? Lucy asked.

To lead the buffalo herd over the cliff, Eileen said. She nodded at Lucy’s stunned expression. No, not suicide. The Lakota would dig a hollow right underneath the lip of the cliff. Then the young boy—

Boy? Lucy breathed, eyes wide.

Boy, Jorie said. Between ten and fourteen, when boys are strongest and most agile. And aren’t yet warriors.

Lucy looked around automatically, with the expression that Eileen was beginning to think of as the Mother-Radar look, even though Lucy knew Hank was happy with his blocks in the living room.

The boy would cover himself up in a buffalo head and cape, and slowly lead the herd towards the cliff, Eileen continued.

That doesn’t make sense, Lucy said. How does a ten-year-old in a buffalo skin look like a buffalo?

Buffalo aren’t that bright, Eileen laughed. She stretched her arms behind her head. It felt good to sit down after all those pots and pans. They look at silhouette, not size. Outline and smell is what counts. Plus, the tribe would sometimes light a grass fire to spook the buffalo even more. They wouldn’t do that in a year like this one, because it’s been so dry. But in wet years, they’d spook ’em with fire.

Then the boy would start running towards the cliff edge. The buffalo would follow, believing that they were running to safety, then stampede, and the boy would flip off the edge of the cliff and into the hollow beneath, Jorie continued.

And tons of buffalo steaks and chops would fall past him. It was a very risky and very honorable challenge for a warrior-to-be, Eileen said.

And if he missed? Lucy asked.

Then they honored his memory, Eileen said.

Actually we’re hoping he missed, Jorie said. The herd that fell off this cliff was absolutely huge. There are so many bones at the bottom of the cliff we think perhaps this was a bigger stampede than the tribespeople intended. If the boy missed his perch, we’ll find him underneath all the buffalo. With luck, he’ll have everything with him. A complete skeleton, maybe even tools and artifacts. Talismans. A treasure.

Have you gotten to the bottom yet? Lucy asked, and then shivered elaborately. Sorry. I just keep thinking of Hank.

We’re almost there, Jorie said. "Then Beryl and I had to return for a funding meeting at the University. Jon was gone when we got back. Just gone! He wouldn’t have left. He sent us to the damned funding meeting, he was so excited about the excavation. I’ve never known him to miss a funding meeting. If the dig looks like a good one, we’ll want to bring a whole crew of graduate students up here."

That was when? Eileen asked, though she already knew.

Three days ago, Jorie said. And your sheriff, that King idiot, he wouldn’t—

King? Eileen asked, sitting forward abruptly. "Not Richard King?"

Rick, not Richard, Jorie said. Anyway, he’s a complete creep. He said we couldn’t even file a missing persons report for at least a week, not without some suspicion of foul play—

Eileen, Lucy suddenly asked. What’s the matter?

I know him, Eileen said, swallowing past an acid lump of dismay in her throat. I know Richard. Jorie, I hope your boss shows up with a hundred hickeys and a hangover, because I don’t know if I can work with Richard King. Or, rather, if he wants to work with me.

Hey, guys, here’s some soda pop, Tracy said, bursting through the door with her customary speed. She cradled three glasses in her hand, glasses clinking with ice. You hungry yet? Lunch in fifteen minutes, sandwiches. Gotta go. She set down all three glasses on a table next to Eileen and shot back out the doorway. Eileen very carefully avoided looking at Lucy, knowing if she did she’d start laughing. Tracy obviously did not want to be captured by the tenacious and unpleasant Jorie Rothman.

Thank goodness, Lucy said, capturing a glass with a sigh. It’s been so hot these past few days. She took a deep swallow of her soda pop and stopped in mid-swallow. Eileen, handing a glass to Jorie, saw the stillness and turned to Lucy.

Lucy set her glass down.

I don’t hear Hank, she said, and leaped out of her chair.

I’ll be right back, Eileen said, bolting after Lucy.

In the living room there were blocks scattered across the floor, but no Hank and no Zilla. The door to the front porch was open, as it had been all morning, and the screen door showed an inviting slice of blue sky and green grass.

Hank! Eileen and Lucy shouted together.

Who’s Hank? Jorie asked from behind Eileen. What?

You better stay here, Eileen said. She left for the kitchen with Lucy at her heels and in the short shadowed hallway between the sunny family room and the sunny kitchen Eileen felt her arms brush up with sudden goosebumps.

The kitchen was full of a mixture of delicious smells. An enormous pot with a boiling chicken was on the stove for Tracy’s chicken noodle soup. Tracy, hands lathered with flour, was rolling out dough for apple pie. The apples, peeled and sliced and covered with cinnamon and sugar, lay in a ceramic bowl. Tracy looked up and saw Eileen’s face and dropped the rolling pin.

What? she asked, eyes widening.

Hank, Lucy said in a little voice.

He’s okay, Tracy said. He just wandered off. Zilla is with him, Lucy. We’ll find him.

She stepped to a rack by the door, which held a leash, an old raincoat, and a dog whistle on a chain. Despite her calm words her hands were shaking. She stepped to the open kitchen door and blew the whistle. Eileen winced and covered her ears – though she couldn’t actually hear the tones, she could sense a kind of high pressure on her eardrums.

There was silence, and then impossibly far away, like a dog in a dream, they heard Zilla barking.

Chapter Two

The Reed Ranch, Wyoming

Lucy could hardly breathe as she followed Tracy and Eileen towards Zilla’s barking. She couldn’t understand how Hank could have gotten so far, so fast. She’d only left him for a few minutes.

The Reed Ranch sat in a fold of land in wooded hills with a gorgeous view down into a river bottom and across a valley to the slopes of mountains. Devils Tower lay six miles south but Lucy couldn’t see it. She was glad. When they’d driven up she’d seen the Tower at a distance and it made her feel distinctly odd. The Tower was the remnant of an ancient lava eruption, fluted like the trunk of gigantic tree stump. It didn’t look natural looming against the horizon. Lucy’s eyes hurt just looking at it, it was so gigantic and still and black. She almost felt as though it were looking back at her, and didn’t like her very much.

The main building of the Reed Ranch, a frame house painted a cheerful yellow and white, was set apart from the other outbuildings. It sat within a small forest of tall pine and aspen trees. A green and shady lawn stretched south and west of the house. To the north, where the road came into the ranch, there was a straggly flower garden. Lucy found out why the garden was so ragged her first morning at the ranch; she’d woken to see four deer munching happily at the flowers, enormous ears flicking back and forth ceaselessly, tails flipping happily. Tracy came out with her apron and shooed them away and the deer bounded off like mischievous children.

Tracy was heading towards the farthest set of outbuildings, a small yellow-painted barn and a chicken coop next to a tiny log cabin. The cabin was neat and tidy, but the roof of the small barn had a pronounced sag, and the chicken coop had a raspberry bush growing through the screening of the sides. Behind the outbuildings was the start of the forest, deep and green.

In the other direction, where the level land started to slope down towards the Belle Fourche River, there was a modern looking structure. It was large and metal and had a huge door. This building held a bewildering array of trucks and tractors and even a snowmobile. Beyond this building there was another barn, a big one, with a corral. There were some other buildings next to the barn that looked like horses might live there. Lucy, who knew next to nothing about rural life, wasn’t sure.

As they came closer to the log cabin Lucy could see movement, and nearly fell over her feet as Hank and Zilla came into view. Hank was unharmed, dusty from head to toe, jumping up and down and laughing.

Oh thank God, Lucy gasped.

He’s okay, he just wandered off, Eileen said. I was never worried, were you?

Not for a second, Lucy said, and laughed shakily.

The day was hot and breathless and smelled like dust and pines and horses. Now that they could see Hank and Zilla more clearly, Lucy realized that the little cow dog was acting strangely. Hank was trying to jump past Zilla towards the cabin, but every time he did Zilla would block him. He tried to push by her and she wagged her tail harder, but she didn’t move. He tried to dodge left but Zilla anticipated him and placed her little body in front of him. Hank giggled and tried to dodge right. Zilla wagged her tail and blocked him again. Hank looked back and saw his mother.

Mommy! he crowed. Look! Zilla!

That’s the old homestead, Lucy, Eileen explained. The log cabin is where my great-grandparents first lived when they came here. Now we just store stuff there. We don’t even use the old chicken coop any more.

That’s where they lived? Lucy said, looking at the sagging old log structure. It looks like a dog kennel.

They raised three out of their seven children there, as a matter of fact, Tracy said absently. She was looking at Zilla and frowning.

What is going on? Jorie said. Lucy glanced behind her. Tracy still had on her flour smeared apron and Jorie followed behind, looking impatient. Can we get back to the ranch now? This is a waste of—

Something here is dangerous, Tracy said, her eyes on Zilla.

Pick up Hank, Lucy,