We walk out of the BP stride for stride.

"Vic, you get the warrant, then drive your truck back out to the search area. I'm headed there now. Meet up with me and we will go to Bart's place to serve the warrant."

"Got it."

"Hey."

She turns around, putting her Ray-Bans on to ward off the day breaking sun.

"Am I missing anything?" I say, following through on my internal commitment.

"Only to have Ferg start that tire cast right away. Bart may think to put a new bumper on that Bronco but I guarantee you he won't think to change those tires."

I offer her a thin smile and quickly remind myself why I am so smitten.

"Copy that."

I drop Vic at the station so she can start the warrant affidavit.

The radio squeaks, "Sheriff, you there?"

I pick up the mic and hold onto it, "Go ahead, Ferg."

"We got something. How close are you?"

"I'm on my way back – eta 20 minutes."

"You may want to step it up"

"Copy, that." I reach down, hang the black mic on the side of the receiver, and flip the two switches for the lights and siren. I'm moving fast, fast enough so that if by chance I passed someone on the road I would pass them before they heard the siren.

I make it back to the search command post in 6 minutes flat. I see AirRescue2 flying low at an odd forward motion heading north toward town.

"Ferg, you there."

"Stand-by, Walt. We're about 15 minutes out on foot."

"Roger that"

I reach into the cab of the truck, open my thermos, pour a cup of hot coffee and wait while leaning against my doorframe. I close my eyes, for just a moment, but all I see is Jack and Janette. Their faces burdened by despair and worry. My stomach turns just a bit over my assumptions. How much am I like everyone else? Making judgments and presumptions about Jack and about Janette, is it possible the tentacles of hate have permeated my flesh without my permission? Jacob Nighthorse accused me of it but that's a different story or is it?

Those are the prevailing thoughts swirling around when I see a small dust cloud appear. The eddy of dust takes temporary shapes before twisting, turning and blowing revealing The Cheyenne Nation, The Ferg, and Omar.

Omar's single pack dog is heeling next to his left leg, tongue out, and mouth wide open, simultaneously filtering cursory scents and sucking in sandy air. Ferg's gait tells me it's not good but Henry is the first to speak.

"I do not envy your position."

The cup descends from my lips, "What did you find?"

Henry turns a cold bottle of water to his lips, "Walt, you were right in your initial assessment." He gently dabs his lips with the sleeve of his shirt and finishes the water in two swallows. I look over at Omar who is watering his pup and Ferg who is bending over, palms on his brown khaki covered knees, my eyes flash back to Henry.

"You found him?"

"We did." Henry's Adam's apple moves up and appears stuck as the words slowly enter the atmosphere, "We found a dog first."

"Rin Tin Tin look alike?"

"Yes," Henry's eyebrows show curiosity.

"Name's Flash, that's Jason's dog." I want to curse the wind because my worse fears are coming true. None of the men has Jason.

"The dog is dead. Shot in the head."

I turn and face Henry. Ferg steps closer to my side.

"Walt, it was the most awful thing. Who would do this?"

I look at Henry again. His face pained by expression.

"Jason was buried in a shallow grave. When we found him," Henry pauses as he forces his emotions back down, "He was barely breathing. The helicopter is flying him to Durant Memorial." His eyes are burning into mine. "I am not optimistic about his chances of survival."

"The dog, Flash, probably saved Jason's life."

I look at Henry demanding more explanation.

"My guess is that the dog covered the grave and his body heat kept Jason alive but I may be speculating because we do not know the sequencing of these heinous events."

My eyes look over to Omar in a bended position next to his dog; hand over his eyes shielding his pain from the rest of us, Ferg in disbelief and Henry holding it together.

"Evil." I say.

"Sheriff, I don't understand it." Ferg searches for answers.

"Many men don't." I throw my thermos in the Bronco and drop it into gear.

Through my open window, I bark out orders. Ferg, cast those tire tracks now because Vic is getting a warrant. Take photos of the tracks and your cast impressions and text them to her phone before she gets to the court so she can attach them to the affidavit."

"Did any of you see anything else there?"

"The tracks went all the way to the grave." Ferg adds.

"Get AirRescue2 back out here and go up with them to take photos with your 35mm digital camera of the tire tracks. Download the photos of the tracks next to the grave and text those to Vic also. Cast those tracks next to the grave and request comparison to the ones by the road." Ferg gets moving his motivation for action superseding his thought pattern of disbelief.

"Ferg, one more thing. Call Holly Whitish have her come get the dog but tell her to wrap it and put it in a cool place. I'll be by later to get it."

"Got it, Sheriff."

I look over at Omar and call his name waving to my direction.

"I ain't never seen anything like that, Walt."

"I can't tell you it will get better."

"I don't know what I want you to tell me."

"Omar, can you confirm your dog picked up a scent and tracked it to the grave." I'm looking at him seeing the humanity that is often masked by his callous ways.

"Yeah, of course, and she tracked the scent back here."

"Good."

"Actually, it stops at the edge of the road."

"By those tire tracks?"

"Yeah."

"Give Ferg your statement."

"Alright"

"I'm headed to the hospital." I ease my foot off the brake and gently put it back in place stopping my forward momentum. I look out at all three men and think that angels come in all shapes and sizes.

I jump on the radio, "Vic, you there?"

"Go ahead, Walt."

"I'm headed to the hospital I will call you from there. Ferg is going to text you some photos to attach to the affidavit."

"Roger."

Hopping out of the Bronco I register the familiar ticking of the engine and feel the heat coming from the front end as I pass between it and the ambulance rig parked in front of the E.R.

I head straight to the nurses station, "Hey, Becky."

"Hiya Walt. We've been waiting on you." Her perfectly pinned back auburn ponytail dances as she turns her head.

"Which room?"

"Our little guy is in #7."

"Lucky number."

"Well," she pauses, "He's gonna need it."

"Doesn't look good?"

"No, Sheriff. It doesn't." She says pulling back the sheer linen drape, the metal rings scraping on the metal pole holding it.

The bed engulfs his frame; the tubes, bandages, and oxygen mask cover any identifiable features. The electronic beeping creates a cacophony of sound so familiar it humbles me.

"Doc."

His brown eyes, nearly black, look up but he is silently counting. He's taking Jason's pulse through this stethoscope not relying on the electronic readout.

"His pulse is extremely weak but he hasn't given up, yet."

"What's the prognosis?"

"He has been shot but he is too weak for surgery. If I open him up now he will probably die."

"Where was he shot?"

"In the face."

"Through and through"

"No, the bullet is lodged at the base of his sinus cavity. He was most likely shot in the back of the head but traversed his skull. It's most unusual."

Doc Bloomfield flashes his small pen light into Jason's eyes looking for reactions and considering his reaction he is getting what he is looking for.

"It's the other reason I have to wait before performing surgery. The anesthesia will make the swelling worse and the damage can be irrevocable."

"Do you think he will regain consciousness?"

"Hopefully, Walt. As they say in the movies the next 24-48 hours will tell us a lot."

I shake my head because I knew the answer.

"Who would do this? Was it an accident?"

"Dunno, but I plan to find out."

Doc finishes writing his patients notes on the metal clipboard and hangs it back on the foot of the bed.

"Do you want me to notify the parents?" Doc asks

"I will make the notification." I point to Jason. "Ok, if I sit with him for a minute?"

"Sure, Sheriff."

I ask because I need to stall for a few minutes before calling his parents. I need to collect my thoughts, plan my course of action, and prepare myself for his parents' lack of preparation for hearing the news. The news no parent can ever prepare for nor should they.

I walk over; my thighs lean against Jason's bed, my fingertips gently brush his forehead.

"Jason, my name is Walt. I'm going to make you a promise man-to-man. I promise I will find out who did this to you and I will introduce them to justice. Justice is a good friend of mine."

I lean over, my fingers still gently soothing him, "Jason, I need you to be strong and I need you to fight. Your dad told me you were growing to be a big man, a good man, and that's what good men do we never give up."

Becky clears her throat behind me. I turn my head looking over my shoulder.

"Sorry, Walt but you have a phone call."

I step outside, walk back to the nurses station, pick up the phone but don't take it off of hold.

"Becky, can you have someone sit with him and talk to him until I get his parents here? I don't want him alone."

"Sure thing, Sheriff. Happy too oblige."

I snap off the hold button and offer the caller my deepest most serious voice, "Sheriff Longmire."