Evan

I pointed it out.

Wes looked at it and said,

We're not alone.

I asked him if any other hands were out here.

He said no.

I asked him if anyone hunted back there.

He said people hunted, sure, but not that deep, not during the week, and not without leaving truck tracks somewhere.

We followed the boot prints for about 50 yards until they reached a rock slab and vanished.

There were no scuffs, no hesitation.

Just gone.

Back at camp, I pulled my trail cameras out of the truck.

I'd brought them as a standard tool, motion-activated, no wireless, the kind you use for documenting predator presence.

I set one on a fence post angled toward the wash.

I set another on a juniper pointing at the cattle tank.

I set a third down a short game trail that led into thicker brush.

Wes watched me do it like he didn't trust the cameras, like he thought they might make things worse.

I didn't ask.

I was still trying to keep this in the world where tools solve problems.

That second night is when it stopped feeling like a weird case and started feeling like something with intention.

We ate early.