I find prints, but they’re all animal. As for broken twigs or crushed undergrowth, my section is the barest—not by accident, I suspect. Dalton can be an ass, but he’s an ass in support of the job, not against it. In other words, he isn’t going to hand me a challenging segment to check, so I can screw up and let Hastings escape.

Without vegetation to examine, I cover my strip quicker than the others, despite moving slowly. I’m near the edge when I find a spot with bent twigs, as if something large passed not long ago. I’m looking for prints when the wind flutters through the trees, and out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of something white. Too white to be natural in this forest.

Twelve

My hand drops to my holstered gun. As I step to the left, squinting into the darkness, I can see a pale oval against a tree. A face? It’s the right size.

I glance back for the others. No sign of them. I’m within shouting distance, but I’m sure as hell not going to shout. Nor am I going to walk away and give my target time to escape.

I creep forward. I’ve turned off my lantern. I’m dressed all in dark colours. I pull my hat down farther, and hunker low as I move. I can see the white shape now, on the other side of what looks like a clearing.

I have to inch through the trees to get a better look. I move at a snail’s pace, and the whole time I’m hoping Dalton or Anders realizes I’m out of sight. But no one comes and I can’t leave my target, so I continue easing forward. Sliding my feet keeps me from crunching small twigs. It does not keep me from rustling when my foot slides straight into a pile of dead leaves. The crackle sounds as loud as a twenty-one-gun salute and I freeze, my gaze fixed on that pale oval, hand on my gun.

The oval doesn’t move. I pick up my pace, certain I’m going to realize I’m seeing moonlight reflecting off a tree or something equally innocuous, and then I’ll be really glad Dalton didn’t come running …

I stop. I see black patches where the eyes and mouth should be. The height is about right to be a person, though. It’s as I’m measuring that height that my gaze drops and I see …

Beneath the oval is a tree trunk, maybe two feet wide. I don’t see shoulders or arms—just the narrow straight line of the trunk.

I push past the last tree, and I move too fast, stumbling into the clearing. Hand still on my gun, I catch my balance and look up and—

I let out a curse. I don’t mean to. But I see what’s on that trunk, and I can’t stifle an oath of surprise. At least I don’t scream.

I yank my gaze away to do a slow sweep of the clearing, making sure I haven’t stumbled into a trap. There’s no one else here.

I look again. It’s a human skull nailed to a tree. The remains of a pair of jeans are nailed up below it. Boots sit below the cuffs.

The jean legs are in two pieces, bottom and top, the middle shredded and completely dark with blood. The top half of the jeans is flat against the tree. The bottom is not. I grab a stick and move closer and prod at one of the lower legs, and the fabric falls, propped up rather than nailed. I’m looking at a mangled and bloodied lower leg, hacked away at the kneecap.

As I back up, brush crunches underfoot. I spin, hand on my gun, as Dalton strides into the clearing. His eyes are blazing, and it takes everything I can muster not to step backward.

“Did I tell you not to take off?” he says.

“I saw something. I thought it was a person.”

“I don’t give a damn what—”

I point at the skull. He stops. Then he mutters, “Ah, fuck.” That’s it. Like I’m pointing out signs of illegal campfire activity.

“You’ve seen this before, I take it?” I’m struggling to keep my voice steady.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a territorial marker for one group of hostiles. Never this close to the town, though.”

His gaze drops to the boots. And that severed leg. That’s when he stares. And when he says “Fuck” this time, it’s in a whole different tone.

“That’s not normal, I’m guessing.”

“Hell, no. Like I said, the skull is a territorial marker. Primitive tribes used shit like that to scare off others. We had one of the skulls removed and tested, and it was fifty years old. Something they’d dug up and put in the sun to bleach.”

“Not an actual enemy’s head, then.”

“No, no. They don’t do anything like …” He trails off and his gaze returns to those amputated legs. “Fuck.”

I take a closer look with my lantern. “They don’t appear fresh enough to be Hastings. Powys, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah. I recognize the boots.”

“So we keep looking for Hastings?”

He shakes his head. “Trail’s lost. We’ll do a wider search in the morning. ATVs. Horses. Full militia.” He turns and calls. “Will? I need you over here.”

And thus ends our hunt. With the three of us staring at a pair of amputated human legs, staged in jeans and boots, before Anders marks the tree with bright yellow tape and we return to town.

We’re back in Rockton. I’m shivering. I don’t think the guys notice—everyone’s lost in their thoughts—but before we separate for the night, Dalton says, “You know how to build a fire?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Fuck,” he mutters. Wrong answer, apparently.

Anders cuts in before Dalton can continue. “I know you don’t want to impose, Casey. Especially at four in the morning. Up here, though, no one’s going to give you brownie points for toughing it out, and some of us”—a pointed look at Dalton—“will get pissy if you try.”