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“Doubtful,” Dani replied. “Jessie’s fence lines along that side are rugged enough to hold the buffalo, and her wild horse herd is semitame. She winters them in the valley near the ranch and provides them with hay, so they don’t need to roam and forage for food. More than likely Custer and his mares originally strayed from the Pryor Mountains,” Dani said. “The ranchers maintain fences, but there are lots of places where horses could get through, especially in winter. Like any wild animal, fences don’t mean much to them. If they want to get around, they find a way. Custer’s band has been in the Arrow Roots for several years now. The forest service is in charge of managing the herd but nobody really knows what to do with them.”

* * *

WHEN THEY REACHED the Bow and Arrow, Dani was relieved to learn that the filly was still alive, still in the warm kitchen and being tended by Roon. Ramalda, a bright blue bandanna tied over her white hair, was cleaning up after breakfast, muttering in a mixture of Spanish and heavily accented English. “Usted está girando mi cocina en un establo de caballos! My kitchen now turned into horse barn!”

“I just fed her the last of the mare’s milk,” Roon told them as they gathered around. The foal was curled like a leggy dog in a big folded-up blanket.

Roon was a quiet young man, ruggedly built and still growing in height. Dani had met Roon several times and had always been impressed by his calm demeanor. “Jessie said that what you did was a good thing, getting the mare’s first milk. Not many would know to do that, Dani.”

“I was raised on a dairy farm. I know all about how important colostrum is.” Dani knelt down next to Roon and the foal lifted her head and nuzzled her hand. “She’s still very weak, isn’t she?”

“She’s tired. I took her outside and walked her around just before you got here,” Roon said. “Jessie made phone calls this morning and she located a mare in a BLM holding facility who just lost a foal. Caleb has gone to pick her up. He should be back by noon.” Roon was more talkative than usual today, despite having been up all night with the orphan.

“That’s good,” Dani said, gently stroking the foal’s neck. “She has to make it.”

“If anyone can save her, Jessie can.” Roon placed a hand on the filly’s withers. “But she has to want to live. Right now, she does not really want to.”

Dani knelt closer to murmur into the flickering ear. “Sweet girl, I promised your mother I’d find who hurt her, so I have to go now, but you hang on. You fight. You live, you hear me? You’re too beautiful to die.”

She pushed to her feet. Joe was standing by the kitchen door, watching her. The jolt she felt when their eyes met was like an electric shock that left her whole body tingling. “We’d better get going,” she said. “Comstock’s probably already arrested the shooter.”

The drive to the Arrow Root Mountains wasn’t long, less than an hour, but it was midmorning before they reached the trailhead. Comstock’s vehicle was still there, which surprised Dani. While she organized her day pack, Joe scouted tire tracks and boot prints at the parking area and snapped a few photos with his cell phone. He found a candy wrapper and a cigarette butt in the grass and brush beside the road and bagged both in an empty sandwich bag she’d had in her center console, stashing the bag inside his parka pocket.

“Your shooter drove a truck with oversize mud tires, wore size-twelve Red Wing boots, smoked Marlboros and liked Snickers. Time to climb Everest,” he said, eyeballing the route ahead.

“It’s not that steep,” Dani said, adjusting her pack on her shoulders. “We’ll take it nice and slow. When you need a rest, just sing out.”

Joe nodded and fell in behind her. Dani walked at half her normal pace, the dogs running up ahead, then racing back to give her questioning looks, wondering why she was traveling so slowly. She paused where she’d stashed her camera gear in the brush not a quarter mile up the trail. “I’ll need this stuff to get more photos,” she said, slinging the camera bag over her shoulder and picking up the tripod. “And I’ll need to send the photos out so people know what’s happened here.”

“What kind of punishment is there for shooting wild horses?” Joe asked, lifting the camera bag off her shoulder and wresting the tripod out of her hand.

“On public lands, if they get caught, they pay a two-thousand-dollar fine and might get a year in jail, but I don’t think anyone’s ever been thrown in the slammer for shooting a wild horse,” she replied, hiking slowly upward. “Not many are ever caught, even with the rewards that get offered. The West’s a big enough place that if someone were to shoot a bunch of horses in a remote spot, like this, the scavengers would clean up all the evidence in short order. If I hadn’t hiked up here yesterday, the bones of those four horses might’ve been scattered to the four winds in another couple weeks. The thing is, nobody would miss them. Nobody really cares.”