Evan

Nothing.

The silence was total enough that my own breathing felt like a disturbance.

In the morning, the camp looked untouched.

No tracks near the tents, no disturbed brush, no scat, no hair.

The fire ring was cold.

Wes's face looked tight like he'd been clenching his jaw for hours.

We made coffee without talking much.

When the sun hit the bench, the whole night felt unreal in the way bad dreams feel unreal when you step into a bright bathroom and flick on the light.

We spent that day doing what I'd come to do.

Verify.

Document.

Map.

We drove to a set of corrals that hadn't been used in years, and found old bloodstains in the dirt.

We followed a fence line where Dale said he'd found drag marks once.

We checked a cattle guard where a calf had been found with no sign of struggle.

Each place added to the same pattern.

Damage that wasn't clean.

Tracks that didn't settle.

Mid-afternoon, we hiked up into a side canyon that cut back into the bench.

It was the kind of place that looked empty until you got close enough to see how it held itself.