Rain had stirred up the waters, enlivened them, but there were still places the creek was as clear as gin in a short glass.

He hoped he got himself a tour group soon who wanted to fish so he could spend some time reeling in trout. Gull figured he had the best job in the whole damn world.

“That man got himself all the way over here from the marked trail, he’s got no more sense of direction than a blind woodpecker,” Jesse said. “Wasting our time.”

Gull glanced over at his brother. “Nice day to waste it. Besides, could be he got turned around in the storm, in the dark. Zig insteada zag, and he kept going the wrong way, he might’ve come this far off.”

“Maybe if the idiot’d find a rock and sit still somebody’d find his sorry ass.” Jesse shifted in the saddle. He spent a lot more time shoeing horses than riding them, and his sorry ass was sore. “I can’t take much more time riding around looking for somebody hasn’t got the sense to get found.”

The deputy, Cy Fletcher-the baby brother of the girl who owned the first pair of br**sts Gull had ever got his hands on-scratched his belly. “I say we follow the creek another little while, then we’ll circle back around.”

“Fine by me.” Gull agreed.

“Can’t see shit on a stick in this fog,” Jesse complained.

“Sun’ll burn it off.” Gull shrugged. “It’s breaking through here and there already. What the hell better you got to do, Jesse?”

“Got a living to earn, don’t I? I don’t got some lazy-ass job where I ride around with numbnut tourists all damn day.”

It was a bone of contention between the brothers, and they poked each other about it as the sun strengthened and the fog thinned. As they approached one of the little falls, the drop and tumble of water made shouting insults at his brother over the noise too much trouble.

Gull settled down to enjoy the ride again, and thought about the whitewater outfits who’d start gearing up soon. Weather might turn again, he thought, more snow was every bit as likely as daffodils, but people sure did like to strap themselves into rubber rafts and shoot down the creek.

He didn’t get the appeal.

Riding now, or fishing, that made sense. If he could find a woman who appreciated both, and had a nice pair on her, he’d marry her in a New York minute.

He took a deep, satisfied breath of the fresh and warming air, and grinned happily as a trout leaped. It flashed, shiny as the good silver his ma used for Christmas dinner, then plopped back into the busy water.

His eye followed the ripples all the way to the foaming white of the falls. He squinted, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

“I think there’s something down there, down in the falls there.”

“I don’t see dick.”

“You don’t see dick doesn’t mean I don’t.” Ignoring his brother, Gull guided his mount closer to the bank.

“You end up in that water, I ain’t coming in after you.”

It was probably just a rock, Gull thought, and then he’d feel like a numbnut and have to suffer Jesse’s ragging for the rest of the ride. But it didn’t look like a rock. It looked like the front half of a boot.

“I think that’s a boot. You see that, Cy?”

“I can’t tell.” Cy peered with eyes shaded by his hat and not especially interested. “Probably a rock.”

“I think it’s a boot.”

“Alert the freaking media,” Jesse proclaimed, boosting up a little to rub at his worn-out ass. “Some ass**le camper lost a boot in Spearfish Creek.”

“If some ass**le camper lost a boot in the creek, why’s it just there? How come it’s not floating off, pushed along by the falls? Asshole,” Gull muttered as he dug out his binoculars.

“’Cause it’s a freaking rock. Or it’s some ass**le’s boot that’s stuck on a freaking rock. Hell with this. I gotta piss.”

As he stared through the glasses, Gull’s face went pale as wax. “Oh, Jesus. Mother of God. I think there’s somebody in that boot. Holy shit, Jess. I can see something under the water.”

“Oh, bullshit, Gull.”

Gull lowered the glasses, stared at his brother. “Do I look like I’m bullshitting?”

Studying his brother’s face, Jesse set his teeth. “I guess we’d better get a closer look.”

They tethered the horses.

Gull looked at the deputy-the scrawny build of him-and wished he didn’t feel obliged. “I’m the best swimmer here. I’ll go.”

The breath Cy let out held both resignation and nerves. “It’s my job.”

“Might be your job,” Jesse said, as he got his rope, “but Gull swims like a damn otter. Water’s pretty rough, so we’re going to get you secure. You’re an ass**le, Gull, but you’re my brother and I’m not going to watch you drown.”

Fighting off nerves, Gull stripped down to his jockeys, let his brother secure the rope around his waist. “I bet that water’s pretty f**king cold.”

“You’re the one who had to go see something.”

Since he couldn’t argue with that one, Gull eased over the bank, picked his way over the rocks and shale, and stared at the fast water. He glanced back, reassured himself that his brother had the rope secured.

He went in. “Pretty f**king cold!” he shouted. “Give me some slack.”

He swam against the fast water, imagined his toes going blue and just falling off. Even with the rope, he banged against the rocks, but pushed off them again.

He went under, pushing, pushing against the current, and in that gin-clear water, he saw he’d been right. Somebody was in the boots.

He surfaced again, choking, flailing. “Pull me back. Oh, holy bleeding Christ, pull me back.”

Panic buzzed in his head, nausea churned in his belly. Slapping and clawing at the water, swallowing it, choking it out again, he relied on his brother to get him back to the bank.

He crawled onto a rock, heaved up water and his breakfast until he could only lie panting. “I saw him. I saw him. Oh, God, the fish’ve been at him. At his face.”

“Call it in, Cy. Call it in.” Jesse slid and slipped his way down to wrap a saddle blanket over his brother.

WORD SPREAD AS word did. Coop heard about Gull’s discovery from three sources, with varying details, before Willy hunted him down at the stables.