This is Sacagawea. Here, the Mormons are a superpower.
It's sunset over the deserts. The skies are purple...and so are many of the hills.
On a dirt bike, a marshal speeds across the land. He throws up a trail of dust in his wake, and shines a light as he goes along. He's doing too much, if he's going for stealth. Even so, there's a fugitive out there, and he's manhunting them.
The light shines ahead. Every now and then, a cacomistle or a kit fox enters the beam...and takes off like a shot, when the dirt bike gets too close.
Marshall's always thought about coming out here to hunt. Alas, he's still not confident enough in his marshalling abilities to take that kind of leave...
On his handlebars, there's a GPS screen. Half the time, it tells him where he is. The other half, it shows him spots, on other maps, where fugitives have been cornered by the Deseret Marshals Service before.
There's a scanner on his bike, too. Every now and then, it makes reports, from other Marshals/law enforcement folk elsewhere in Deseret. That's a lot of space. But then, that's the good thing about desert work: fewer people to hog up the radio waves.
He drives past a cliff. It it were daylight, he'd see a heart and dove painted on the side of it.
He tops a hill, slows, and stops. He looks around. Based on what he knows, he's nowhere near a fugitive. He's starting to wonder if he put his skills to the best use he possibly could, by joining the Marshals Service...
From below, a jeep arrives. It parks nearby, just downhill away from Marshall. He thinks he knows who it is...but can never be sure.
She gets out. It's Mary. She's a hot blonde, and a bit of a bitch. Often, Marshall thinks she could take on Ronda Rousey.
"Marshall," she greets him. "How's it going?"
He shrugs. "Nobody out here. Just many, many acres of open quiet space."
She arches her brows. "Is that why you come here? Are you sure there isn't something back in the city you're trying to avoid?"
He shrugs. "Did you have anything in mind?"
She changes the subject. "I've been reassigned. They want me to protect a kid. This is bullshit; I'm no good with kids."
"Just do your best. I'm sure it'll be easier than you expect."
"It'd better be. I really like this job. And I'm not a Mormon. I still can't believe the government cares about that so much, but... Are you sure you're okay?"
"Why? Why wouldn't I be?"
She sighs, and puts her hand on her forehead. "Never mind. I hope you catch several felons. Just...don't try to catch any without calling for backup first."
"I'm not the rookie I was," he yells after her, "just so you know!"
She stumbles back to her jeep, gets in, and drives in a circle around Marshall. She...drives in seven...which confuses him. And yet, he can't really say he doesn't enjoy the experience...
She flips the bird at him, and leaves. Marshall scoffs, turns the dirt bike back on, and starts back down the other side of the hill.
He and Mary used to be partners. He's still not sure why she requested a new one...or why the force would heed any of her demands, if she wasn't a Mormon. She's a blonde, but she's not a Mormon. Brigham Young is NOT her ancestor.
Onward, Marshall drives. Soon, he's on a path that leads into a softwood forest. The trees are short...but otherwise much taller than a human. Some of the wood is petrified.
Along the path, there are mule deer skeletons lying. Marshall stops, and collects such a skull, for keepsake. It's got a ten-point rack. When he has girls over, he'll tell them that he killed the deer himself...and if they're bimbos, they'll believe him.
Rumor has it that Puebloans live in these lands. Good; if Marshall gets the honor of punishing a Puebloan for not being Mormon, and tells his coworkers about it, he'll be more likely to get promoted the next time that question rises.