’ Jonathan cocked the gun. It gave out a hard metallic clanging as the first shell slipped into the firing chamber. He looked at the pair. Both wer... in panic. He switched the safety to off. The little red dot shone as if it were a ruby. Jonathan pointed the gun at the man. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Henry’ he blubbered. I’m not the man you want. Jonathan pulled the PI’s photo of Susan’s lover and compared it to the man sitting in front of him. The photo and the man’s face were the same. ‘Liar’. Beside him. He watched the sagebrush flats roll by, the rock piles and stunted apple trees and lilacs marking where earlier homestead efforts had withered from lack of water. Wolf Creek was a seasonal stream, its waters peaking at flood runoff in early spring. In summer it dwindled until the thirsty gravel alluvial fan stretching outward from the canyon mouth absorbed all the surface flow. Most summers found the creek bed empty where Wolf Creek emptied into the Methow River, but upstream from. More

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