Chapter 1

Seven Years Ago

Salvadore Vasco poured coffee into an aluminum mug and clumped out on the rickety porch in front of his wood-sided shack. The sun glared off the bare, brown rocks. He shielded his eyes with the brim of his hat until they adjusted. Today would be another scorcher. He took a sip of the hot, bitter liquid and stood quietly for a moment inspecting the only thing he owned: this scruffy acreage a few miles outside a tiny town in eastern Oregon. It might not be much, but it still brought a smile to his lips. He propped the shepherd’s crook he used for a cane against the siding. Bending to sit in the rocking chair, he grimaced. At seventy, his bones didn’t want to cooperate this early in the morning.

He scanned the horizon and saw dust billowing up in the direction of the main road. The cloud drifted to the east with the hot breeze. Sitting up straighter, he watched and waited. Once the good Lord took Miranda away, nobody came out here any more. It crossed his mind it might be his only friend, but Ray wouldn’t leave his diner during the day unless something big came up. Jack and Jill, the name Ray gave the place, had been there so long it could prob’ly run itself, but you couldn’t tell Ray that. Maybe somebody died or one of the gals finally run off with her beau.

The vehicle wound its way up the dirt track leading to his house. Salvadore heard the rough engine of an older truck just before he made out a white pickup, he thought a Dodge Ram.

It stopped a few feet from his porch, dragging the road dust in with it. He covered his mouth until the cloud passed and stood to greet his visitors. He didn’t recognize either of the men. The driver was in his forties, the passenger younger, maybe thirty. When they opened the pickup doors and stepped out, they hitched up their gun belts in unison. It wasn’t unusual for men to wear guns in these parts, so it didn’t worry him. Salvadore noticed the rifle rack in the back window of the truck. Most likely hunters. Both wore their hair close-cropped and were dressed in khaki camo trousers and black tee-shirts. The outfits reminded him of uniforms. Tattoos covered the bigger one’s arms. Salvadore stared at the spread-winged eagle on his upper arm. It seemed familiar.

"Howdy, fellas. Can I help you?"

The driver looked at the other man and smirked. "Anybody up here, old man?"

"What do you mean? I’m up here."

"I meant any other people, old timer. We’re lookin’ for somebody. Thought he might have come up this way."

A chill crawled up Salvadore’s crooked spine. "Nope. Haven’t seen nobody but you two." He instantly regretted his too honest answer. Now they knew he was alone. He pointed north. "If you’re wantin’ the best place to hunt bighorn, you should head that way."

The driver moved closer. Salvadore took a step back.

A dark mark on the man’s neck looked like a swastika. Pockmarks speckled his cheeks. He planted his boot on the first step with a thud and bared his teeth in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Salvadore moved his hand to the left and gripped his shepherd’s crook. "Nothing here of value, boys."

"We’re not planning to rob you, old man."

"Good to hear. So you can just move along."

"Oh, I don’t think we want to do that." Pockmark smirked at his partner. "Would we?"

Both men came at him. He raised his crook to protect himself.

It did no good.