Starsky’s Kingdom

316

Notes

This story is part of the “Starsky and Hutch at the Movies” Challenge. The story/movie I chose was a book that is a favorite of mine, called Campbell’s Kingdom by Hammond Innes. Originally published in 1952, it was made into a movie in 1957, starring Dirk Bogarde. It’s a good lazy afternoon movie, if you ever get the chance to watch.

I kept the date as 1947 and tried to adhere to the book and the time period. As well as the region. Originally set in the Canadian portion of the Rocky Mountains, I moved it south to the American side. Sorry, my Canadian neighbors, but it had to be done. So, like any TV show, book, or movie, names, locations, science, and other details may not line up. But remember, this is an AU fanfiction: Starsky and Hutch style. So this is the result.

So sit back and enjoy.

Thank you, Terry, for coming along for the ride and smoothing out the edges!!

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Chapter 1

November 1946.

The sun had dropped low behind the peaks by the time Hutch crested the ridge. The horses were blowing hard, their flanks damp, and the trail narrowed as it passed into a stand of wind-twisted spruce. Ahead, the timber broke open into a pocket of open ground, and there, just as expected, stood Joshua’s cabin. Weathered logs, patched metal roof, and a stovepipe breathing faint smoke into the sharp November air.

The Kingdom.

He always planned it that way. Leave the town, Come Lucky, before sunup, press the mules hard through the pass, and arrive just as the western light turned the valley gold and blue.

It impressed the tourists.

Today, there were two tourists from back east, reporters for an outdoorsman magazine that Hutch had never heard of. The older one, Calhoun, had a good camera and carried himself like he thought he was Hemingway. The younger, Whitby, hadn’t stopped asking questions since they started out that morning.

“There it is,” Hutch called back over his shoulder. “Joshua’s place.”

One of the men behind him let out a low whistle. “Hell of a view,” said the younger one.

“Looks like something out of a dime novel,” Calhoun said. “You sure this isn’t some historical reenactment?”

“You’ll find Joshua’s the real thing.” Hutch laughed. “Besides, even if he wasn’t, his stories come with the food.”

They crested the last hill, and the cabin came into full view. It sat square in the basin, logs silvered with age, roof patched in places with sheet metal. The two barns stood on either side of the house. Both connected the house by shed, its slanted roof hunched against the wind. Joshua was already on the porch, a coffee pot in one hand, waving with the other. The smell of cornbread and venison stew drifted across the cold, and a long wooden table had been set out under the porch eave, already laid for dinner.

Hutch swung down from his horse, bones aching from the long ride. “Evening, Joshua.”

“Evening, boy,” Joshua said, setting the pot down on the railing. His beard was whiter than Hutch remembered from the summer, but the gleam in his eye was the same. “Your guests look half froze.”

“They’re soft,” Hutch said with a grin. “Easterners.”

Joshua stepped forward and shook hands with each man. “Name’s Joshua.”

Calhoun looked delighted. “You really a roughneck?”

“Some, mostly wildcatted or roughnecked damn near everywhere there was dust and oil,” Joshua said. “Texas, the panhandle, south of the border. You name it. But that’s a tale for after supper. Horses can rest in the barn. I’ve cleared stalls.”

He turned and looked at Hutch, as the young man left the horses and started to the house. raising one thick eyebrow in mock severity.

“Hutch,” he said, voice low but laced with amusement.

Hutch stopped mid-step and turned, already grinning like a guilty kid. “Yes, sir.”

Joshua didn’t move, just stood there in the snow with his arms crossed over his chest, but with an affectionate smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His thick eyebrows rose just enough to say what he didn’t bother putting into words.

“You forgetting something?”

Hutch let out a breath through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Take care of the horses.”

Joshua nodded once, satisfied. “Good boy,” he said, turning toward the porch where the warm light glowed through the windowpanes. “I’ll show these boys where to clean up. Supper’s on in twenty.”

Hutch gave a quick salute, then turned back toward the mules and packhorses, the snow creaking beneath his boots. The two guests followed Joshua, wide-eyed, into the house. Hutch watched them for a moment, then turned toward the barn, already loosening the lead ropes and murmuring to the nearest gelding. The mule behind him snorted, ears twitching toward the cabin.

“They come for the hunting,” Hutch muttered to the horse, “but they stay for the storytelling.”

The gelding gave a soft, amused-sounding nicker in response, ears flicking back briefly as if in agreement. Behind him, one of the mules snorted and tossed its head, eager to be unburdened and settled.

“Yeah,” Hutch said under his breath. “You get it.” He ran a hand along the gelding’s neck, then turned to lead him into the barn.

Later, after the guests had turned in, worn out from the ride, the whiskey, and a supper too heavy to argue with sleep, Hutch stepped outside. He pulled his coat tight, breath fogging in the cold. The air had sharpened since sundown. Snow whispered across the porch roof, and the peaks above stood clear against the sky, the full moon casting pale light over the clearing. He stepped off the porch and let the door click shut behind him. The silence felt thick and reverent. Mountains loomed, ridgelines etched in silver. Far off, wind moved through the pines with a hush, like surf on a distant shore.

Joshua joined him a minute later, blanket draped around his shoulders. He eased onto the bench and sighed, settling into an old rhythm. “How long’s this trip?” he asked, squinting toward Hutch.

“They hired me for a week,” Hutch said, “but I doubt they’ll last that long.”

Joshua gave a dry chuckle and reached into his coat. He rolled two cigarettes and passed one over. “I’d give them, Oh…Maybe two days. Three. Tops.”

“That’s optimistic,” Hutch said, lighting his with a quiet draw.

“That it is,” Joshua replied, cupping the match and lighting his own. They smoked in easy silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. The smoke curled white in the moonlight. Across the meadow, snow lay smooth and undisturbed. The mule tracks from earlier were already fading beneath fresh fall.

Joshua flicked ash off his cigarette. “When’s your grandfather expectin’ you back?”

“Soon as this trip’s done. He wants me to look over accounts and blueprints. New rigs goin’ in at Sweetgrass come spring.”

Joshua gave a low hum. “You don’t sound too pleased.”

“It’s fine,” Hutch said after a pause. “I’d just rather be planning a rig for up here.”

Joshua nodded and leaned back. “It’ll happen. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next year. But it will.”

Hutch glanced toward the far ridge. “Before that thing gets finished?” He jerked his chin toward the dam.

They both looked out across the valley. The dam crouched low and heavy between the twin peaks of Solomon’s Judgment. Pale concrete gleamed under the moon, stark and unnatural against the worn shape of the land. It looked like it had been dropped there by force.

Joshua’s eyes lingered on it, unreadable. The cigarette burned low between his fingers. Silence crept in again, colder this time, heavier. Hutch shifted and blew smoke toward the trees.

“I see Huggy still hasn’t been able to get that survey gear out.”

“Nope. Trevedian is taking his dam sweet time clearing that rockfall blocking the road up to the hoist.” Joshua shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Told Huggy it’ll still be there come spring.”

“He figured you’d say that. He’s off in the Little Smokies now. Drillin’ with a Butte crew.”

Joshua nodded but didn’t speak.

“You hear from Dobey yet?” Hutch asked.

“Nope. Wasn’t expectin’ to. Not till December.”

Hutch reached into his coat and pulled out a folded slip of paper. It had been sitting heavy in his pocket all trip. “Got this right before I left. Contact at the Defense Department came through.”

Joshua squinted, then opened the paper. A photo slipped out into his lap. He picked it up slow, stared down at the young man in uniform. The service record beneath it was clean, stamped, standard format.

“What’s this?” Joshua asked, though the answer already hung between them.

“I know you gave up,” Hutch said. “But maybe it’s time to try again. Got an address too. New York.”

Joshua didn’t answer. He studied the photo. “He’s got my daughter’s eyes,” he said, almost to himself. “Same mischief in ’em. Always looked like he was fixin’ to tell a secret.” He gave a tired chuckle. “When Abigail was still writin’ me, she filled her letters with stories. Him and his brother. Always in trouble. Fine pair, those two.”

His voice trailed off. Hutch let it. Some memories had to drift. He’d heard those stories by firelight, right here in this cabin. Joshua and Roger trading tales of broken bones and stubborn dreams. And later, the red-stamped envelopes. RETURN TO SENDER. Letter after letter, year after year, until Joshua stopped sending them.

Hutch had read the papers, too. The ones who called Joshua a reckless wildcatter, a man who supposedly stole money and served time. But that wasn’t the man in front of him now. The one who taught him to shoe a horse, hunt, read the sky before a storm, read the land better than any geologist he’d met at university. Who boiled coffee strong enough to wake the dead.

“I still don’t get it,” Hutch said. “Why they shut you out.”

Joshua let out a breath that hung in the cold like smoke. “Scandal changes folks. And I hurt ’em, real bad. Some hurts don’t heal. Abigail was right not to bring those boys here. She was hurtin’ too. She had reason to hate. David did. Even Nicky, if he’d been old enough to understand.”

Hutch looked over, his voice quiet. “But she forgave you.”

“Eventually,” Joshua said, with a nod. “But it took time.”

“Maybe your grandson can too.”

Joshua didn’t answer right away. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. I’ve come to accept it might never happen. No, it’s what I deserve, kid.” He paused, jaw tightening, then lifted one hand and pointed out toward the dam. “This is my penance,” he said. “For every wrong I heaped on them.”

Hutch followed his gaze. Thunder Creek curved half-frozen through the snow. The dam squatted farther down, a wall of concrete. Its bulk caught the moonlight like a scar.

“Still not right,” Hutch said.

“No,” Joshua murmured. “It ain’t. But it is what it is.”

————————

Morning came cold and clear, the kind that bit at your ears and turned breath to steam. The snow had stopped sometime in the night, leaving a fresh white crust over the world. The cabin stood quiet behind him as Hutch cinched the last strap on his saddlebag. His horse stamped once and shook its mane, the leather bridle jingling softly. He was just checking the girth when Joshua stepped out onto the porch. He was bundled in his thick wool coat, collar turned up, a heavy envelope in one hand.

“Take this to your grandfather,” he said, holding it out.

Hutch glanced at it, then back at Joshua. “What is it?”

Joshua gave a slow grin, the corner of his mouth pulling up under the white bristle of his beard. “None of your business. Just something between two old men who ought to know better.”

Hutch smiled. “Alright then.” He took the envelope and slid it into the side pouch of his saddle, giving it a firm pat.

The two Easterners came out a minute later, bundled up and stiff-legged. They muttered about the cold and mounted with more noise than grace, one fumbling with his stirrup like it might bite.

Hutch swung onto his own horse with ease. He turned once more to Joshua, who had stepped down off the porch and stood watching him with a steady look, the kind that said everything without saying much. Hutch leaned down and gave him a quick, firm hug. “Take care of yourself.”

Joshua clapped him on the back. “You too, kid.”

Hutch started to pull back, but paused, reins loose in one hand. He looked down at him. “Joshua, about David…”

Joshua stepped back, voice quiet but firm. “Leave it, Hutch. Just let it be.”

Hutch nodded once, jaw set. “Alright.” He turned in the saddle and gave a sharp whistle to the others. “Let’s roll.”

They rode out slow, hooves crunching over new snow. Hutch didn’t look back until they hit the tree line, but when he did, Joshua was still standing there, hands in his coat pockets, watching after them.

Chapter 2

February 1947

New York buzzed with motion, as always. The tangle of trolley wires, honking cars, and impatient crowds. The streets, lined with soot-grimed buildings and vendors hollering under gray awnings, throbbed with life. But for David Starsky, it was a life that moved past him, not around him.

It was a life he no longer belonged to.

He had marched through the deserts of North Africa, dragged himself through Italian mud, survived the camps and somehow made it back. But the city, loud and crowded, felt more foreign than a battlefield.

Everything here was moving, and he was standing still.

He turned the corner near his building, shoulders hunched against the wind, and found his thoughts slipping backward, unbidden, to the appointment he had just come from.

Miller had adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat. “If you stay in the city, you won’t last six months. Go someplace else. Somewhere high and dry.”

And there it was. Not said cruelly. Not even unkind. Just a fact.

Now, walking the streets again, his breath misting in the frigid air, Starsky replayed the conversation in pieces. The words didn’t frighten him. He had seen enough death to lose the habit of flinching. But it did something else to him. It stripped the rest of it bare.

The war had nearly killed him.

But it was home that would finish the job.

The thought lingered as he crossed the last avenue toward his block in Brooklyn. The buildings here bore the same tired skin of soot and cracked brownstone, lined shoulder to shoulder like worn teeth. Laundry fluttered stiff in the wind from the fourth-floor fire escapes. The gutter on the corner splashed brown meltwater into the street.

The cold bit through his coat as he stopped at his destination and looked up.

Number Thirty-Two still stood as it always had, a narrow brownstone with a cracked fanlight and soot-streaked bricks. The stonework sagged near the roof, and the dark windows on the second floor stared out like blind eyes. A weak glow in one corner window gave the whole building a crooked look, like it was slumping into itself.

For nearly 8 years, David had rented the same room at Number Thirty-Two. Even during the war, while he was overseas, his landlady had kept it for him. “Just doing my part to support the boys protecting our country,” she’d said. So he’d kept sending the rent, and she’d kept the key. It’s not like he had a family to spend the money on.

It had been the one fixed point in a world that had otherwise come apart.

Now, as it was before the war, every day, like clockwork, he left and came home to this building. Six days a week, thirty-five minutes on the El, up three flights, turn the key. The hallway had smelled of boiled cabbage in winter and drying plaster in summer.

It still did.

Now it looked like a stranger’s house. Like something from someone else’s story. He had to remind himself that the windows three floors up and on the right belonged to him. And behind that window were his books, the extra pair of shoes, the photographs he never framed. But it didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore.

He thought of the desk at work. The stale smell of cigarette ash and mimeograph ink. The endless parade of files and policies, and the quiet, polite silences of men who only talked in small doses. Would he tell them Dr. Miller’s diagnosis? Was he even close enough to any one of them to say goodbye?

Or should he just stop showing up? Would they even miss him?

Probably yes to the former and no to the latter.

He tried to take a breath and was seized by a fit of coughing that bent him double halfway up the stairs. One hand caught the railing as his chest heaved, eyes watering. He stood there a moment, jaw clenched, riding it out. When it passed, he straightened slowly and kept climbing.

“Is that you, David?” A voice floated from one of the open doors in the first-floor hallway as he stepped into the building..

“Yes, Mrs. McIntyre. It’s me.”

She appeared in the hall, apron rustling as she walked, moving with surprising speed for someone her size and age. Her gray hair was pinned in place like a helmet, and her cheeks were flushed with warmth from the stove.

“Ye’re home early,” she said. “Did they give ye the afternoon off?”

“Yes.”

“Och now, fancy that. Would it be some holiday, or was there nobody wishin’ to insure themselves against all those things, like arson and accident and annuity that ye were talkin’ about the other day?”

He gave her a small smile, one that barely reached his eyes.

“There’s two letters for ye in your room, bills, by the look of them. And I put some flowers there, seein’ that ye’ve no been feelin’ well lately.”

Starsky paused. He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t told anyone. But Mrs. McIntyre always had a way of knowing the things no one said out loud.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. McIntyre.” He said heading up the stairs.

“No trouble at all,” She said with a wave, “Och, I nearly forgot, there was a gentleman to see ye.”

That pulled him back to attention as he looked over the banister at her. “A gentleman?”

“He ha’na been gone more than ten minutes,” she continued. “He said it was very important, so I told him to come back again at six. He said that was fine, for he’d to go to the Courthouse about another matter.”

“The Courthouse?” he repeated. “Did he look like a lawyer?”

“Aye, he did that,” she said with a nod. “Had a black hat, a briefcase, and a rolled umbrella. Ye’ve no got yourself into any trouble, Mr. Starsky, have ye now?”

“Of course not,” he said, though his brows drew together.

She studied him, not unkindly. “Ye’re sure, lad? Ye’ve no debts, no legal business lingering about?”

He shook his head. His mind was already turning it over.

“You’re sure he was a lawyer?”

“Aye. He was a lawyer, all right. Shall I bring him straight up to ye’re room when he comes? I told him ye’d be back at six.”

He hesitated. There was no reason a lawyer should be looking for him. No affairs, no property, no business left unresolved.

“Hope ye’re not in any trouble,” she added cheerfully, as if she were remarking on the weather. “Perhaps it’s some good news, one of your relatives dead, maybe?”

David blinked.

She gave him a brisk shrug when he didn’t answer and bustled off toward the kitchen, humming as she went.

“I’m making my will,” he said dryly, throwing the remark over his shoulder.

He heard her chuckle behind him as he started up the stairs again. He couldn’t tell if it was the warmth in her voice or the absurdity of her suggestion of some relative dying that clung to him.

The late afternoon sun bled through the trees, throwing long shadows across the floor as Starsky stepped into the room and flipped on the light. Bare branches cut against a sky gone orange and bruised violet. In the window, his reflection hovered, pale, hollow-eyed, like someone already halfway gone. With a sharp breath, he yanked the curtains shut. The rings scraped along the rod like teeth. The view, the street, the world, gone in one motion.

The silence wasn’t peace. It was pressure. A weight pressing down on his ribs, on his lungs, refusing to lift. He’d been alone before. But this, this was different.

This was…

He didn’t know what the hell it was. He moved, pacing the room in slow, sharp turns. Fingers brushed the chair, the edge of the dresser, the cold windowpane, then jammed into his coat pocket like they might stay the trembling.

Goddamn doctor. Goddamn calm voice, that soft professional tone like he was handing over a weather report instead of a death sentence. Treatments might slow it down. Might. As if that changed a damn thing. He stopped near the desk, jaw clenched, then moved again, fast now, tighter turns, like his anger might outrun the diagnosis.

And then there was the lawyer. What the hell did a lawyer want with him?

There was no estate, no unfinished business, no one to claim or be claimed by. Only his mother’s affairs, long closed. She had died nearly eighteen years ago, not long after he’d finished school. Poor. Overworked. Left with nothing but a few unpaid bills and two sons. And yet someone had covered the funeral. The debts vanished. His college textbooks and living expenses were taken care of by a life insurance policy he hadn’t even known existed. It had helped Nicky, too, though it hadn’t saved him.

His thoughts turned toward his brother like a bad habit, and he stopped his pacing.

Was that what this was about? Had something happened to Nicky?

For all he knew, Nicky could be dead. Or in prison. Or drifting through another city using a false name and chasing the next score. Even as a boy, he’d been trouble, more than David ever had been. But after their mother died, the bottom fell out. Nicky dropped out of school. He drank. He stole. He lied. He vanished.

David had spent years trying to pull him back, and then spent even more years trying to forget that he’d tried.

Starsky exhaled sharply through his nose and shook his head, bracing as the tightness in his chest surged again. He didn’t let it take him under. Not now. Not tonight.

He turned abruptly and stepped to the bed tucked against the far wall. God, he was tired. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it at the chair. It missed and hit the floor. He left it there and sat down hard on the edge of the mattress. Then, without thinking, he lay back. The springs groaned beneath him. The cracked ceiling swam into view, and faint light filtered in through the curtains, drawing pale lines across the plaster.

His chest tightened again, the shallow breathing pulling at his ribs.

Thirty-four years of life, and what had he done?

The memories that followed weren’t grand. They never were. Just fragments.

Just pieces of a mundane, ordinary life. The place he called home. Then work. A gray desk. The sound of a typewriter. The smell of stale coffee. Mornings spent tying a tie he didn’t care about. Filing forms for people he would never meet.

Nothing that mattered. Just a life of small, meaningless routines.

A rented room. A job where no one would notice. A name no one wanted.

His breath hitched. Fingers clenched the sheet as he turned onto his side, curling in against the ache in his chest.

No one to miss him when he was gone.

No one would even care.

The words and a shed tear chased him into sleep.

Chapter 3

A sharp knock at the door jolted him awake. He sat up, dazed, mind slow to catch up. The room was dim, the last light of day bleeding through the curtains. His limbs were stiff, the bed cold, and exhaustion still hung heavy in his bones.

“David,” Mrs. McIntyre called from the other side of his door. “The lawyer man to see ye again, David.”

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply, then rose. Whoever this lawyer was, he hadn’t crossed half the city for nothing.

He cleared a space at the small table under the window and crossed to the door. The man standing there was tall, narrow-shouldered, dressed in a stiff blue suit with a white collar so crisp it looked painful. His face was long and sallow, like it had been ironed smooth into permanent disapproval. The hands he folded in front of him seemed too soft to have ever known callouses.

The man gave him a cool glance. “Mr. Starsky?”

David crossed his arms, blocking the doorway, voice dry. “What do you want?”

The man didn’t flinch. “My name is Harrington. Of Anstey, Harrington and Co. May I come in?”

Starsky didn’t recognize the name. Meant nothing to him. He stepped back without a word, nodding toward the table with its two worn chairs.

Harrington entered, removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and gave one of the seats a brisk wipe before sitting. He set his leather case on the table like it might catch something from the wood. Then, with a stiffness that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else, he looked up.

“Before I state my business, it will be necessary for me to ask you a few personal questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“A matter of identity, that is all,” Harrington said.

“Of course,” David muttered, his voice low.

He crossed to the small curio cabinet tucked beside the window and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Two glasses sat beside it. He grabbed both, inspecting one and then wiping it out with the edge of his shirt before holding it up.

“A drink?”

“No, thank you.” Harrington grimaced and shook his head, as if the very suggestion offended his sensibilities.

David smirked, shrugged, and poured himself a glass anyway. The amber liquid sloshed against the sides as he filled it nearly to the rim. He brought it to his lips, the first sip burning its way down. He moved to the table and dropped into the other chair across from Harrington, who had opened his case and pulled out a notepad and pen.

“Your Christian names, please, Mr. Starsky.”

David snorted softly into his glass. Considering he was Jewish, or the fact that he had never darkened the door of any type of church, that was kinda funny. He took another sip, letting the heat settle in his chest.

“Christian names. Please,” Harrington repeated, not looking up.

He paused just long enough to make the point.

“David Michael.”

Harrington made a quick note. “Your date of birth?”

“March 25th, 1912.”

“Parents alive?”

“No. Both dead.”

“Your father’s name?”

He sighed. “Where’s all this leading?”

“Please. Just bear with me a moment longer.”

“Michael Joseph Starsky.”

“An engineer.”

David nodded, then caught himself. The man wasn’t looking. “Yes, and to answer your next question, he died in 1918. At the end of a gun.”

Harrington didn’t react. He just wrote, pen scratching quietly across the page.

“Your mother’s full name?”

“Abigal Miriam Starsky.”

“Her maiden name?”

“Debrins.”

“Place of birth?”

“Brooklyn, New York.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Any children?”

“None that I know of.”

There was a slight pause. Starsky smirked, took another sip of his drink. Let the man think what he wanted. The pen kept moving.

“Surviving siblings?”

David turned the glass in his hand. “Got a younger brother. Nicholas.”

“His whereabouts?”

“You tell me.” That caught the lawyer’s attention. David rubbed at his temple. “Haven’t seen him in years. Last I heard, he was running a con somewhere in New Jersey, or it could have been in Pittsburgh. It’s hard to tell the two apart, you know.”

Harrington ignored him. “Did you know any of the Debrins?”

David’s voice darkened. “Only my grandfather. I met him once. Far as I know, the rest are dead.”

“His full name?”

“Joshua Liam Debrins.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Coming out of prison.”

That earned a flicker of something from Harrington. Surprise? Disgust?

David leaned back. “He did five years in Rikers. My mother and I met him when he got out. I was nine.”

Even now, the memory pulled at him. That small apartment. Nicky huddled next to him on their small bed in the living room. The shouting behind the closed bedroom door. The next morning, the man was gone.

His grandfather had been an oilman, along with his father. Chased the dream of black gold and left ruin in his wake. Talked his way into investments, and dreams too big to actually be real. He could charm a fish to buy a tub of water. And did quite successfully. But even the best snake oil sales can fail. The dream had crumbled in 1916, after their business partner disappeared with their money. Then came the fraud charges and Prison. Five years for Joshua. Probation for Michael Starsky. It wasn’t jail time, but the damage had already been done..

By the time the old man came home, there was nothing left but the wreckage he caused.

David’s father had never recovered. Too proud to take scraps, too broken to fight for more. He drank. Then he didn’t. A bullet to the head made sure of that.

David had grown up with his mother’s silence and the neighborhood’s stares. A boy with a convict’s name. He stared at the lawyer now, resentment bubbling just beneath the surface. “Why do you want to know all this?”

“Just a few more questions,” Harrington said calmly. “You attended City College?”

“Yes.”

“Captain in the Army. France?”

“Captain, yes. France, no. North Africa. Sicily. Italy.” His voice turned quiet.

“You saw combat? You were wounded? A Prisoner of War?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Jesus.” David pushed up from the chair, heart racing, his anger boiling over. “What the hell is this all about? You come here, start grilling me like it’s a god forsaken murder investigation, and you haven’t told me a damn thing. You think I don’t know how to answer questions? I’ve filled out enough forms to last a lifetime. But I don’t give out my life story to a stranger who shows up unannounced with a briefcase and starts poking.”

His voice rose as he spoke, sharp and ragged, and then broke into a harsh cough. He doubled over slightly, one hand braced on the edge of the table, the other pressed to his chest. It rattled out of him, dry and punishing. He fumbled for a handkerchief, pressed it to his mouth, and waited for the fit to pass. When he finally pulled it away, he saw the specks of blood.

Harrington stood, startled. “Please, sir. I assure you, I am only carrying out my instructions…”

“Mr. Starsky?” Mrs. McIntyre’s voice came from just outside the door. “David, are you all right?”

He shoved the handkerchief into his pocket and straightened up, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I’m fine,” he called.

“But I heard shouting…” she pressed.

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, sharper this time.

“If ye need anything…”

“Thank you, Mrs. McIntyre.”

There was a pause, then the sound of her footsteps moving away down the stairs.

David sank slowly back into the chair. Across the table, Harrington remained standing, unsure now of what to do. David waved a hand toward the empty seat, then took another long sip of his drink.

“You were saying,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Harrington said, clearing his throat, lowering himself cautiously into the chair. “As I was saying, I am quite satisfied now.”

“Satisfied about what?”

“I was instructed to locate a David Michael Starsky. A captain. Wounded. POW. I am now quite satisfied that you are the man I have been looking for.”

David’s voice was clipped. “Well, now you’ve found me. What do you want?”

Harrington cleared his throat and opened his briefcase, removing a document and a sealed envelope. “We are acting in this matter for the law firm of Donald McCrae and Acheson…”

“For fuck’s sake, get on with it.”

“Yes, well, it’s to do with your grandfather.”

“That much I gathered.”

“Are you aware of his recent passing?”

David frowned. “No.”

The news didn’t shock him. He thought the bastard had died years ago. What did surprise him, however, was that his death had been recent.

“I see,” the lawyer said. “As it is, your grandfather, Joshua Liam Debrins, was found dead in his cabin out west.”

“Where?”

“What was that?” pausing as he pulled papers out of his case.

“I asked where out west?”

“Oh. Somewhere in the Rockies, a place called ‘Come Lucky’. Now about his estate. You are the sole legatee under his will,” Harrington said. “This is a copy of the will and a sealed letter addressed to you. The original documents and company records, of course, are held by McCrae and Acheson. Your grandfather’s company, called “The Kingdom Oil Exploration Company,” is virtually defunct. However, it does own territory in the Rocky Mountains, and Donald McCrae and Acheson’s advice is for the disposal of this asset and the closing of the company.”

David barely listened.

The old man had gone back. After everything. After disgrace and prison. He had gone back.

“You’re sure he went west?”

“Huh?” The lawyer looked up from his papers, frowning at being interrupted. “I mean, yes. He formed the company in 1922. The other director was a man by the name of….Roger Hutchinson Sr.”

David asked slowly, “He was broke, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, very much so, from what I gather,” Harrington said. “Mr. Debrins was entirely reliant on Mr. Hutchinson for financing. Including a recent survey that Mr. Hutchinson also funded…”

“And he just recently died. How?”

“How what, Mr. Starsky?”

David stared at him. His patience was wearing thin; the lawyer fraying what little thread he had left. He set his glass down with a soft thud.

“Do you often answer questions with a question, Mr. Harrington?”

Harrington blinked, clearly thrown off.

David sighed, dragging a hand across his face. “How did my grandfather die, Mr. Harrington?”

“The cold.”

“The cold? What does that…”

“Sorry.” Harrington shuffled quickly through his papers, finding the right one. “From what I gathered from the initial letter to my firm, Mr. Debrins was found dead by a hunting party on November 22nd last year.” He placed a newspaper clipping on the table. “You may want to read this. Now, as regards to the particulars of the company, it does not seem likely that the shares are marketable…”

David picked up the clipping, eyes scanning the faded print as the lawyer droned on.

————

The National Courier

December 3, 1946,

“All those who made the pilgrimage up Thunder Creek to Joshua’s Kingdom will mourn the loss of a friend. Joshua Debrins, also known as King Joshua, was one of the old-timers and the man who coined the phrase ‘There’s oil in these Mountains,’ is dead. His body was found by a late hunting party headed by Ken Hutchinson. Mr. Debrins was lying stretched out on the floor of the log cabin he built for himself 7,000 feet up in his home amongst the clouds.

King Joshua was a great character. He will be remembered affectionately by the hunters, miners, and loggers, as well as the tourists who visited him in his mountain kingdom, listened to his stories of the oil fields and heard him make the surrounding peaks ring with his violin. Even those who lost money in his ill-named Rocky Mountain Oil Exploration Company and declared him a swindler and worse cannot help but render the homage of admiration to a man so convinced he was right that he dedicated the last twenty-five years of his life to trying to prove it…”

Chapter 4

David started to read the paragraph again, but the type blurred, merging into a different picture entirely, a man standing in the rain outside Rikers. A man convicted of swindling the public by floating a company to drill for oil that didn’t exist and then absconding with the capital.

“Mr. Starsky.” Harrington’s voice cut through. “I must ask for your attention. This is important. Most important.”

“I’m sorry,” Starsky murmured as he looked across at the lawyer. “You were saying something about a buyer for the land?”

“I was, yes, ” Harrington said, looking relieved to have his attention again. “You are lucky that someone is willing to buy the property from you for an amount far above market value. So, we must have your signature on this document immediately. The matter is urgent. The company concerned apparently has alternative sources of power, but they would be more expensive. Which means a Hydroelectric is more economical for them. If we delay much longer, it may render your property valueless. As I mentioned, the lawyers in this matter consider the terms generous and advise that immediate acceptance is recommended. When all debts have been paid, and the company wound up, they estimate that you will be receiving some twenty to thirty thousand dollars.”

David exhaled, tapping his fingers on the table again. “How long will all this take?”

“Donald McCrae and Acheson are very businesslike people. We have had dealings with them on several occasions,” Harrington assured him. “I think we can expect to prove probate in, say, about six months’ time if this deal goes through as smoothly as they anticipate.”

David let out a dry laugh. “Six months?” He shook his head. “That’s just six months too long, Mr. Harrington.”

Harrington frowned. “How do you mean? I assure you, we will do everything possible to expedite proceedings…”

“Yes, of course,” David said, waving a hand. “But in six months…” He stopped closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, before letting it out. Why should he bother explaining?

The money wasn’t any use to him. He had nobody to leave it to. Maybe his brother, if he knew where to find him. Did it even matter? But maybe…

“I’m not sure that I want to sell,” he said, more to himself than to Harrington.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the lawyer staring at him in astonishment.

“I don’t think you quite understand, Mr. Starsky. The executors inform us that the land itself is quite worthless. As I’ve already told you, it lies in a most inaccessible area. The greater part of the year, it is buried in snow.”

David stared down at the article, trying to reconcile it with the man he had grown up believing his grandfather to be. He had gone back. That was the incredible thing. He had gone back as though he were convinced…

David looked up at Harrington.

“He really believed there was oil up there,” he said.

The lawyer gave him a dry, dismissive smile. “Just a fool’s errand, Mr. Starsky.”

Harrington cleared his throat and adjusted his papers. “Now, Mr. Acheson covers the matter in his letter. I think you can be satisfied that your grandfather’s beliefs were entirely erroneous about their being oil on his land, and that the executors’ opinion is a true statement of the situation.” He slid another document across the table. “Now, here is the deed of sale. You will notice that details, such as price and the takeover date, have not been included at this time. These are still matters for negotiation, but if you will sign both copies…”

David didn’t touch the document. His thoughts were still tangled.

“I told you I don’t think I’ll sell,” he said firmly. He needed time to think this through, to adjust to the realization that his grandfather, Joshua Liam Starsky, had spent the last decades of his life chasing a dream everyone else had dismissed as a fantasy.

Harrington frowned. “But, Mr. Starsky. Really, in a matter of this sort, we must be guided by the people on the spot. If Mr. Acheson advises—”

“I really don’t give a damn, Mr. Harrington, what this Acheson ‘advises’,” David cut in, his tone sharp and final. “I will not be making this decision in the heat of the moment.”

Harrington let out a quiet sigh, irritably. “Well, you cannot expect this company to wait indefinitely for your answer. Mr. Acheson was most pressing. That is why I undertook to locate you myself. Every day’s delay…”

“There’s already been a bloody three-month delay,” David pointed out. “Another few days won’t make a hell of a difference, now would it?”

The lawyer pursed his lips, clearly restraining his frustration. “Perhaps not. Though I must remind you,” he continued in a carefully measured tone, “that it is only the fact that the largest creditor was your grandfather’s friend who saved the company from bankruptcy long ago. It is your duty as his heir to consider this gentleman.”

David’s jaw tightened. “I won’t be railroaded,” he said irritably.

Harrington glanced around the small, drab room, his expression flickering with something between confusion and mild disbelief. David could tell the man was struggling to reconcile his reluctance to sell with his modest surroundings, as if he couldn’t understand why someone who clearly wasn’t well off would hesitate to take the money.

After a moment, Harrington stood, smoothing out his suit. “I will leave these documents with you, Mr. Starsky. I think when you have had time to consider them…” He snapped the lock of his now-empty briefcase and retrieved a small card from his pocket. “Here is my card. I will be in my office between 9:00 and 10:00 a.m. Perhaps you will telephone me then or, better still, come in and see me.”

David took the card without looking at it. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”

He saw Harrington to the front door, watching the lawyer disappear down the steps before closing it behind him.

Then, without hesitation, he hurried back to his room.

He sat at the table, staring down at the envelope. The handwriting was unfamiliar but the name printed on the return address was not. Starsky had received several like it in the year after his mother died. Letters from a man he never wanted to hear from. Back then, he’d thrown them away unopened or scrawled Return to Sender across the front in thick, angry red ink.

He’d wanted nothing from Joshua Debrins.

Now here it was. The final letter. The last thing his grandfather had ever written to him. A man he had blamed for everything: his mother’s shame, his father’s death, their poverty, and every injustice heaped upon them.

He set the envelope beside the folded offer letter Harrington had left. The two sat side by side on the table like rival claims. One practical, legal, impersonal. The other unknown and unwanted.

His hand hovered over the envelope.

He didn’t plan to open it. He wasn’t sure when he decided to. He just found himself reaching for the letter opener, sliding the blade under the flap. He slipped the folded page out, the paper and began to read.

——

Dear David,

You may recall our one meeting since the circumstances were peculiar. Since then I became entirely cut off from you. But in the last few days, I have been able to obtain some information concerning your progress and your military record in the recent conflict. This leads me to believe that there is enough courage in you for me to hand on to you the aims, hopes and obligations that, through age and misfortune, I have been unable to fulfill. I imagine that you are fully informed of the circumstances of my imprisonment and that of your fathers. However, in case you should have attributed your mother’s belief in my innocence to the end, despite what your father, believed, here is the testimony of a man who, when you receive this letter, will be dead:

I, Joshua Liam Debrins, swear that everything I did and said in connection with the starting of an oil company in New York known as the Rocky Mountain Oil Exploration Company was done and said in all good faith and that every word of that section of the prospectus dealing with the oil possibilities in the territory now commonly known as “Joshua’s Kingdom” was true to the best of my knowledge and belief, based on more than twenty years in the industry and 12 years in the oil fields of Texas and neighboring territories and your father’s survey’s of the area.

After my release, I returned to the Rockies to prove what I knew to be true. With the help of kind friends, I formed The Kingdom Oil Exploration Company. All my shares in this I leave to you, together with the territory in which my bones will rest. If you are the man I hope you are, you will accept this challenge so that I may rest in peace and my life be justified in the end. May you take on this task and succeed, denied to me by the frailty of old age, attend your efforts.

Your Humbled and Grateful Grandfather

Joshua Liam Debrins

———–

David put the letter down and sat staring out the window. Through the space between the curtains, he could see it had started to snow again. Watching the flurries, he pictured this strange, determined man alone in that log cabin high in the mountains. Isolated by winter snow, carefully writing this letter to a grandson he had barely known.

He read the letter again, more slowly this time. It was dated November 19 of 1946, so just a few days before his death. Guilt crept into his chest. Had he accepted too easily the courts’ verdict? He had never questioned what his grandfather had done after leaving prison. He had never asked whether there had been more to the story, never cared to find out. Instead, he had blamed the man for his father’s death and his mother’s misery.

David picked up the offer letter from the law firm, skimming through the neatly typed lines detailing the hydroelectric project. Beside it lay the deed of sale, waiting for his signature.

—–

“There is no question of obtaining a better offer,” the letter accompanying the deed stated. “Indeed, you must agree that we have been fortunate in promoting the company’s interest in the particular area included in your legacy, and we feel sure that you will appreciate the urgency of your signature on the attached deed of sale if your legacy is to have any value and if the debts and obligations referred to in your grandfather’s will are to be met. Please deliver the signed deed to Mr. Harrington of Anstey, Harrington and Co., who represent us in New York.”

—

Every line of the letter assumed his compliance. They never even entertained the possibility that he might refuse. David tossed it back onto the table, irritation prickling at the edges of his thoughts. As he did, his gaze fell on the newspaper clipping. He picked it up and continued reading where he had left off:

——-

“Only those whose values are entirely material will belittle his efforts because time has proved him wrong. He was a man of boundless energy and squandered it recklessly in pursuit of the elusive black gold. But those who knew him best, like Henry Brown, a surveyor, Kathy Dupriest and Kenneth Hutchinson, both of whom spent the summer months working at The Kingdom, declare that it was not wealth that drove Joshua in his later years, but the need to prove himself right and to recover the losses suffered by those who had invested in his early ventures.

“Like so many of the old-timers, he was stubborn and of good character. His phrase, ‘There’s oil in these mountains’, has become part of the oilman’s vocabulary, denoting an area not worth surveying. But who knows? When told of the discovery of another field further south, Debrins reportedly said: ‘Sure, there’s oil down there. And there’s oil up here, too. These mountains are young, thrust up out of the same area of inland seas.’ The result of a single survey would not have altered his convictions.

“He always believed there was only one way to prove an area, and that was to drill it. Someday, perhaps, he’ll be proved right. In the meantime, local people, led by Miss Ruth and Naomi Garrett, are organizing a fund to erect a monument in memory of Joshua. It will be placed on the site of the original drilling in 1916. Henry Brown, along with Hutchinson and Kathy Dupriest, hopes to pack it up to the Kingdom as soon as the snows melt. The monument will bear the design of a cable-tool rig and the epitaph: ‘There’s oil in these Mountains.'”

——–

David Starsky lowered the paper slowly. A tribute to a man the world had dismissed as a fool and a failure, yet here were people still carrying his name, raising stones in his memory. The letter from the law firm sat nearby, nudging him toward closure, a quiet exit. But the words in the paper, the letter from Joshua, the names of those who had known him and hadn’t let go, all pointed to something more.

He glanced back at the clipping. Here was not the disgrace he remembered, not the absent, silent man from his childhood. A legend, maybe. Or a stubborn old fool who refused to back down, most certainly. Either way, Joshua had left a mark.

David’s fingers moved down the page and froze when they hit the name: Kenneth Hutchinson.

David frowned.

The name stirred something, a thread he couldn’t place. He sifted through the lawyer’s documents until he found the old company records.

Roger Hutchinson.

Had the family stayed friends with Joshua all these years. If so, why? What had kept them involved? Loyalty? Faith in the same dream?

David didn’t feel suspicious. What he felt was quieter and harder to admit. Curiosity maybe. If these men were still holding on, then maybe his grandfather hadn’t been wrong. Maybe the failure hadn’t been final.

He looked at the deed of sale, still sitting where Harrington had left it. If he signed, he’d take the money and walk away. Give it to charity. Maybe use it to settle what little remained of his life. But if he didn’t sign, if he went out there instead. What then?

The doctors had given them their verdict. That should have been the end of it. A last drink, a quiet apartment, a funeral no one would attend. But now…now there was something else.

Something wild and ridiculous, and entirely his if he wanted it.

Was it worth wasting what little time he had left chasing a dead man’s dream?

But then, what else was he going to do with it?

The developers didn’t care. They’d flood the valley, pave over everything that had once mattered. But Joshua had died up there, frozen in his boots with a survey map in his coat. He hadn’t given up. So why should David?

He leaned forward, elbows on the table and watched the snow falling. But he wasn’t picturing this life anymore, wasn’t seeing the familiar streets or the rattling El or the worn floorboards of this apartment. He saw trees heavy with snow. He saw mountains cutting into a sky that was to big to see it all. He saw the place his grandfather had called The Kingdom.

It was ridiculous.

He had no background in oil. No money. Nothing but the last months of his life.

But the alternative was this. This room. This mundane life. Waiting to die.

His hands moved before he could second-guess. He tore the deed of sale in half. Then again. The pieces fell like snow to the floor.

He was going to Come Lucky. He was going to see the Kingdom for himself.

Notes:

The amount being offered to Starsky would be approximately $300,000 to $500,000 in today’s dollars. So you can see why the Lawyer thought he was quite daft.

Chapter 5

Stepping out of the cab in front of his Hotel, Starsky yanked his long coat tighter. It was cold, the kind of sharp, slicing cold that clamped the lungs and sent pain straight through his chest. Not like the cold in New York. This was clean, dry, and cruel, cutting through his wool coat like it wasn’t even there. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected much of anything.

It had taken just under three days to reach the cattle town that served as a gateway to the mountain range where Come Lucky and Joshua’s Kingdom were located. Three and a half weeks, tying up loose ends. Convincing Mrs. McIntyre to let him go and quitting his job. Selling off stocks and anything else of value to pay for the trip. Everything he owned now fit into an old steamer trunk and a beat-up old duffle bag from his army days. Between his lungs and his wallet, flying was out of the question. The train gave him time to think. Or at least to watch the country roll past in a blur of glass and steel and weathered sky.

Chasing a dream that wasn’t his. A legacy. A vision. A wild goose chase.

He felt like a man in a story. A dying man riding west, chasing an impossible inheritance. He didn’t believe in legends, but still, something in the movement, the distance, the sheer absurdity of it, gave him a flicker of energy he hadn’t felt in weeks.

He shook the thought off and stepped into the Pallister Hotel, one of those old railway joints with marble floors and brass fixtures, built back when the West was still convincing itself it was the future.

The clerk handed over a room key and a folded telegram before he even finished checking in. His name was typed on the envelope in firm, black letters. They’d found him. Of course, they had.

DAVID MICHAEL STARSKY – URGENT.

IMPORTANT YOU COME TO OUR OFFICES IMMEDIATELY ON ARRIVAL. PURCHASERS HAVE GIVEN US UNTIL TONIGHT TO COMPLETE DEAL. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO DISPOSE OF PROPERTY. – SIGNED, ACHESON.

Starsky let out a slow breath through his nose, jaw tight. Last chance, his ass. They made it sound like he was lucky to be offered the privilege. Like they hadn’t heard a single word the last time he said no. They’d tracked him all the way to Montana. Right down to the hotel desk. Not just thorough, but also determined. He folded the telegram once, then again, jammed it into his coat pocket, and headed upstairs.

The room was modest, but warm. He splashed cold water on his face and leaned into the mirror. Pale skin, drawn features, dark hollows under his eyes. He looked worn out, like a man who’d come a long way just to find out he was already too late.

He called Acheson’s office. A clipped voice on the other end as he requested an appointment for one p.m., mostly out of spite, as he wasn’t going to let them dictate what he was going to do. Besides, it left a few hours to walk the fatigue out of his legs and maybe sleep off the train. The city, if you could call it that, was mostly stone storefronts, grain depots, and law offices, clustered at the base of the mountain like cattle huddling against the wind. Smaller than New York by a lifetime, but not as quiet as it looked. A town built on beef, mining, timber, and tenacity. Cold and dusty, its streets thinned out fast, giving way to the endless gray horizon.

When the time came, David Starsky made his way to the office of Donald McCrae and Acheson, an old brick building jammed in with oil companies, mining conglomerates, and law offices. The stairwell walls were plastered with oversized photographs of oil derricks labeled Texas, Colorado, and Montana. On the second floor, the noise of typewriters and a tape machine snapped like bugs in the walls.

Upstairs, everything changed. The third floor was all quiet and polish, with mahogany doors and thick carpet, a black leather settee, a ridiculous ashtray shaped like a drill bit. David sat down, breathing hard, scanning the names on the frosted glass. McCrae and Acheson, Solicitors, to the right. But to the left, a name stopped him. Roger Hutchinson and Son Oil Development Company Ltd. A whole list of subsidiaries followed: Hutchinson Leases Ltd., T.R.F. Concessions Ltd., T. Stokowski-Hutchinson Oil Company. The name Roger Hutchinson stuck. His grandfather’s backer. Another door read Harold Dobey, Oil Consultant and Surveyor. One more, new paint, Gunther Mining and Development Company Ltd. David checked his watch. One p.m. sharp.

He took a breath and stood. This was a place where feelings didn’t count. He pushed through the door to McCrae and Acheson. A secretary with a pinched smile greeted him, asked his name, and directed him to a cigar-scented waiting room full of stiff Edwardian furniture. A young man dictated into a machine nearby, his sleeves rolled up, as if he thought that made him important. A few minutes later, she brought him into Acheson’s office.

The man was big, bloated almost, his cheeks too smooth, his blue eyes sizing David up. “Mr. Starsky?” he said, rising and offering a soft hand. “Glad to see you.”

David gave it a quick shake and sat down.

“Cigar?” Acheson asked.

“No.”

Behind the desk hung a photo of Acheson playing cowboy on a horse. Oil rigs filled the rest of the wall space like trophies.

“Pity you didn’t write before coming,” Acheson said, flipping the intercom. “Ellen, bring in the Debrins-Starsky file.” He turned back, clipped his cigar, lit it, and gave David a smile with nothing behind it. “Could’ve saved you the trip, son. But now that you’re here, let’s clear up a few things. Harrington tells me you don’t want to sell. Mind explaining why?”

David didn’t blink. “Not until I’ve seen the property.”

Acheson gave a grunt. “Son, there’s been too much delay already.” The secretary reappeared with the file, setting it down on the desk. Acheson flipped it open, scanned a few pages, then leaned back, smoke curling from his lips. “Look, I get it. You want to lay eyes on the place. Fine instinct, I suppose. But it’s not realistic. Harrington should’ve told you that.”

“Yes, Harrington gave me the details,” David said, his voice clipped. “He told me plenty. And I read everything he handed over. But I’ve still got one question.”

He leaned forward, gaze narrowing.

“What’s the real deal with the mineral rights?”

Acheson gave a short laugh. “You’re thinking about oil. That’s what this is, isn’t it? I told Harrington to spell it out. There’s no oil, son. Did he show you my letter?”

“He did.”

“And yet here you are.” Acheson reached into the file, pulled out a document, and dropped it in front of him. “Now you know from reading the papers we sent. Joshua had successfully brought an injunction against the dam a few years back.”

“I read that, sure. It stopped Gunther mines from continuing with the building of the dam, until a more detailed survey could be done.”

“Correct, the court wouldn’t allow it if there was a chance oil was up there. However, Roger Hutchinson hired a survey team last summer. Harold Dobey supervised it. The guy’s top of the field. This report puts your grandfather’s pipe dream in the ground.”

David picked it up and read: There is absolutely no possibility of oil being discovered on this property.

He kept his face still. “And that’s conclusive?”

“Close as science gets,” Acheson said. “Fractured strata. No trap formations. It’s a dead field.”

David’s jaw tightened. “I still want to see it.”

Acheson stared at him for a beat, then said, “You ever been near real mountains?”

“I grew up back East. I know mountains. The Appalachians, the Smoky Mountains.”

“Appalachians…The Smokies. Son, those aren’t the Rockies. What you have up there is rough country, son. Roads are snowed in half the year. You’d be lucky to get near it this month. Even with equipment, it’s a risk.”

David said nothing. He knew the pitch was coming.

“The company needs to get moving,” Acheson continued. “Dam, work has to begin while the weather holds.”

Starsky’s eyes narrowed, “Even before the court lifts the injunction.”

“Yes. It’s a guarantee it will be too. Now, the offer’s generous. Fifty thousand. Which is what’s left over after the check clears Joshua’s debt and more. That’s a lot for useless rock.”

David’s lip curled. “You say it’s worthless, but you’re in a rush to buy it. That doesn’t track.”

Acheson paused, expression cool. “Now look here, Mr. Starsky. They will have the authority to proceed. Whether you sign or not. But paperwork is simpler when the owner cooperates.”

David narrowed his eyes. “You mean it looks better on paper if I roll over.”

The lawyer gave a strained smile. “No. I mean, you’re wasting everyone’s time. If you stall too long, they’ll abandon the project. Then the land’s truly worthless. Even the timber won’t be worth carting out.”

David glanced down at the sale document. Then he frowned. “There’s no buyer listed.”

“We’re forming a subsidiary,” Acheson said quickly. “The parent company is Gunther Mining. Once the subsidiary’s registered, I’ll insert the name.”

David looked up slowly. “You’re very eager for a man just doing his job.”

“I’m trying to save you trouble, son” Acheson snapped. “I laid it out in that letter. But instead of taking advice, you hop a train cross-country and gum up the whole works.”

The lawyer stood abruptly. “Truth is, I brought those investors in. I stuck my neck out. I’ve been cleaning up your grandfather’s mess for years, and I haven’t seen a dime for it.”

David’s voice dropped. “So this is personal.”

“You think it isn’t?” Acheson stepped around the desk, looming. “Roger Hutchinson lost eighty thousand dollars backing Joshua Debrins. That’s no small thing. Now I’m trying to see he gets repaid. He didn’t even have to ask me to do it. I’m doing this as a favor. You ought to feel obligated. It’s the least you could do.”

David stood too. “Don’t lecture me on obligation. I didn’t take a cent from Hutchinson. If he wants to recoup his losses, he can come ask me himself. Or better yet, take me to court.”

Acheson leaned in close, jabbing a thick finger toward David’s chest. “You wouldn’t be so cocky if you’d seen the books. You’ve got until this evening. Where are you staying?”

“The Pallister.”

“Fine. Take the report. Read it. If you come to your senses, we’ll finish this clean.”

David took the file but didn’t say thank you.

“One last thing,” Acheson added, voice calmer now. “Roger paid for that survey himself, son. You don’t owe him for that. But you ought to think carefully before throwing away the last chance to get anything out of that land.”

David didn’t answer. The secretary showed him out. He kept the report clamped under his arm, the words still echoing like static in the back of his head. Maybe he had come west on a whim, chasing the long shadow of a man who died broke on a patch of frozen mountain. But they’d pushed too hard. Talked down to him. If Acheson had called him “son” one more time, he might’ve put the bastard through his own mahogany desk. They’d tried to box him in, hurry him along like he was too slow to catch on. Now he wasn’t going to budge.

He hesitated at the landing. Across the hall, in gold letters on frosted glass, the name caught his eye: Roger Hutchinson and Son Oil Development Company Ltd.

Before he could talk himself out of it, David stepped across the hall and opened the door.

Chapter 6

Burdened with two armfuls of rolled maps, geological cross-sections, and loose copies of old survey logs, Ken Hutchinson nudged the door open with his hip and backed into the front office. His grandfather’s desk loomed empty, but Hutch barely registered it. He was too busy trying not to drop anything. With a huffed breath, he managed to elbow the door shut behind him and turned toward his own drafting table.

He didn’t see the man standing just inside the door until it was too late.

“Shit… oh, I mean… shoot, I mean… ah, hell…” Hutch flinched as he clipped the corner of the desk, jostling the stack in his arms. Charts, blueprints, and topographical overlays slipped loose, tumbling across the floor with a loud, papery crash.

Heat crept up his neck. He dropped to one knee, scrambling to catch a sliding roll before it vanished under a chair. “Sorry,” he muttered, fumbling for the rest. “I wasn’t expecting anyone out here.”

“No problem,” came a voice above him, low and a little amused. “Nothin’ I haven’t heard before.”

Hutch looked up, half-expecting a sharp suit or a smirk. Instead, he saw a man crouched beside him, already helping to gather the mess. Worn leather jacket, scuffed boots, calloused hands. Dark curls under a tilted fedora. A city man, maybe, but not the polished kind Hutch had always pictured. The man’s face was tired but alert, sharp-edged and striking in a way that caught Hutch off guard. When their hands brushed, Hutch pulled back a moment too quickly.

“Uh, yeah, I suppose so,” he said, clearing his throat. He gathered the rest of the papers into a loose stack and stood. “Can I help you with something.”

“I’m David Starsky.” He held out his hand. “I was looking for Roger Hutchinson. He was a friend of my grandfather, Joshua Debrins.”

Hutch blinked. He stared a second longer than he should have before reaching out and shaking the man’s hand. It was warm, steady. Not the grip of someone unsure of himself. Hutch felt suddenly underdressed, even in his work shirt and tie.

Starsky’s expression didn’t shift much, but there was something unreadable in the eyes, sharp, dark, maybe sizing him up. Hutch couldn’t blame him. If the situation were reversed, he’d be doing the same. He was doing it now.

“Of course,” Hutch said quickly. He stepped aside and gestured toward the chair by the desk. “Sorry about the mess. You caught us in the middle of reorganizing some of the survey files,” he added, motioning to the clutter as he moved behind the desk.

“It’s alright,” Starsky said as he sat down, shrugging off his coat and resting it on his lap. “I didn’t catch your name.”

Hutch blinked again, annoyed at himself. “Sorry. Hutch…I mean Kenneth Hutchinson, but most just call me Hutch. Roger is my grandfather. He’s not in at the moment…”

He cleared a folder from the edge of the desk, trying to look competent as heat crept up the back of his neck. Damn, clumsy start. His hands felt awkward, like they didn’t belong to him. He rubbed them against the sides of his trousers, took a breath, and tried to focus.

This wasn’t how he’d pictured it going. Joshua’s grandson, here in the flesh, and Hutch was stumbling around like a teenager. He didn’t understand it. He wasn’t usually nervous with strangers. But this man wasn’t just anyone, and it threw him.

When he finally looked up, Starsky was watching him with a small, knowing smirk. Not mean, not smug, just quietly amused. Hutch flushed deeper.

Starsky leaned forward slightly. “Do you know when your grandfather might be back?”

Hutch shook his head. “He won’t be. I mean…not here. He hasn’t been coming in for a while now.” He hesitated before adding, “He’s been ill. Had a stroke a few months back. Slowed him down. But if you’d like, I could take you to him. He’s still sharp as ever, just… not getting out like he used to.”

Starsky’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his posture. A quiet, guarded curiosity, maybe. Or tension. Hutch couldn’t quite read it…but that bothered him. He wanted to be able to read this man, for some reason.

He cleared his throat again. “It’s not far. Just outside of town.”

Starsky nodded slowly, like he was weighing more than just directions. “Yeah. I’d like that. If he’s up for it.”

“He’ll want to see you,” Hutch said before he could stop himself. It came out more certain than he felt, but something in Starsky’s face softened just a bit. Not much, but enough.

“Then I’ll come,” Starsky said.

After making a quick call to his grandfather, Hutch led the other man down some back stairs to a lot behind the building, where an old, battered Dodge Power Wagon sat waiting, looking like it had weathered far too many harsh winters. Starsky shot Hutch a skeptical look. Hutch merely shrugged, then winced slightly as he tugged open the protesting door.

———————————-

The Hutchinson house sat low against the brittle winter horizon, all sharp angles and long shadows. Hutch kept the truck steady as they passed the stables. Two of the blacks were being led out for exercise, their blankets marked cleanly with the RH monogram. The animals moved with calm authority. They always had that look. Well-bred, well-fed, trained to respond to a whistle and a flick of the reins.

Hutch glanced at Starsky. He was watching them with that closed-off expression still couldn’t read.

“That’s the old man’s chuck wagon,” Hutch said, nodding toward the covered rig in the yard. Its canvas canopy still bore the fading stenciled name, The RH Ranch. “Still keeps it tuned up for the Stampede races. He enters a team every year, even now.”

Starsky gave a faint sound, noncommittal, eyes tracking the slow, rhythmic stride of the horses.

Hutch shifted his hands on the wheel. “He started out with your grandfather in Texas, then Sweetgrass Arch, back when the oil field was just opening up. Caught the right break early. Got lucky. Built most of this on the backs of a few good wells. We also got some land, mostly cattle, down near Yellowstone. ”

That was the public version. Hutch wasn’t sure why he was giving it to Starsky. Maybe to explain the place. Maybe to justify it.

Inside the home, the air was colder than Hutch had expected, faint with the scent of liniment and old varnish. He led the way, boots making quiet contact against stone. He heard Starsky’s footfalls behind him, a little slower.

The hall was a monument to a certain kind of legacy. Bronze statues, buckles in glass cases, rosettes and plaques from cattle shows stretching back decades. Trophies for roping, for breeding, for endurance. Every wall testified to something won. Hutch glanced at Starsky and wondered what it looked like to him. Not just the grandeur, but the weight of it.

A nurse intercepted them near the study door, as punctual as the grandfather clock in the front hall. She was in her fifties, iron-gray bun and a pressed uniform, one of the few people in the house who treated Hutch like he was still twelve.

“Ten minutes,” she said, folding her arms, “and nothing that gets his pressure up.”

Hutch offered her a small, disarming smile. “Come on, Mary. Like I said on the phone, I was just bringing him some company, not a marching band. And not Business. I promise.”

She didn’t budge. “Last time you said that, he tried to fire the housekeeper and buy cattle futures in the same breath.”

“That was months ago.”

“Six weeks.”

Hutch inclined his head slightly, conceding the point. “How’s he doing today?”

Mary let out a sigh that seemed pulled from deep in her spine. “Same as yesterday. Wants bourbon before breakfast and a clear airway to the phone. He says he’s dying, but he still asks me for the business section before I pour his coffee.”

Hutch cracked a tooth-filled grin. “That sounds about right.”

Chapter 7

Roger Hutchinson remained a formidable character despite being confined to a wheelchair. Broad-shouldered and square-jawed, his gnarled hands rested like old machinery on the arms of the chair. His white hair was thick and wild, and his face, though deeply weathered, had a kind of rugged symmetry, except for the left side, which was twisted and slack from the stroke. Didn’t move at first.

Hutch could tell by the angle of his chin that the old man was already sizing Starsky up. Not with hostility, more like an old ranch dog watching a stranger cross the yard.

Not barking. Not wagging either.

Hutch cleared his throat. “Grandpa, this is David Starsky.” He felt something catch in his voice and pushed past it. “Joshua’s grandson.”

The old man’s eyes sharpened. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Sorry about your grandfather.”

“Thank you, sir.” Starsky stepped forward and offered his hand. “Hutch, said you wouldn’t mind a visit…”

Roger’s voice came out rough, like gravel catching in the gears. “No idea why this one insists on butchering our name. Probably thinks it makes him sound like a prizefighter.”

Hutch rolled his eyes and moved toward the side table. “Or maybe I just got tired of spelling it for people who still write checks with a feather.”

Roger gave a short, wheezy huff. “Sit down. Joshua talked about you more than he talked about oil. Thought you’d be running a field by now. Damned old fool.” The words held no malice, just the blunt weight of affection.

Starsky eased into the leather armchair. Hutch watched as his eyes wandered, quiet and thoughtful. He took in the shelves of rusted drill bits, the grainy black-and-white photos of derricks in winter, blowouts caught mid-roar, and sunburned men squinting into the lens. Yellowed certificates framed in dry oak, a forgotten oil lamp still crusted with soot, and the faint, mingled scent of machine grease and paper mold. None of it had changed in years. Maybe decades.

Hutch wondered what it looked like to Starsky. What it felt like. A monument or a warning. A room full of ghosts or a throne room of old kings. He didn’t ask.

Joshua had told him once, late at night. How hard it had been for his daughter in New York with two boys and nothing else. He’d sounded bitter, full of quiet shame. He’d said he wished he could’ve helped more, but he just didn’t have it.

And Hutch had never told him the truth.

Roger had sent money. Not a lot, but enough to keep the lights on, to soften the leanest months. His grandfather never said much about it, just told his accountant where to send the next one and not to mention it to Joshua. Pride was a tricky thing between old men. Worse between family.

She never mentioned it. Not once. And Hutch knew she and Joshua wrote regularly, letters passed back and forth like clockwork. That was what struck him. She hadn’t ignored her father. She’d just chosen to leave that part out. Maybe she figured the money came from Joshua.

Maybe she didn’t want to ask.

Maybe she didn’t want to admit she’d needed it.

Now her son sat across from Roger in a room full of the history that had shaped them all. Hutch couldn’t help wondering what he saw. What he guessed. And whether it felt like walking into someone else’s unfinished story, surrounded by the trophies of money that hadn’t managed to save any of them.

Roger suddenly leaned forward, wheeling his chair to a cabinet tucked along the wall, with a burst of strength that always caught Hutch off guard. “Drink?”

“She doesn’t know I’ve got it,” he added, motioning to the cabinet, opening a door at the bottom and pulling out a bottle of Whisky. he held it up to the occupants in the room. “Not supposed to have it. Ken sneaks it in. Thinks maybe it’ll finish me off.”

Hutch gave a dry snort as he pulled out two glasses from higher in teh cabinet. “I just think you’re more tolerable with a little whisky in you.”

Roger poured, his good hand steady. “Your health, young feller.”

Starsky accepted the glass with a nod. “And yours, sir.”

Roger waved him off. “Don’t waste good whisky on lies. I haven’t got any health to toast. They’re all just waiting for me to croak. Acheson, Trevedian, Gunther. Vultures. Every one of them.” He turned his head to peer at Starsky more directly. “But not you. You think you’re gonna drill in the Kingdom?”

Hutch tensed, watching how Starsky would answer.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Starsky said quietly. “Acheson showed me the survey.”

Roger exhaled hard. “Pity. Brown got a good sense of the earth and rock in him. And Dobey. If he says there’s no oil, then there’s probably no oil.” He paused. “Still, I just wish we had a chance to drill. Your grandfather was all set to drill in the spring.”

“Then why’d you tell them to make an offer?” Starsky asked.

Hutch turned, startled. “What offer?”

Roger ignored them both for a moment, just staring into the amber in his glass. “Actually, I told those dam lawyers to forget about it,” he muttered. “Just like Joshua did.”

Starsky’s voice was even. “Acheson says Joshua owed you. That I owe you. That I should remember what your family did for mine.”

Roger’s good eye locked on him like a vise. “Bullshit. I give money to people I care about. If Joshua owed me anything, he paid it a long time ago…in other ways.” He sat back in his chair, breathing heavier now. “If you want to chase ghosts and drill holes in the snow, I’ll see it done. You’re not obligated to me or anyone in this family. You hear..”

“Yes, sir.” Starsky gave a small laugh, more tired than amused. “But. I’m not in any position to drill, sir. And anyway, you’re the one holding the mineral rights.”

Hutch lifted his glass. “Technically, he holds them. But I know where the key to the filing cabinet is.”

Roger let out something that might’ve been a chuckle, then pushed the bottle back into the cabinet with deliberate care. “There’s oil in those mountains,” he murmured, half to himself. “I’d like to see it happen. Just to prove the bastards wrong. To prove Joshua was right all along.”

Hutch crossed his arms, watching his grandfather slowly close his eyes. “He says that every time the kingdom is brought up. Thought he might stop after Joshua died.”

Roger didn’t open his eyes. But his mouth twitched into a crooked line. “One day, you’ll be the old man no one listens to. And you’ll wish you’d shouted louder.”

The nurse appeared in the doorway, polite but firm. Hutch stood, and so did Starsky.

“You staying nearby?” Hutch asked as they moved back into the hall.

“The Pallister,” Starsky said.

“I’ll drive you.”

Starsky gave him a sidelong glance. “Only if you let me buy you lunch.”

Hutch cracked a grin. “Deal.”

Just as they were about to pull away, one of the household staff hurried out onto the porch, waving to get their attention. “Mr. Hutchinson, your grandfather’s asking to speak to you before you leave.” She sounds apologetic, knowing the two men had just been speaking to the older man.

Hutch let out a sigh and leaned out the window. “What does he want, Margie? We just left him.”

She gave a helpless shrug. “Didn’t say, sir. You know how he is. Said it’s important.”

Hutch shot Starsky a half-apologetic, half-resigned look. “I’ll be right back. Probably wants me to pick something up in town.” He climbed out of the truck and jogged up the steps, boots thudding against the wooden boards.

Inside, the house was quiet again. Hutch stepped back into the study, not bothering to knock this time. Roger hadn’t moved. Just sat in that heavy chair, facing the fire now, like he’d been waiting for Hutch all along.

“Don’t let him sell out, son,” Roger said without preamble.

Hutch paused just inside the doorway. “That what this is about?”

“I’ll call Dobey, tell him you’re coming by as soon as you drop off David. I know he’s the best, but something just doesn’t…

“Doesn’t sit right. Yeah, I feel it too, grandpa.”

“I suspect Dobey feels the same, but just can’t speak against the data he was given.” Roger sighed and continued, voice low but steady. “When I talked to Dobey yesterday, he said Huggy’s back from wildcatting. I trust Huggy’s nose. If there’s something under that land, Joshua’s boy’ll have a better shot at finding it with Huggy’s help.”

Hutch hesitated. He wanted to say that Starsky wasn’t a boy, that maybe the Kingdom wasn’t worth saving. But none of it felt true when he pictured the look Starsky wore in the study earlier, sitting in that leather chair like he didn’t belong but was too stubborn to say it out loud.

“I’ll try,” Hutch said quietly. “I don’t know if he’ll listen.”

Roger’s eyes didn’t waver. “Make him.”

Hutch nodded and left. Sliding behind the wheel again, he said, “I can still get you back to your hotel, but I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone lunch.”

“That’s fine,” the man assured him. “How about dinner instead?”

“That’ll work.”

————————————————-

When Hutch dropped him off at The Pallister, Starsky went straight up to his room. Once inside, he sank onto the bed, pulling Dobey’s report from his coat pocket. He stared at it blankly, thoughts drifting back to Roger Hutchinson, the stubborn, proud old man who had believed in his grandfather’s impossible dream. He understood the need, that desperate hunger to prove the experts wrong, to find one final justification for a lifetime of stubborn belief.

But now, having the chance to look at the report Acheson had given him. It was clear that Dobey’s report stated there was no oil, and the senior Hutchinson himself had vouched for the man’s honesty. He felt the certainty slipping away, replaced by a sense of resignation. Maybe he had already made the decision to sign the deed of sale. He might have done it then, right there in that weary moment, if not for…with a sigh, he stood up. He wasn’t sure what was pulling him to want to believe a man he had hated his whole life.

Feeling exhaustion heavy in his bones, he tucked the papers back into his suitcase and lay down, deciding rest might clear his mind before dinner.

Chapter 8

A few hours later, Starsky met Hutch in the hotel lobby. The lighting was dim, warm against the polished brass and old rugs. Hutch was already waiting by the front desk, leaning on one heel, hands in his pockets, dressed like someone who didn’t care what people thought but still somehow looked like he belonged.

“Ready?” Hutch asked.

Starsky nodded and followed him outside.

The cold hit like a slap. He coughed hard, caught off guard by the sudden burn in his chest. It felt like breathing in broken glass. He hunched slightly, trying to get it under control, one hand braced against the stone wall beside the door.

“You alright?” Hutch asked, pausing just ahead.

He waved him off, the worst of it already passing. “Yeah. Just not used to this kind of cold. I was getting over something before I came out west. Residual crud.”

Hutch didn’t move right away. His eyes scanned Starsky’s face, quiet and assessing. “You sure?”

“I’m fine. Really.” He gave a nod, the second one firmer. “Come on, before our asses freeze.”

Hutch gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, not convinced but willing to let it go. They fell into step again, boots crunching on slush and grit. The snow had stopped falling, but the pavement was slick with slush. The wind came in sharply off the buildings. The early evening sky had already draped itself in deep blues and purples, and the streetlamps cast long, golden reflections into the puddles and ice-rimmed gutters. Their boots crunched with each step.

They walked in silence, passing shuttered shops and the occasional car crawling by, wheels hissing in the wet. About a block down, Hutch led them up the stone steps of a brick building with wide windows and understated signage. No neon, no name on the front. The kind of place that didn’t need one.

Starsky took in the worn but elegant exterior, the brass handle polished from years of use, and the doorman in a long coat. The place reminded him of the clubs lawyers and bankers haunted back in New York. Old money. Quiet rules.

Inside, they handed over their coats and stepped through double doors into a long, low saloon. It was spare but clean, no frills. Just small marble-topped tables, rigid chairs, and a kind of utilitarian hush. Half the tables were full. All men—local businessmen, ranchers, a few clerks by the look of it. Not a single woman in sight.

The bartender looked up as they approached. “Two beers,” he said automatically.

“No,” Starsky said, glancing at Hutch. “This one’s on me. I’ll have a brandy. What about you, will you have a shot?”

Hutch chuckled. “Anybody can see he comes from New York.”

The bartender offered a dry smile but shook his head. “Beer only, mister. This here is a beer parlour. No women except the waitresses, no standing, no more than a pint at a time. If you want hard liquor, there’s a bottle shop down the street.”

Starsky blinked. “No kidding.”

“No kidding,” Hutch said, clearly amused. “Welcome to the West. We drink slow and steady.”

The bartender set down two pints. Hutch added an order for food and, without further comment, led David to a booth in the far corner, where the noise dimmed and the shadows were thicker.

They slid into the booth, the seat backs stiff with age. The smell of hops and floor polish hung in the air. Across the room, a group of men laughed over some ranch story. No one looked their way.

Hutch tilted his chair back and offered that same easy grin. “Reckon Joshua didn’t leave you much. Besides the Kingdom, I mean.”

Starsky stared into his beer. The foam ringed the glass like frost. “No. The Kingdom’s it. You heard what was said this afternoon. They want me to sell. Acheson made sure I knew how generous their offer was.”

Hutch took a drink and nodded. “Yeah, Acheson has never been subtle, more like a bull in a china shop.”

He didn’t answer right away. He watched the swirl of amber and bubbles, the thin film of head slipping down the inside of the glass. He didn’t want to say what was really driving him, the thing wrapped around his ribs like wire, the clock he couldn’t rewind.

So instead, Starsky gave a quiet nod. “I don’t want to sell. Not after talking to your grandfather.”

“Good,” Hutch said simply. Then, after a beat, his voice softened, quieter now. “He’d hate to see it handed over to the same people who spent years trying to cheat him out of it. Kingdom meant something to him. Not just land, you know? It was the one thing he built that nobody could take.”

They let that sit for a while. Then Starsky shifted slightly. “The article the lawyers gave me said you were the one who found him.”

“Yep.”

“So how’d you find Joshua?”

Hutch salted his beer and drank, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch. “He was fine when we got up there. Guiding a couple of magazine types from back east.” He rolled a cigarette as he talked, slow and practiced. “We had stopped for the night at Joshua’s place. As I usually do for tourists. The next morning, we crossed south over to the next ridge. When we returned, it was snowing heavily. The second I saw the place, I knew something was off.”

“How so?”

Hutch offered Starsky a cigarette, then continued when the man declined. “No smoke from the chimney. No tracks. The horses were edgy. The whole place felt wrong. We found him facedown just inside the cabin door. Like he’d been trying to get out for more firewood. Something made him trip over a chair and hit his head.”

Starsky frowned. “How long had he been gone?”

“Couldn’t have been long. We were only gone three days.”

“What do you think happened?”

Hutch gave a half shrug. “Old age. Stroke, maybe. Cold didn’t help. He was tough as boot leather, but sometimes that’s not enough.”

Hutch tapped the ash from his cigarette into the shallow tin tray and leaned back slightly, eyes scanning the other man’s face. “You said you don’t want to sell,” he said, tone even. “But that’s not the same as saying you’ll keep it.”

Starsky didn’t answer right away. He ran his thumb along the rim of his glass, watching the foam collapse into the amber. He thought about what the Doctor had said back East and his real reasons for coming here, but he wasn’t ready to tell anybody the truth, especially a stranger. “I don’t know,” he lied. “Feels wrong to let it go. But I can’t see holding onto something I’ve never even laid eyes on.” He looked up. “That’s why I want to go. See the Kingdom for myself. Then I’ll decide.”

Hutch nodded slowly. “Fair.”

“But Acheson’s leaning hard,” Starsky went on. “He’s got lawyers lined up, developers sniffing around. Keeps calling it generous, practical, a clean break. Said if I wait, I lose leverage.” His expression tightened. “I get the feeling they want me to believe I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t,” Hutch said, “unless you fight for it. And they’re counting on you not doing that.”

Starsky exhaled, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Who exactly are the other players? Besides Acheson. In the paperwork, there was another name, Gunther?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said, his tone flattening. “Gunther’s not the sort who likes to be told no. He’s not loud like Acheson, but he’s worse. Quiet money. Old ties. Doesn’t show up unless something’s already been decided in a back room.”

“And what does he want?”

“Power,” Hutch said. “Literally. The Kingdom sits in a prime spot for hydroelectric development. He’s got a mine nearby, an old operation he’s been trying to reopen for years. Ten, fifteen years ago, a rockslide shut down the main access tunnel. Bigger operations didn’t make it worth it dollar-wise to open it sooner. With the war finally over, and the economy and demand picking up, he’s just now wanting to get it cleared. The dam project puts him in a position to generate power right on-site instead of buying it from a site further away.”

Starsky’s brow furrowed. “And me not selling…”

“You’re in his way,” Hutch said bluntly. “And you control more than just a few pretty acres. You control the elevation. The watershed. The headwater easement. Every day you stall, he bleeds more cash. Engineering, permits, and delay penalties. It all stacks.”

Starsky looked away, jaw tight. “So this isn’t the kind of choice that leaves me many good options.”

“No,” Hutch said. “It’s not. But Joshua figured some things were worth the trouble anyway.”

Starsky sat back, the weight of it all pressing in. The beer was warm now, his appetite gone. The idea that he was more than a name on a deed, more than a convenient heir, settled like a stone in his chest. He glanced at Hutch, who hadn’t said anything in a while, just nursing his cigarette, eyes tracking the smoke like he was giving Starsky space to decide.

“I don’t know,” Starsky said, fingers tracing the moisture on his glass. “Going up there, seeing the place. I’m not sure what good it’ll do.”

“I’m heading up tomorrow,” Hutch said. Simple. Unpressured. As if it weren’t even a question. “You can come if you want.”

Starsky studied his face. Hutch wasn’t pushing. Just offering.

“You want me to come?”

“I wouldn’t mind the company,” Hutch replied. “Place is quieter than it should be, this time of year.”

Starsky looked down at his hands. He could still feel the tightness in his chest from earlier, the cold bite of the air, the heat in his lungs. He’d told Hutch it was nothing, but it wasn’t nothing. Nothing about this trip had been. And maybe that’s why the idea of going up to the Kingdom felt less like a burden and more like a reckoning.

Starsky let out a breath. He wasn’t ready to make a final call, not yet. But maybe going up there, seeing it for himself, was the only way to know what came next.

He gave a slow nod. “Alright. I’ll come.”

Chapter 9

Morning came soon enough, grey and brittle with cold. They were on the road before the sun had done more than stain the sky. Starsky didn’t think about Acheson or contracts or the pressure waiting back in town. By the time the old power wagon rattled past the last fringe of city and into open land, that weight had lifted off his shoulders like steam rising off pavement. He let it go, letting it drift out into the wind that curled past the windshield.

One mile closer to the Kingdom. That was enough.

The ranchlands slid by, white and quiet, broken only by the occasional fence or grain silo. Trees stood bare, stripped to their bones, and the sky pressed down low. The land wasn’t dead, just waiting, and he felt it all the way down in his lungs. They topped one of those long rises midmorning, and then there they were.

Mountains.

Not gentle hills, not the soft blue humps he remembered from the East. These were jagged, massive, a wall of ice and stone and sky. Snow ribbed the ridgelines, wind dragging veils off the peaks. Behind the first white crowns were taller ones, darker, older. They didn’t look like part of the land. They looked like something the land was holding back.

“Quite a sight, eh?” Hutch yawned behind the wheel, one hand easy on the wheel, the other on his thigh. “You’re seeing them at the right time. By the end of summer, they look all dusty and worn out.”

Starsky didn’t answer right away. His breath fogged the window as he leaned against it. There was something about the way the mountains just stood there, unmoved, like they didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. He couldn’t help feeling the same.

He let Hutch talk, place names, ghost towns, and trails. Landmarks David’s grandfather would’ve known. Claims he’d chased. Dreams he’d never quite given up on. Maybe Starsky hadn’t either.

They reached a town called Crosshatch near six, and the sky had already gone dark. It was a simple roadside pit stop, where highways crossed, with nothing more than a gas station, a hotel and a diner. Hutch turned off the highway into a gravel lot outside a squat motel with a buzzed-out sign and a flickering vacancy bulb. At the front desk, Hutch asked about the pass. The man behind the counter, with chapped skin and wearing a flannel shirt, said it had been open for two days straight. Might hold.

The room was cramped but warm, the heater humming steadily. They didn’t talk much. Cold had worn them both out, and Starsky moved slow, like he was pacing himself for a fight he hadn’t met yet.

——————————————————-

Later, they found a booth at the attached diner, sliding into cracked vinyl seats under buzzing overhead lights. The place smelled of fried onions and old grease, the kind of scent that stuck to your clothes. They ordered strong coffee, hamburgers, and fries. Neither spoke much while they ate.

Afterward, Hutch leaned back and watched Starsky absently stir his coffee with the handle of his spoon, his other hand resting idle against the chipped tabletop. The silence between them had settled in without effort, like something expected. Outside the frosted window, darkness pressed against the glass. Snow had started again, drifting sideways under the bent streetlamp, the flakes catching the light before vanishing into black.

Starsky followed the movement for a while, eyes distant. Then, without looking away, he spoke. “Tell me about Come Lucky.”

Hutch didn’t move. “Not much to tell.”

Starsky glanced over. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Hutch smirked faintly, nudged a French fry through the ketchup on his plate. “It’s a nothing town. Maybe a dozen buildings, maybe less now. Old timber store. A depot. A hotel with a small restaurant that leans to one side like it’s tired of waiting for a strong wind to blow it over. Most folks drifted off once the mine closed. What’s left are the ones too stubborn or too broke to leave.”

Starsky took a sip of his coffee. “Sounds like a hell of a place to stake a Kingdom.”

Hutch shrugged. “It wasn’t the town he meant. Joshua always said the Kingdom started where the road gave up. Come Lucky was just the last place to buy whiskey and feed.”

“So what was it really?” Starsky asked. “To him.”

Hutch leaned back, coffee in one hand. He looked out the window, though the mountains were long gone in the dark. “Ridge country. Deep and folded. Fir stands and rockslides. Clearings where elk graze, high basins with meltwater so cold it’ll split your teeth. He has a cabin up there. There are a couple of other buildings, barns, and what was once a bunk house. During winter, it is packed in with snow.”

Starsky said nothing. His fingers tapped once against the ceramic mug.

Hutch glanced over. “You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

Hutch nodded. “To him, it wasn’t just about oil. Sure, he wanted to strike something big. Wanted to prove he hadn’t wasted his life chasing ghosts. But he loved that place. Not in the way people say they love a view. He knew it. Talked about the Kingdom like it was watching him, same as he watched it.”

Starsky’s eyes flicked down to the coffee. “And you? You believe in it?”

“I believe it mattered to him. That’s enough for me.”

Starsky let that sit for a minute. The coffee had gone lukewarm, but he took another swallow anyway.

“You ever see him find anything?”

“Oil?” Hutch shook his head. “No. Maybe he came close once. He said there was a spot, high up, a seep in the rocks. Smelled like it might’ve been something. He staked it, but then there was a rock slide soon after, and he could never find it again.”

Starsky took a slow sip. “Sounds like you spent more time up here than down below.”

“Yeah. Pretty much my whole life. More so after the war. I just couldn’t go back to the way it was before. Not really. Before, it was just a summer place. After… the world felt wrong, and Joshua understood. He and my grandfather gave me work. My degree had value here. And helping Joshua, well, it kept my mind occupied. This mountain does something to a man. It makes the noise go quiet.”

Starsky didn’t reply right away.

The silence stretched between them again, but it wasn’t empty. Hutch could feel the weight of it like damp wool pressing down. Hutch watched Starsky’s face in the reflection from the window. The man’s face was unreadable, calm in a way that wasn’t peaceful. Held together by force of will.

“What did you do after the war?” Hutch asked, voice soft, letting the question seem casual, like it didn’t mean much.

Starsky said nothing, but his eyes moved in his direction, before shifting away again.

“Joshua wanted to know what had happened to you.” Hutch pressed on. “After your mother died, he lost touch with everyone back east. It bothered him. A lot. The idea of you being out there alone. He tried to find you. Joshua even sent me to New York once, in ‘34, I think. He wanted to know where his daughter was buried. Where you and your brother were. All I found was a grave.”

“I’d already left New York by then. You wouldn’t have found me.” Starsky said it more to himself than to Hutch. “Too many memories by that point. Nicky was doing a stint in prison. I bounced around a while. Didn’t go back to the city until ’38.” His voice trailed off.

Hutch turned his eyes down, but after a beat, he looked up. Starsky hadn’t moved. Still staring out the window like he could see something beyond the glass.

“Your grandfather never stopped trying,” Hutch said quietly. “Even after the war started. When it ended, I reached out to some friends at the War Office. They traced you for a while, commission in the Army, then a POW. After which you were invalided out.”

There it was again, that distant expression on Starsky’s face. Not evasive, just… removed.

“You admired him?” Starsky finally asked.

Hutch nodded, “Enough to hear his voice in yours,” Hutch said, glancing at Starsky. “You’ve got some of his manner. Not his build, no. Joshua was a powerful man. But there’s something in the way you carry yourself.”

Starsky nodded. “And how did you get so close to my grandfather? Who was he to you? Because you see, Hutch, what you remember about him and what I remember are two completely different things. It doesn’t make sense.”

Hutch shifted slightly, “When my parents died, my grandfather was at a loss. He’d just buried his whole family, including my grandmother and wasn’t ready to raise a kid. So he packed me off to school. During the summers, he sent me up here. He and Joshua were really close. Almost brothers, you could say. Joshua took me under his wing. Gave me structure, something solid to hold onto. He didn’t treat me like a burden. He gave me work, a sense of purpose. In a lot of ways, he filled the space my father left behind.”

Hutch studied the light playing off Starsky’s profile. The stubborn set of his jaw, the faint lines near his eyes. There was a pull there, subtle and unsettling. It made Hutch feel off-balance in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep or nostalgia.

“I’m curious why you never wrote to him? You grandfather, I mean,” Hutch asked, voice more brittle than he intended. “Or come out to see him? Were you ashamed? Because he’d been to prison?”

Starsky blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t know his address. Didn’t know he’d come back here. Didn’t even know he was alive. We moved often enough… and when my mother died, I didn’t care to keep anything linked to my grandfather.”

Hutch leaned forward, his voice low but hard, a finger pointing at the man across from him. “That’s a lie.”

Starsky stiffened. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen the letters, Starsky.” Hutch’s eyes didn’t waver. “Joshua sent them. More than once. You know how they came back? Return to sender. Red ink. Like a goddamn wound.”

Starsky looked away. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak.

“You knew,” Hutch pressed, the heat rising in his voice. “Maybe not every year. Maybe not every address. But one of them found you. Or came close enough. And you sent it back.”

“I didn’t…” Starsky started, but stopped, swallowing whatever defense he’d meant to give.

“You wanted to forget him,” Hutch said. “Fine. Maybe that’s how you survived. But don’t stand there and tell me you didn’t know he was out here, trying. You knew. And you chose not to answer.”

The air between them went still, thick with the kind of silence that didn’t break easily. Hutch sat back slowly, the accusation still hanging in the air. Starsky’s fingers curled tightly around his coffee cup, knuckles pale.

“I…I just didn’t want to think about him,” Starsky said. “I only met him once. When I was too young to care, or too angry.”

“When he’d just come out of prison.”

Starsky nodded. “Yes.”

“And so you decided you’d forget all about him. Because he’d done five years for something he didn’t do.”

Starsky’s head snapped up. “How was I supposed to know that?” The words hit hard. “You son of a bitch, you sit here mourning a man who ruined my life. You want to know the truth? I hated the bastard.”

Hutch met the other man’s eyes. “Why?”

“Why? Wh….Because of what he did to my life.”

Hutch didn’t speak, waiting.

Starsky leaned forward. “He didn’t mean to. I get that now. It was this business partner of theirs who ran off with the money. But it doesn’t change what happened. My father killed himself over that trial. I was six. My mother worked as a nurse at a boarding school so I could get a decent education. My brother was in diapers, neighbors passed him around.”

He didn’t stop. The words came like a flood.

“Then he got out. Someone saw it in the paper. The school fired my mother. Let me stay on as a charity case. It broke her. She couldn’t find steady work, but it was enough to keep us afloat.

Hutch felt a stone settle low in his gut. Starsky’s voice had gone flat now. Not angry anymore. Just tired.

“And you?” Hutch asked softly.

“I stayed at the school until someone accused me of theft. Didn’t matter if it was true. I didn’t wear the right clothes. Didn’t come from the right background. They pinned it on me and made it stick. The headmaster brought up my grandfather’s prison record. It gave them the excuse they needed. You want to know something else? She went to her grave believing Joshua and my father were innocent. She believed it with everything she had. And it still destroyed us.”

He looked over at Hutch, eyes dark. “So, no. I didn’t care much for my grandfather,” he spat the last out like he had eaten something bitter. And perhaps he had.

Hutch looked at him for a long time, no judgment in his expression now, just sadness. “It never occurred to you he might’ve been wrongly convicted?”

Starsky didn’t answer right away. Then, with a bitter laugh, “No. It never occurred to me.”

Hutch’s voice dropped again, rough with memory. “You meant a lot to him. You were all he had. His only family.”

Starsky scoffed. “Some family. Seems he replaced us just fine, don’t you think? And if he cared so much, he could have easily told her to come out here. But he didn’t. ”

Hutch stared at Starsky, frowning slightly. “If you’d opened those letters? And he had asked you to come out? If you’d known he was innocent…”

“My mother would have. Me…..I…I don’t know.”

Hutch went on. “Joshua was good at keeping a front when I brought people around. But underneath it? He was tired. Worn thin. He’d lost his heart for it. Kathy and I both saw it. He needed help, but he’d never ask. Pride, maybe. Or just old habits.”

Starsky’s mouth twitched, the tension bleeding into a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You came now, though,” Hutch said, watching him. “You came when you heard he was dead. Why? Because you thought there might be oil in the Kingdom?”

Starsky’s eyes lingered on the window, on the way the snow twisted in the light. His shoulders tightened.

“I guess,” he said again, quieter. Then, after a pause, “I’m not…I don’t…”

He shoved his way out of the booth, stood too quickly, like the air had gone sour. Digging into his coat pocket, he pulled out a few bills and dropped them on the table without counting. They fluttered beside the empty mugs.

“I’m tired,” he muttered. “Going back to the room.”

Hutch didn’t move. Just watched as Starsky turned, shoulders rigid under the worn coat, boots echoing dully on the diner’s linoleum floor. The bell over the door gave a weak jangle as it closed behind him, swallowed by the wind and dark outside.

The booth felt colder without him. The coffee was long gone, and the food congealing on the plate. Hutch stayed where he was, elbows on the table, hands folded. Watching the snow.

He hadn’t expected absolution, but he hadn’t expected to feel this hollow either.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether the mountain was done taking.

Chapter 10

They left after lunch the next day, and by midafternoon, the road turned narrow and steep, climbing into shadow as the mountains closed in around them. The peaks with torn faces of rock and white teeth of snow, ridges that blocked out all but a thin sliver of sky. Below, the river wound through the valley, pale as skimmed milk from the glaciers upstream. The road was edged with dirty snow, and the air carried a bite that chewed through the layers of Starsky’s coat.

The sunlight turned cold, more reflection than heat the further htey climed. Still, he leaned forward slightly in his seat, hands braced against his knees. His heart moved a little faster now. The valley was bleak dark timber, grey cliffs, snowdrifts like bone, but it stirred something in him. Something restless. Something aching to know. He caught a glimpse of a railway line in the distance, twin black threads slicing through the snow, climbing high toward a mountain pass.

By the time dusk began to fall, the road broke from the trees and opened onto the shores of a narrow lake. Come Lucky sat at its head, slouched against the base of the mountain like a worn-out drunk.

The town looked half-buried. A clutter of shacks leaned toward the water as if they might slide right in and disappear. The snow weighed on the rooftops. Dark wood, crumbling chimneys, patches of yellow pine. Everything sagged. A gulch stretched behind the town, cutting into the mountain and vanishing into low cloud. The road kept going, tracing the lake into the gulch, but Hutch turned up toward Come Lucky instead.

They passed a squat log building patched with raw pine boards. Smoke drifted from an iron chimney. A weather-beaten sign beside the door read: Trevedian Transport Company: Office.

From there, the street narrowed. The snow was churned and muddy, the tires slipping just enough to make Hutch slow down. Starsky watched the town pass like ghosts behind glass. A crooked line of clapboard and log buildings, some collapsed, some barely hanging on. Tin chimneys, broken windows, rooflines bent under rot.

Above one shop, faint lettering still clung to the wood. “The Rusted Pic Ax.” Beside it, a green plaque that might’ve once been a doctor’s sign. Next to the saloon was the biggest building: The Golden Calf. Gilt lettering faded and flaked, the slogan beneath half-lost to time: “The Gaiety of the…” and something about being the best spot. The calf itself, grey, cracked paint, looked more like a ghost than a mascot.

“Hell of a place,” Starsky muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

They climbed the hill on the other side of town and pulled to a stop beside a sagging Victorian. It might’ve been beautiful once, gables, a wraparound porch, arched windows, but now it bore the weight of wind and years.

“I’ve got a room here,” Hutch said, killing the engine. “Couple of older ladies run the place. Miss Ruth Garret and her sister Naomi. They keep it open for me when I’m in town.”

“You can bunk with me,” Hutch added. “Two beds, heat works, most of the time.”

Starsky looked up at the old Victorian. The porch sagged, the paint had peeled in long strips, and the gingerbread trim hung like tired lace. But even in its weathered state, it had a kind of dignity the Golden Calf hadn’t. He remembered the leaning door, the broken windows, the faded sign with its grey-eyed calf.

“Or if you want, we can head back to the hotel.”

“No,” Starsky replied. “This is ok.” He didn’t want to argue. Didn’t have the strength. His hands felt cold inside his gloves.

Hutch nodded once and cut the engine.

“Miss Ruth,” he called, stepping up onto the porch. “It’s Ken.”

The front door opened with a soft creak, and a warm, golden light spread into the gloom. A woman stepped into the doorway, petite and upright, dressed in a long, black velvet gown that looked as if it belonged in a sepia photograph. A lace collar touched her throat, and a wide velvet ribbon circled her neck, from which hung a porcelain cameo the size of a silver dollar.

“Oh, Kenneth,” she said, her voice delicate and precise. “Come in, dear. And you’ve brought Mr. Starsky with you. Just like you said.”

Starsky blinked. “You know my name?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling through a gold-rimmed lorette that she raised to one eye. “Kenneth called from down below, said you were coming.”

Starsky and Hutch stepped inside, boots thudding softly against the worn floorboards. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke, beeswax polish, and something sweet, maybe cinnamon or cloves. It was warm, blessedly warm, and dimly lit with a pair of lamps on lace-draped side tables casting a soft amber glow over the narrow hall.

Starsky raised an eyebrow at Hutch as they shrugged off their coats. A silent question.

Hutch leaned closer, voice low. “Told her you were an old friend from school. Back east.”

Starsky snorted softly.

“She likes a good story,” Hutch murmured with a shrug, falling into step beside him. “I figured you wouldn’t want it getting around too quick, that you’re Joshua’s heir.”

Starsky glanced sideways. “Would that be a problem?”

Hutch paused a beat, then said, “Maybe. Maybe not. A lot of the old-timers around here have long memories, going all the way back to the trouble in the tens.”

Starsky nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. The fraud, conspiracy, and misappropriation of development funds.

They followed the older woman down the hall past wallpaper faded to soft rose and framed photographs of men in uniforms and women in long dresses. Everything looked like it had been dusted twice a day since the war, just not this war.

In the sitting room, Ruth turned slightly and raised her voice, her tone musical. “Naomi! Ken is back, and he has a guest.”

Another woman, older by some years and wrapped in a pale shawl, sat near the hearth. She looked up slowly, her expression catching for a moment, something like recognition, before retreating behind a quiet reserve. She didn’t speak. In contrast to her sister’s delicate, porcelain refinement, this one had softer, fuller features. Her face bore the traces of what must once have been vivid beauty, green eyes sharp against pale skin, a halo of curling, faded red hair. No lorgnette, no velvet cameo, but there was grace in her stillness.

“My sister’s a little deaf,” Ruth explained, turning back. “It makes her shy.”

Starsky hovered just inside the doorway. The warmth of the fire rushed at him, soaking through his coat and gloves, loosening the aches that had crept in during the long drive. His limbs didn’t want to move, but he stepped in farther, gaze drifting over the room.

It was like stepping into a Victorian memory. A dark upright piano stood along one wall, its keys hidden behind a carved wood panel. The chairs were spindly, high-backed, with needlepoint cushions and lace antimacassars draped neatly over their arms. There was even an aspidistra perched beside a battered table stacked with Reader’s Digests and war-era novels. A relic of another time, and everyone in it seemed aware of the performance.

“Now, Mr. Starsky,” Ruth said, gesturing to a settee with stiff cushions. “Will you sit just there? And you, Kenneth, you come sit beside me.”

Starsky eased down where indicated, managing a polite smile. He caught Hutch’s eye, silently pleading for rescue.

Ruth settled in across from him and raised her lorgnette again. “So, you’re a friend of the Hutchinsons.”

“Yes,” Starsky said, trying to keep his voice even. “Please, call me David.”

She smiled. “David, then.”

She studied him for another moment, eyes narrowing behind the gold frame. “You don’t look very strong, David. Have you been ill?”

He hesitated. “I’m convalescing.”

“Ah,” she said, as though the answer pleased her. “And your doctors have sent you to the mountains for rest. Good. The air here’s clear. Strong. It’ll fill your lungs whether they want it or not.”

Starsky gave a faint smile, appreciating the kindness even if it left him feeling exposed. He folded his hands together to hide the tremble in his fingers.

“Dinner’s long past,” Naomi spoke up, “but the kettle’s on if you’d like some tea. Or something stronger, depending on your needs.” Her eyes twinkled, sharp and amused.

“Thanks,” Starsky said, his voice quiet.

Hutch stepped in with perfect timing, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Maybe later, Miss Ruth, Miss Naomi,” he said, tone mock-solemn. “David’s had a long trip. I told him he could rest up before the interrogation.”

“Oh..of course, dear. Where are my manners?” Ruth said. “Room’s ready, top of the stairs, just like always.”

Their room consisted of 2 rooms on the third floor, tucked in under the slant of the roof in what most would call the attic. One was a sitting room/office of sorts, and the other was the bedroom, which was small, warm, and smelled faintly of pine soap. There were two beds, a battered dresser, and a radiator clanking noisily in the corner like it was trying to keep itself awake.

Hutch dropped his bag by the window and turned to him. “I was going to grab a bite. Come with?”

Starsky shook his head slowly. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry. Think I just need to lie down.”

Hutch gave him a long look but didn’t push. “Suit yourself. I’ll bring something back in case you change your mind.”

“Appreciate it,” Starsky said, already toeing off his boots.

When Hutch left, the room fell quiet except for the radiator and the creak of the old building settling into the cold. Starsky sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. He felt hollowed out. Not just tired, used up. The climb into the mountains, the air, the drive, it had scraped him raw. And underneath it all, the pull of the Kingdom was waiting somewhere ahead, and Roger’s words still echoed in his mind like a second heartbeat.

There’s oil in those mountains, boy. There always was.

He didn’t know if it was true. But he knew his grandfather and now Roger, and perhaps Hutch as well, believed it, and something about that belief had wormed its way into Starsky’s ribs and stayed there.

He stood long enough to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the dresser. The sight stopped him.

The reflection was pale, almost grey in the yellow light. His face was thinner than it had been even a week ago, the skin stretched tight over high cheekbones, the dark hollows beneath his eyes too deep. The stubble on his jaw looked blue against the sickly tone of his skin.

He turned away, shivering, and lay back on the bed without undressing. The room was too warm now, but he didn’t move to open the window. He pulled the map from his coat pocket, creased, nearly torn through the middle, the paper going soft at the edges from how often he’d handled it. He unfolded it on his chest and stared at the small dot labeled Kingdom Basin.

He didn’t know what he was going to find. But whatever it was, it felt like it might be the last thing he had the strength to do.

Chapter 11

Hutch closed the door behind him with care, the soft click of the latch swallowed by the hush of the old boarding house. The hallway was dim, warm, and still faintly fragrant with the lavender polish Naomi used on every surface she could reach. As he descended the stairs, the faint creak of the boards followed his weight, a familiar song in this house where nothing really ever changed.

When he passed the sitting room, Ruth Garret sat in her usual armchair, her knitting needles moving in calm, rhythmic loops. Her sister Naomi still sat beside the fire with her shawl gathered around her shoulders like a cocoon.

“Off somewhere, Kenneth?” Ruth asked, not even looking up from her yarn.

“Thinking I’d head down to the Pic Ax,” he said, shrugging on his coat. “Get something to eat.”

She gave a soft, disapproving cluck. “You don’t need to go all the way down there. I can warm you up some stew.”

He smiled, touched by the offer but shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it, ma’am, I could use the air.”

There was a pause before he spoke again, more thoughtful this time. “Is Kathy around?”

Kathy Dupriest was the other boarder in the house, a wartime nurse Hutch had met overseas. She’d come here after the war, drawn by something neither of them had ever put into words. Now she filled the space between the doctor’s monthly visits, caring for the scattered souls of Come Lucky and the surrounding valleys.

“No. She’s up at the Tracey place,” Ruth replied, her eyes flicking up. “Mrs. Tracey’s poorly again. Kath’s been up there since this morning.”

Naomi looked up briefly at the name, then back toward the fire, her expression unreadable.

“Is everything all right?” Ruth asked, her voice sharpening just slightly with concern.

“Yeah. Just…” Hutch hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Stars…David seemed… I don’t know. Tired. Too tired. Was hoping Kathy could look in on him while I was out.”

Ruth nodded slowly, and something in her expression shifted, concern, recognition. “He does look pale.”

“I’ll check in on him later,” Naomi said quietly. “Maybe leave a pot of tea by the bed.”

Hutch offered a grateful smile. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

He stepped out into the cold, the door clicking behind him, the night rushing in with a blast of wind and the muffled crunch of snow underfoot. He didn’t bother with the truck. The roads were too slushed over to make the trip worth it, and truth be told, he needed the walk. Needed the space.

The streets of Come Lucky were quiet, nearly emptied by dusk and the weather. Snow drifted in soft, deliberate flurries, muting the edges of the sagging rooftops and hollowed-out buildings that lined the town’s spine. Pools of lamplight spilled across the wooden sidewalks, casting long shadows into corners. Most of the windows were dark. The place looked like it was holding its breath, waiting for another storm to break.

As he walked, his thoughts drifted. He wasn’t sure what Starsky would do. Their fight at the diner still echoed between them, though neither had brought it up since. Hutch hadn’t meant to provoke him, but maybe he had. He understood the man’s anger.

Joshua had left damage behind…more than maybe he’d ever understood. A son-in-law who took his own life. A daughter left scraping by in the city. Hard feelings, bridges never rebuilt. But Hutch also knew how much the old man regretted it all. Every failure. Every silence. He’d told Hutch often enough in his last years. Said he’d wanted his family with him. That he’d written, begged. But his daughter refused.

Maybe she was right to. Maybe none of it could’ve been fixed.

Still, he’d left the Kingdom to Starsky. And that meant something. Whether Starsky saw it yet or not.

The cold wind whipped around the edge of the tavern. Hutch turned up his collar, stepped onto the wooden walkway, and pushed open the door. Warmth rushed over him like firelight on snow.

The Pic Ax hadn’t changed much since its founding sometime last century. The warped wood floors still buckled in familiar spots, ceiling beams held the stale scent of tobacco and coal smoke, and the thick heat wrapped around him like an old wool coat. The windows were fogged from the contrast of snow and stove, and a low murmur of voices rose from the central table where most of the patrons had gathered.

Along the back wall, two doors stood beneath cracked signs—“Kitchen” and “Hotel”—facing the long bar that ran the length of the room. A scattering of small round tables filled the floor, though only a few were occupied. Most of Come Lucky’s die-hards were huddled at the big table near the stove, elbows close, boots drying in the heat.

At its end sat old Mac McClellan, as weathered as the tavern itself. His sharp eyes drifted beneath heavy lids, and he gave Hutch a slow nod as the younger man unwound his scarf. To Mac’s left sat his son James, sharp-nosed, wiry, jaw clenched like a steel cable, and beside him, Ben Creasy, broad-shouldered and stiff, his crossed arms as set as the dam project he oversaw.

Pauline McClellan spotted Hutch first. She strode over with her usual swing, raven hair knotted at the nape, mouth wide and laughing.

“Ken Hutchinson,” she said in that lilting voice of hers. “You should’ve told us you were coming up. We’d have had something ready for you.”

“I’m not looking to be any bother,” Hutch replied, rubbing his hands for warmth. “Just needed a bite and didn’t want to trouble Miss Garret tonight.”

“Sure. Of course, Hutch.” Pauline patted his arm with a warm smile. “Sit, sit. I’ll find you something warm.”

He took a seat near the edge of the long table, within earshot but not in the thick of it. Heads lifted in greeting. James gave him a curt nod. Mac raised a brow from behind his pipe.

“Thought you were staying down below till first thaw, Young Hutchinson,” Mac rumbled. “What brings you up here so early?”

Hutch leaned back, letting the heat seep into his coat. “Had a visitor. From back east. He wanted to see the Kingdom.”

That quieted the table. Even Pauline, halfway to the kitchen, slowed her step.

Mac’s eyes narrowed beneath his shaggy brows. “Aye. Young Stevie said he saw someone with you, headed toward the Garrett place. Wouldn’t happen to be Joshua’s heir, would it now?”

Hutch sighed. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Come Lucky had ears in the snow. “Yes. David Starsky. Joshua Debrins’ grandson.”

Silence held a beat too long. Then James straightened, eyes sharpening like cut glass. “His grandson? You’re sure?”

Hutch nodded once. “That’s what he told me.”

“So he’s come to see the Kingdom?” Creasy asked.

“He has.”

“Why?” James snapped. There was heat in his voice, not curiosity, but something brittle and afraid.

“Because it belongs to him.”

“Belongs?” James echoed, incredulous. “It was sold. That land went to Gunther Mining to clear Joshua’s debts.”

“It was an offer, not a sale,” Hutch said calmly. “One he turned down.”

James shoved back his chair and stood, face pale in the lamplight. “Turned it down?” He looked at Creasy, whose jaw had gone tight. “We’d better talk to Trevedian,” James muttered.

Creasy pushed back from the table. “You’re sure he’s the heir?” he asked Hutch.

“I’m sure. What does it matter to you?”

James didn’t answer. “Can he prove it?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“What’s your grandfather say?”

Hutch bristled. “Again, I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Did he speak to Acheson?” Creasy asked, his voice lower now.

“Did who sp…” Hutch paused. “You mean Starsky? Yes. Said he’d think it over. Then came up here. Why?”

“Nothing,” James said too fast. “Just… never mind.”

The two men left in silence, shoulders hunched. Hutch watched them go, irritation simmering just under the surface, but beneath that, understanding. The mine had collapsed years ago. Jobs had vanished. The town dried up, waiting. Now the dam project, shelved by war, was back. It was their last shot at stability. And they saw that hope slipping away in the form of one man, with a legal claim to the last piece of land that mattered.

Joshua’s heir wasn’t just a visitor. To them, he was the end of the road.

Pauline returned with a bowl of stew and a steaming cup of coffee. Hutch offered a tired smile, murmured his thanks, and turned toward the frosted window as the night settled in.

Chapter 12

Starsky stirred, slow and fogged, dragging air into his lungs like he had heavy lead bars sitting on his chest. His heart was pounding a little too hard for just lying still. He tried to push himself up but ended up lying back with his hands on his head, fighting off the spinning room.

“Hey,” came Hutch’s voice. “Thought you were waking up.”

Starsky didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t find the energy to pretend. A shadow moved across the room, and then Hutch knelt in front of him, healing to sit up against the headboard, holding out a glass of water. “Here. Sip it slow.”

Starsky blinked, the light too sharp at the edges, but he took the glass with both hands. His fingers didn’t feel like they belonged to him. The water was cold, tasted like metal and dust, but it helped. He drank half before stopping, resting the rim against his lip.

“What time is it?” His voice came out rough. The last thing he remembered was arriving in Come Lucky. Was that last night?

“More like what day,” Hutch said, watching him closely.

“What day?” Starsky squinted at him. “What the hell happened?”

“Don’t know, you were asleep when I came back from the Pic Ax. That was a day and a half ago. When you failed to come down to lunch yesterday. I checked on you. You were burning up,” Hutch went on, voice low. “Couldn’t wake you. Kathy… she’s the local nurse, good for emergencies when the doc isn’t around. She came, took a look at you. Said it was likely from overexertion and altitude, maybe stress too. Nothing we could do except keep you cool, rested, hydrated, and wait it out.”

Starsky pressed a hand to his chest, like he could feel the heat still lingering there. “Felt like I got hit by a train.”

“You looked worse, still do,” Hutch said, grabbing something next to him and holding it out to Starsky. “Here, take a look,” Hutch said, quiet, almost wary.

It was the small mirror from the wall. Starsky looked.

The face staring back at him wasn’t one he wanted to claim. Pale. Hollow-cheeked. His lips tinged blue and his jaw unshaven in a way that felt permanent, not lazy. His forehead looked like it had been carved with riverbeds. His mouth hung open slightly, like his body had forgotten how to hold its breath without effort.

Reflex took over before shame could register. He swatted the mirror away with the back of his hand. It hit the floor and shattered with a delicate, ringing crash.

“That’ll cost you two bucks,” Hutch said after a beat, attempting levity.

Starsky stared at the broken glass for a long moment. His hands were shaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“That’s all right,” Hutch replied, rising. “I’ll go and fetch Kathy.”

Starsky was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. “No.” He caught Hutch by the arm. “There’s nothing she can do about it.”

Hutch stilled, looking at him the way someone looks when the ground shifts under their feet. “But goddamn it, you’re sick.”

“I know.”

There it was. Truth in the open air. It sat between them like smoke that wouldn’t clear.

Starsky turned from Hutch and walked stiffly toward the window, trying to control the way his lungs dragged for breath. Outside, the mountain rose in the fading dusk like a frozen wave, its peak stark white against the indigo sky. Cold, beautiful. Indifferent.

“I’ve got anemia,” he said quietly. “Something in the blood. Doesn’t carry enough oxygen anymore.”

He didn’t say the rest. Didn’t want to.

It was why he’d come up here in the first place, to see what Joshua had left behind, to find a place that might mean something, one last time before his body gave out for good. And now he was dropping hints he hadn’t meant to. He didn’t want Hutch to worry. He didn’t want anyone to pity him, or fuss, or give him that look. He’d seen it too many times, in too many places.

He heard Hutch shift behind him.

“I’ll be all right,” Starsky said quickly, too quickly. “Just give me a minute to wash up, and we’ll go down. I can smell Miss Garret cooking from here.”

He didn’t turn around. Just braced himself on the windowsill and kept breathing. One breath at a time. In…out. If he moved slow enough, maybe none of it would catch up to him just yet.

—-

The dining room table was warm with lamplight and the quiet clink of dishes as Ruth Garrett bustled in, setting down a plate filled with thick meat, potatoes, and biscuits so fresh that the butter had all but disappeared into them. She hovered a moment, adjusting the napkin by Starsky’s elbow with the precision of someone who wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“You gave us quite a fright,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Didn’t say two words since you arrived, and now you’re sitting there looking like you’ve been dug out of a snowbank. If you don’t finish that, I’ll be marching up with broth and honey myself.”

Starsky offered her the best smile he could manage. “Yes, ma’am.”

The truth was, everything still felt like it weighed more than it should: his limbs, his breath, even the act of sitting upright, but he didn’t want to make a scene. He didn’t want her worrying. Didn’t want Hutch watching him like he might break. That wasn’t why he’d come here.

She gave him one last look before retreating to the kitchen, muttering something about warm tea and thicker gravy.

Across the table, Hutch leaned closer. “Don’t mind her. She’s all bark and no bite.”

“I can hear you, Kenneth,” Miss Garrett called back.

Starsky gave a small smile, stabbing a piece of meat more out of politeness than hunger. The sound of the front door opening interrupted them, followed by Ruth’s cheerful voice in the hallway. Hutch stood, and Starsky followed suit, catching the back of the chair as a petite, sharply dressed woman stepped into view.

Under a long, leather coat, much too big for her frame, she wore a crisp white button-up shirt tucked into dark wool trousers, held up by suspenders, with her sleeves rolled once at the cuffs. Her bright red hair was gathered in a loose, purposeful bun that looked as though it could tumble down at any moment, though not without her permission. There was something brisk and economical about her, like a nurse, yes, but the kind who’d stitch you up with thread she boiled herself and then send you back to work before the bleeding stopped.

Hutch’s mouth curved slightly. “Starsky, this is Ms. Kathy Dupriest. Kath, meet David Starsky.”

Starsky nodded once. “Hutch said you’re the one to thank for not letting me die.”

Kathy raised a brow and stepped closer, eyeing him with a frankness that was more assessment than greeting. “Don’t thank me yet,” she said, her voice touched with the lilt of an accent, one he couldn’t place. “You’re upright, not well. And you didn’t make it easy. Stubborn and turning blue is a hell of a combination.”

Starsky gave a faint, tired smile. “I’ve got a gift for bad timing.”

She crossed her arms. “Let’s hope your instincts improve. I don’t patch up the same fool twice without charging interest.”

“I’ll remember that.”

She nodded. “You a newspaper man or something? Must be mighty special to get Hutch here all rowled up. Never seen him so anxious…not even when the bombs were raining down.”

Starsky blinked, surprised, then glanced at Hutch, who looked away with a small shrug.

“No,” Starsky said, turning back to her. “I’m Joshua’s grandson.”

Behind him, Ruth entered just in time to catch the end of it. She stopped short, a dishtowel in one hand and open-mouthed surprise blooming on her face. “His grandson ?” She turned a wide-eyed look on Hutch. “Kenneth Hutchinson, you didn’t tell me who you were bringing under my roof. I’d have put him in the front guest room instead of stuffing him up in the eaves like some passing salesman.”

Starsky raised a hand quickly. “It’s fine. Really. I wasn’t looking for special treatment.”

She gave him the kind of look that could straighten collars at twenty paces, then sniffed and turned toward the kitchen. “Special treatment or not, I don’t want Joshua haunting me for not treating his grandson properly.”

Kathy smiled as she shrugged off her coat and moved toward the table, slipping into the seat beside Hutch. As she did, she reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a slim silver cigarette case. She opened it, drew one between two fingers, and looked around for a match.

Before she could ask, Hutch reached into his pants pocket and came up with a lighter. He held it out.

She leaned toward him slightly, letting the flame catch the end of the cigarette. “Thank you kindly,” she said, exhaling smoke that curled like thread toward the ceiling. “Will make a gentleman out of you yet, Hutch.’

Hutch smiled.

“So,” she continued, turning back to Starsky, cigarette held between two fingers with practiced grace, “Your Joshua’s grandson. Glad you finally made it.”

“You knew I’d come?” I asked.

She nodded slowly. “I knew your war record. I didn’t think you’d let him down. You’re his heir now, right?”

Starsky hesitated. “That’s the idea.”

Kathy tapped ash into a small dish and gave a dry smile. “Reckon he didn’t leave you much, Mr. Starsky.”

“No,” Starsky said. “And it’s just Starsky, or David, please.”

She gave a slow nod, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him anew. “All right, Starsky,” she said. “So what about the Kingdom?”

Starsky didn’t answer right away. He let the question hang while he pushed a biscuit around his plate. He could feel Hutch watching him, quiet, steady, not pressing. Just there. Like a fence post sunk deep into the ground. Something you could lean on if you needed, or ignore if you didn’t.

“I own it now,” he said finally. “It’s mine, far as the paperwork says.”

Kathy let out a soft whistle and traded a look with Hutch before turning back. “Well, now. That’ll have ruffled Trevedian’s feathers. Gunther’s too.”

She rested her elbows on the table. “You know what that land’s worth?”

Starsky shrugged. “Guess it depends who you talk to.”

“The lawyers say it’s worthless, despite what Gunther and his cronies will pay for it.” Hutch chimed in. He glanced at Kathy. “But you know my grandfather. And Joshua. They believed otherwise.”

Kathy nodded once, firm. “Aye. They did.”

She turned her eyes back to Starsky. “Do you believe them?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t accepted their offer yet. I want to see the Kingdom first before I decide.”

Hutch leaned back in his chair. “Ever hear your grandfather play the violin, Starsk?”

“No.” Starsky replied, curious at the change in topic. “I only met Joshua once. Like I told you before, he’d just come out of prison.”

Kathy raised her brows. “So that bit’s true, is it? The prison story?” She gave a short laugh. “That, and the oil. He was a man of legend around here. Maybe they’re both true, and you’re the richest man this side of the 49th parallel.”

She smiled slightly, smoke curling from the edge of her lip. “Wouldn’t that be something. Imagine the look on Travidian’s face. When you prove him wrong.”

Hutch gave a quiet nod, mouth curving faintly. “He always said there’s oil in the mountains fit to bust.” Hutch looked into the distance, his voice turning thoughtful. “That’s how most nights ended, when I’d go check on him. Once the project picked up again. Joshua pounding the table, shouting about the oil. Didn’t matter the company or the hour.”

Hutch rubbed his eyes, then continued, “Some evenings, when it was still enough, he’d come out of the ranch house at sunset. Just start walking the valley, slow and deliberate, playing the violin. It echoed off the peaks like the mountains were holding their breath. Like every old ghost came out to listen.”

He paused, then lifted his glass. “To your health, Starsky. And the Kingdom!”

Starsky raised his own, though the warmth didn’t reach his hands. He kept thinking about that image, his grandfather, alone at dusk, drawing music through the cold.

“How do I get there?” he asked quietly. “Up to the Kingdom?”

“You won’t,” Hutch said. “Not yet. Road’s only clear as far as Come Lucky. There was rockfall back before first snow. The road’s all jammed up.”

“How long?”

“Maybe a month. Sooner if they clear Thundercreek Road of snow and rock.”

“A month…” Starsky pushed his chair back slightly. “I can’t wait that long.”

Kathy and Hutch exchanged a glance.

“What about horses?” Starsky said quickly. “Hutch, you said you took people up there during the summer, and you know your way. We could ride in.”

Hutch narrowed his eyes. “You’re a sick man, Starsk. Take my advice, wait a month. Or at least until the equipment clears Thundercreek Road. It’s too early for travel through those mountains on horseback. Not in your condition.”

He glanced toward Kathy. “You tell him.”

Kathy took a long drag from her cigarette and exhaled slowly, not meeting Starsky’s eyes at first. Then she tapped ash into the dish and turned to face him squarely, her voice low but unyielding.

“He’s right. The passes are still too deep with snow to try it by horseback. The wind cuts through you up there like a knife through boiled wool, and it’s worse for folk who aren’t strong on their feet. Even if we made it halfway, you’d be sick before we crossed the first ridge line.”

Starsky’s jaw tensed. “I’m not asking to be coddled.”

“No one’s coddling you,” she said sharply, her accent flattening as her words tightened. “But I’ve stitched enough men open in the snow to know what comes of pushing past your limit. You’re still pale as ash, and you’ve not taken half a meal since you got here.”

Starsky looked away, his fingers curling around the edge of his plate. The meat had gone cold. He could feel the heat rising behind his eyes, not from embarrassment, not from defiance, but from that deeper thing, the helplessness clawing its way up his throat.

“I don’t have time,” he said, voice quieter now, ragged around the edges. “You two can talk about waiting like it’s just another season, but I don’t have a season left.”

“We heard you,” Kathy replied, “but you’re not hearing us.”

There was a pause. No one moved.

Then Hutch spoke again, his voice gentler, almost too careful. “Let’s say we do get through the pass. Let’s say you don’t collapse in the snow. What do you think you’re going to find up there, Starsk?”

“I don’t know,” Starsky whispered. “I just want to see it. Just once before I make a decision.”

He looked between them, one face lined with caution, the other with guarded sympathy.

Kathy’s eyes searched his face for a long moment. Then she sighed, flicked ash into the tray, and glanced at Hutch.

“Just wait a week,” she said at last, her voice even but resolute. “If you’re stronger by then, we reassess. If not, it’s a no-go.”

“I have to get up there,” Starsky said.

“Then wait,” Hutch pleaded. “Just like Kath and I are asking you to.”

“I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because…” Starsky stopped. His throat had gone dry and tight. He couldn’t tell them. Not yet.

With a sigh, Kathy’s voice cut the silence, low and edged. “What the hell. Fool is too much like his grandfather. Let him find out for himself, Hutch. Some people are just cussed. They’ve got to learn the hard way.”

“It’s not that,” Starsky said quickly.

“Then what is it?” Hutch’s voice had lost its gentleness. “What’s the goddamned hurry?”

Starsky looked away, then back. He hesitated, but the words pushed past his lips anyway, worn down by fatigue, by the weight of everything. “I’ve only got a few months to live.”

Both of them stared at him.

Kathy didn’t speak right away. Her eyes searched his face with a quiet intensity, then fell to the table. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, the smoke curling around her words. Her voice had softened. She didn’t press him further. Starsky figured she’d seen the truth of it before, in field wards. In men who didn’t say much but couldn’t hide what they carried.

But Hutch was different. A mechanic. A builder. His mind ran toward solutions, not silence. Starsky had seen that in the short time he’d known him.

“How do you know?” Hutch asked. “You can’t know a thing like that.”

“Doctors in New York told me,” Starsky said. The words were flat and dry in his mouth. “They’re the best there is. Gave me a few months, at most six. That was a few weeks ago. The anemia’s just a side effect. I don’t have the time to wait.”

Silence followed. A long, stifling stillness wrapped around the room and settled like fog. The lamp on the table flickered a little, casting soft golden halos around the edges of the china, but nothing moved. No one breathed loud enough to break it.

The heaviness in the air made Starsky feel like he was sinking. He didn’t want to be sitting there between them, pinned beneath their grief, their worry, their pity. He hadn’t come here for this. He hadn’t come to be watched like a man already halfway gone.

Starsky stood quickly, his fists trembling slightly at his sides. “I think I’ll turn in.”

He looked between them, avoiding their eyes.

“Good night,” he said. “And thanks for your help, Miss. Kathy.”

He turned before anyone could answer.

He didn’t want them to see what was under the words.

He didn’t want them to see that he was scared.

Chapter 13

When Starsky woke up late the next morning, the room was dim, pale light slipping past the curtain seams. The clock read Nine a.m. He’d meant to be up earlier. Hutch was already gone, his coat missing and a note left on the dresser: Took Kathy on errands. Rest up. You need it.

Yeah, sure. Like hell he was staying put. He needed to figure out a way to get to the Kingdom, not sit around sipping tea and twiddling his thumbs.

He dressed, pulled on his coat, and stepped into the hallway. The Barrett sisters were in the sitting room, one of them knitting, the other quietly humming. He told them he was heading to The Pic-Ax for breakfast, so they shouldn’t worry. They didn’t say much, just nodded, like maybe they’d expected it.

Outside, Come Lucky looked like it had gone to sleep and never woken up. The snow had stopped, but the air was still and colorless; a gray sheet stretched over everything. A few trucks were now parked outside Trevedian’s office. Other than that, the town looked much the same as when he had arrived. Deserted. He walked along the warped boards of the sidewalk, passing sagging porches, empty window frames, and shuttered doors.

The Rusted Pic-Ax sat squat at the end of the street next to the Hotel. Inside, it was warmer. A few men sat at scattered tables. Most were older, hunched up in their coats. Two younger men in work vests and steel-toed boots looked like they were from a road or construction crew.

Nobody looked up when he entered.

He slid into a corner table and ordered bacon, eggs, and coffee from the woman behind the counter. It came fast and hot, and he was halfway through when one of the older men shuffled over and sat across from him. Grizzled, skin like old leather, pipe in one hand. He didn’t say anything right away. Just packed the bowl, struck a match, and stared at Starsky through the curl of flame.

“So,” the man said finally. “You’re Joshua’s heir. The Kingdom’s yours now.”

Starsky blinked. Word moved fast out here.

“What brought you all the way out from the East?”

“Wanted to see it for myself.”

“You’re not as daft as your grandfather, are you?”

Starsky frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Joshua had oil fever,” the man said. “The kind that eats you up. If he’d hit it big, maybe things would’ve been different. But he didn’t. He chased ghosts.”

Starsky sipped his coffee. “Did you know him?”

“Well, as anyone could. He kept to himself. Had a temper, fast talker. Could sell you a dream and make you believe it was already yours.” He shook his head. “That river of oil he went on about? Just a dream.” He leaned forward. “So what’re you planning to do with the place?”

Starsky hesitated. “Might live up there.”

The man barked a short, humorless laugh. “Live up there? In the Kingdom?”

“My grandfather did.”

“For over twenty years,” the man muttered. “But don’t be stupid. It’s no place for a man like you. And there’s no oil. We all learned that the hard way. Brown’s survey proved it.”

“As in Henry brown?”

“Yes, that’s him, though most call him Huggy. You know him?”

Starsky shook his head no.

“He surveyed the whole damn range. Said Joshua’s land wasn’t worth spit. Maybe you could ranch a bit. Alfalfa does all right up there when the wind’s right. But when it’s not…”

He stood and put a hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “It’s a hard place. Doesn’t take to strangers.”

Starsky looked up at him. “I hear it’s beautiful in the summer.”

“Oh, sure. Visitors come through. Take pictures. But you’re not a visitor. You’re Joshua’s blood. That land carries his name, and that name, for better or worse, means something around here.”

He stared hard at Starsky for a moment. “Take my advice, son. Sell it and go back East, where you belong. Nothing good waits for you up there.”

The man paused like he had more to say, then let it go. He turned and went back to his table.

Starsky sat there, the taste of breakfast gone flat in his mouth. The room had gotten quiet again. Eyes followed him, not with curiosity, but caution. Distrust. Like he’d walked in wearing a stranger’s skin.

Nothing about this place was what he’d expected. Not the town, not the people, not their memories of Joshua. He’d thought maybe they’d respect the old man. But it seemed they feared him, maybe even resented him. And now that resentment was looking right at Starsky.

He left cash on the table, shrugged into his coat, and stepped back out into the cold.

By the time Starsky stepped outside, the cold had settled into the town like a held breath. Pulling his coat closer to him, he headed down through the slush toward Trevedian’s. A diesel truck sat parked out front, a bulldozer strapped down on its bed. As Starsky approached, a man came out of the office, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a beat-up buckskin jacket and olive-green trousers. He looked like someone who didn’t take much seriously.

“Miss the bus this morning?” the man called with a grin.

Starsky squinted. “What bus?”

The guy chuckled. “Aren’t you working on the road?”

“No.”

He gave Starsky a quick once-over. “You live here?” he asked incredulously.

“Just visiting. Doing an article on the town and the hydroelectric project.”

“Well, hell. Didn’t know anyone under sixty came to this dump voluntarily. At least not in the winter.” He jerked a thumb toward the bulldozer. “We’re hauling this up Thunder Creek road. Want a ride? Could show you how the work’s coming along.”

It was a door, and Starsky wasn’t about to let it swing shut. “Yeah,” he said. “Name’s Starsky. Been here a couple of nights. Haven’t seen much of the country yet.”

“Name’s George, nice to meet you. Hop on up.”

Starsky climbed into the truck’s cab, slammed the door, and they rolled out. The tires, clad in chains, thudded over ice-rutted streets as they dropped down the grade and turned onto the lakeshore road. On their right, the water lay locked in frozen stillness. Ahead, the mouth of Thunder Creek opened like a dark wound in the trees.

“Where’s this road going when it’s done?” Starsky asked.

The driver glanced sideways. “You’re out here and don’t know that? It’s heading to the cable hoist, bottom of Solomon’s Judgment.” He nodded at the cloud-covered ridge in the distance. “On a clear day, you can see it proper. Big peaks, hell of a view. Know this area at all?”

“Not really,” Starsky said. “First time out west.”

The man snorted. “You haven’t missed much. Winter here lasts about ten months a year.” He leaned toward the windshield. “Clouds are lifting. Maybe you’ll get a look after all. Slide hit up there back in ’32, same time as the one that buried the old Come Lucky mine.” He pointed through the side window. “See those two big rocks? That’s about where the entrance used to be. Whole mountainside slid over it. Hundreds of feet deep now.”

They passed into the trees, and the world changed. The forest closed around them, tall pines heavy with snow, trunks like black spears. The road narrowed, tire tracks vanishing into white silence. In places, bulldozer treads broke the crust. Drifts had been shoved aside into banks taller than the truck.

Every so often, Starsky saw the wreckage of the road’s creation: snapped saplings, churned mud, and matted rock littered the edges like bones. Corduroy logs lay over wet spots, narrow bridges straddled gullies. The road was just wide enough for one truck, with crude passing points every mile or so.

They climbed higher. The road twisted along ledges, ducked under overhangs. Then they crested a bald rise, and Starsky caught sight of two peaks rising above a dark forest, stark white and impossibly tall. Between them, a wall of sheer rock dropped into shadow.

The driver shouted, “Those two peaks are Solomon’s Judgment.”

Starsky leaned forward. “Do you know Joshua’s Kingdom?”

The man shrugged, still watching the road. “Heard of it. Can’t say I’ve been up there.”

“But you know where it is?”

“Sure.” They bounced across a log bridge spanning a frozen creek. As the nose of the truck lifted over the far side, the peaks reared up ahead of them, filling the sky.

“It’s up there,” the driver said, pointing. “Right through that cleft.”

Starsky stared at the wall of rock. It looked like a fortress. “How far does the road go?”

The man laughed. “Not that far. There’s two thousand feet of cliff between here and there.”

They rounded a final bend, and the truck pulled up behind a three-tonner parked across the road. Two bulldozers and a crew of workers were clearing a massive break in the path. Part of the cliff had collapsed, taking the road with it. Starsky climbed out and followed the driver to the edge.

They stood on the edge of a drop so steep it made Starsky’s stomach lurch. The snow-covered slope plunged hundreds of feet to a half-buried creek. Pines bristled along the incline, their tops vanishing into mist. A fresh gouge marred the cliff above, where an avalanche had scoured the rock clean, leaving behind a ragged smear of splintered trees and frozen debris.

George, stood beside him, chewing the inside of his cheek as he squinted downslope. “Slide took out a whole chunk of the hill,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Starsky didn’t answer. His breath smoked in the still air. Somewhere under that crust, the river still moved; he could hear it, a muffled, urgent rush behind the ice. A black arch yawned where the water fought its way free.

“Hey, Ben!” George cupped his hands and shouted toward a group of workers farther down the grade. “Got your other bulldozer for you!”

One of the men turned and trudged up the slope. Broad shoulders. Heavy boots. His fleece-lined coat was streaked with dust and salt and bore a stitched name tag: Ben Creasy. His face was weather-cracked and ruddy, like he’d never spent a day out of the wind.

“About time,” Ben said, eyes sweeping over Starsky, pausing just a little too long. “Didn’t waste much time getting out here, did you?” the man asked Starsky.

Before Starsky could respond, Ben turned away, heading toward the rear of the truck where George was already working the rigging.

“There’s a good snowbank over there, George,” Ben called. “I’ll get some boys on it. Back her up and we’ll run her off the same as the last one.”

Starsky stepped aside and let them work. The clank of metal on metal followed him as he headed farther up the road.

It was worse up close. The cliff face had been blasted wide, and now the dozers moved in slow, deliberate arcs, their blades curling under rubble, pushing it out into the air like they were sculpting a shelf into nothing. Diesel smoke drifted low and oily in the cold.

He stopped at the edge, boots grinding into crushed gravel. His breath caught. Up above, twin peaks shouldered the sky, Solomon’s Judgment, the locals called them. A cold wind pulled smoke-like veils of snow from their tips.

Between the peaks ran a narrow gash, sharp, dark, unnatural in its symmetry. Halfway up, something pale gleamed in the rock.

Too pale. Too straight.

He stared. It felt like the mountain was holding its breath.

Then George was beside him again, offering a pair of field binoculars. “Take a look.”

Starsky lifted them, bracing against the wind. The pale blur sharpened instantly: a dam. Concrete. A massive wall, wedged between the cliffs like a stopper. The center was unfinished, just a skeletal gap framed by steel.

“Started in ’39,” George said, voice low. “Rearmament. They needed lead; they thought the Gunther mines were the answer. Then the war hit. A second slide removed the other half of the face, and they shelved it. But now they’re digging and building again.”

Starsky lowered the binoculars. The cold had nothing to do with the tight feeling in his chest.

“This road…”

“…for the dam, which will power the mine, among other things.” The man finished. “You can see the hoist cable there. Little to the left.”

Starsky followed the line he pointed to, picking out the cable like a wire pulled taut between the dam and a low concrete housing farther up. His pulse thudded in his throat.

“And Joshua’s Kingdom?” he asked, voice tight.

George nodded toward the cleft. “Just past it. Other side of the dam.”

“Where’s the boundary?”

George shrugged. “Not sure, never been up there.”

Starsky turned just as a bulldozer shoved a fresh load of fractured rock toward the edge. It was almost complete. Acheson said there was a deadline. But this was…They were moving fast, much too fast for anyone waiting on paperwork. His jaw clenched.

Ben Creasy was watching him again from farther up the slope, arms folded, eyes narrowed against the glare.

Starsky started toward him, boots crunching hard with every step.

“Who told you to build this road?” he asked.

Ben didn’t blink. “Don’t see how that’s your concern.”

“The road’s for the dam,” Starsky said. “And if that dam’s sitting on Kingdom land…”

“It ain’t.”

“Then where does it start?”

“The Kingdom starts on the other side of the dam.” Ben turned away, already barking orders to a man beside the drill rig. “More blasting up there, Sam. Clear another six feet by end of shift.”

The air compressor roared to life, drowning everything. Rock dust curled in the wind as the drills started to bite into the mountain.

Starsky raised his voice, grabbing Creasy’s arm and pulling him back. “You didn’t answer the question. Who’s paying for this?”

Ben whipped around. “You want to talk money? Go find Peter Trevedian. I don’t sign checks. I move rock. And unless you brought dynamite, get outta the way.”

Starsky held his ground. “If you’re tearing through the Kingdom…..”

Ben cut him off with a shove of his chin toward the blasting crew. “You may own old Joshua’s Kingdom, but this is Trevedian land, and what happens down here is nothing to do with you. And as of right now, you’re trespassing.”

A dozer engine snarled behind them. Someone yelled for Starsky to move. He stepped back, narrowly avoiding the blade as it shoved five tons of rubble toward the ledge.

The wind caught the scent of blasted stone and old grease. Up above, Solomon’s Judgment loomed silent, white, and unblinking.

Starsky stared at the cleft between the peaks. The dam, the unfinished crown, the thread of cable leading straight into the heart of the mountain.

They’d already made up their minds. He could see it in every crushed pine and poured slab. The sale was just a formality now. He might just as well have signed the deeds of sale, borrowed on the prospective money, and spent a few pleasant, carefree months traveling.

George’s voice floated up the hill. “I’m heading back! You coming with?”

Starsky didn’t answer. He stood still, letting the machines roar in his ears, until finally he turned and trudged back up the road, climbed into the cab, and slammed the door.

Chapter 14

The town felt smaller when he stepped out of the truck. Cold wind curled through the streets like it belonged here more than people did. The driver didn’t wait long after dropping him off at the shuttered office of the Trevedian Transport Company. One glance at the padlocked door and the frost-clouded windows told him all he needed.

No one was there.

He pulled his collar up and walked through the crunching snow toward “The Rusted Pic Ax”.

The bar was warmer, but no more welcoming than it had been in the morning. Heads turned as he entered, four, maybe five older men hunched over drinks, their eyes tracking him with slow. No one said a word to him.

He slid into a marble-topped table near the stove. The bartender ambled over. His apron was stained, and his expression unreadable.

“Name’s Mac, what can I get for ya?”

“Whisky.” Starsky said. “And do you know where I can find a man named Peter Trevedian?”

The man poured without comment, setting the glass down with more care than expected. “Sure, usually at his office, except he went over to Keithley Creek,” he said. “He and my boy Jamie left early this morning. Should be back later this evening.”

Starsky nodded his thanks, ordered some lunch and watched him move off to tend to a new group of locals coming in from the cold. He sat with the glass warming between his hands, the whisky untouched. The snow clung to his boots and melted into dark patches on the floor.

It was absurd, wasn’t it? One man, sitting here in a half-dead town, thinking he could stand in the way of a dam that was almost finished. What was he going to do, demand they tear it down for the sake of Joshua’s ghost?

And yet…

He thought back to the old man he met outside Rikers, gaunt and proud. And then to the things Hutch’s grandfather had said about oil, about legacy, about the Kingdom being more than just rock and snow.

There had to be something in it.

He drained the glass in one long pull and stood. Mac was back at the bar, talking quietly with two of the older men. Starsky walked over.

“Can I use your phone?” he asked.

The bartender didn’t look up. “Aye,” he said. “But ye’ll no contact anyone. Line’s been down a week now. Only two subscribers left in Come Lucky, meself and Trevedian. Company doesn’t care much about us anymore.”

Starsky went back to his seat and ordered a beer. The silence of the town pressed against the windows, heavy and unmoving. He wanted to call Roger, get some footing under this mess, maybe talk to Dobey. But the line was dead.

The restaurant door opening drew Starsky’s attention. The man who entered was tall and dark, with a lean grace and something feral in the way he moved. Black hair, skin like polished stone. He stood just inside, letting his eyes drift over the room.

It wasn’t his build that made Starsky sit up straighter. It was the scar, a shining pale brown against the dark skin. A cruel line, slashing across his right cheek, down from the corner of his mouth to the place where an ear used to be. And yet it didn’t disfigure him. If anything, it emphasized the clarity of his features: a high brow, a straight nose, and a jaw like chiseled black granite.

“Hiya, Mac,” the newcomer said to the bartender, grinning. His teeth were even and white, and the cheer in his voice was as real as the burn scars that mottled the backs of his hands.

Mac was already moving, hands out. “It’s grand to see you, Huggy,” he said, genuine warmth breaking through the usual stone. “Hutch was just sayin’ the other day it was time you came back up here for your trucks.”

The scarred man’s grin widened. “He’s back up here then?”

“Aye. came up three days ago. He brought…” Mac shot a glance in Starsky’s direction. “As usual, he’s staying up at the Garret’s place.”

“Good, I’ll stop by. Do you know if they got through to the hoist?”

“Not yet. Creasy’s up there now, working the slide.” Mac shook his head. “Bad luck, that fall. Buried half the slope. And your equipment. How’d you do this winter?”

The man gave a low chuckle. “Oh, not too bad. Went wildcatting in the Little Smoky with a crew of hooligans. You got a room for me? Think I’ll stick around ‘til the hoist is open and I can run the rigs down.”

“There’s a room for ye,” Mac said. “And you’re just in time for supper.”

“Well, thanks. But I think I’ll take a shower before I scandalize the furniture.”

“Scandal?” Mac gave a dry laugh. “From the look o’ ye, I’d say the scandal’s already done.”

The man laughed again and slipped through a door marked “HOTEL” at the back.

Mac ambled back toward Starsky, placing a plate of food in front of him.

“Who was that?” Starsky asked

“That was Huggy,” he said.

Starsky straightened. The name hit something. Brown. That was the surveyor Roger Hutchinson had mentioned. “He’s the one who did the survey up in the Kingdom last summer? Was working with that man Dobey. Right.”

“That’s right. It was some bad luck that rockfall,” Mac added, pouring himself a short shot. “Had to leave all his equipment behind. Happened the day before he was due to haul out.”

Starsky nodded. “I saw it today.”

Mac’s mouth twisted. “Damn shame. All his capital, stuck up there. Kingdom’s always been trouble,” he muttered.

Starsky looked down at his plate, then back up. “The survey, did you know if my grandfather ever saw the results?”

Mac shook his head slowly. “Don’t think so. As far as I know, he died before the report even reached him.” He moved off again as more people came in, calling for drinks, boots stomping snow from the threshold.

Chapter 15

It was just after five when Starsky stepped out onto Main Street, heading towards Trevedin’s office, his boots crunching in the thinning snow. The air had sharpened, the kind of cold that bit the inside of your nostrils and made your teeth ache. As he reached the edge of his destination, he heard shouting. By what was being shouted, Starsky guessed it was James McClellan, calling for his father. That meant Peter Trevedian was back.

He rounded the corner and saw the door to the Trevedian Transport office hanging ajar. Voices carried through the gap, one smooth and easy, the other brittle with frustration. Starsky stepped up onto the wooden stoop. His hand paused on the knob.

“You should’ve thought of that before you took your trucks up there,” said the first man, tone light, almost amused. “If I weren’t clearing that fall and rebuilding the road, you’d never get them out. I’ve got a lot of money tied up in this.”

Starsky started to ease back, but a second voice cut in, sharper and less controlled.

“You may own the valley, Trevedian, but you’ve only a half share in the hoist. James McClellan still has a say in…”

“James will do what I tell him,” Trevedian snapped. “And you will do as I say, boy. I’ll let you get your trucks down when I’m good and ready.”

“God damn you, Trevedian.”

The office door flew open. The man Mac had called Huggy stormed out. He didn’t look at Starsky as he passed, but his jaw was locked tight, and the scar down his cheek was pale against flushed skin. He strode up the slope without breaking stride.

Starsky waited a beat, then knocked and stepped inside.

The office was cramped and dusty. A scratched desk sat beneath a narrow window, cluttered with papers and cigarette ash. Behind it sat a square-bodied man with close-cropped, grizzled hair and a heavy-set neck. His head looked like it had been cast in concrete. His cheeks were hollowed just enough to give his long face a kind of weight, but the eyes were small and black, set deep under brows like iron shavings.

“Mr. Peter Trevedian?” Starsky asked.

Trevedian rose. “You must be Dave Starsky.” His handshake was rough, the smile on his face too smooth to trust. “Joshua’s boy.”

“Grandson.”

“Right. Sit down.” Trevedian sat again and pulled a silver cigarette case from his coat. “Cigarette?”

Starsky shook his head.

Trevedian lit one for himself, leaning back and exhaling smoke toward the ceiling, his eyes never leaving Starsky’s face. “Well, I think I can guess why you’re here.”

He smiled like he was offering something generous.

“Truth is, I was just coming up to have a word with you. Your refusal to sell the Kingdom has put me in a bit of a spot. I’ve got the contract to supply all the materials for the completion of The Solomon’s Judgment dam, but it’s a tight schedule. That dam has to be finished this summer. To hit that target, I had to start bringing up gear the moment the construction crews were ready, which meant clearing the road.”

“A bit risky,” Starsky said.

Trevedian shrugged. “You want to make money out here, you take risks. If I’d waited, I would’ve had to build a second hoist. That’s not cheap.” He leaned forward, cigarette burning between his fingers. “So what’s the holdup? You want more money?”

“No. It’s not that.”

Trevedian’s gaze sharpened. “Then what is it? I’ve heard you’re planning to live up there.”

“Yes.”

“What for? That place is isolated. Brutal in winter.”

“My grandfather lived there.”

Trevedian snorted. “Joshua didn’t live there because he loved it. He stayed because he had no choice. He couldn’t show his face down here among the people he swindled.”

“You’re saying he was a crook?”

Trevedian leaned in and crushed his cigarette into a heavy quartz ashtray. “You know as well as I do. Joshua Debrins was convicted of fraud. Sure, back East they called it stock fraud, but out here it was the last gamble of men who believed in him. Men who staked everything trying to reopen the Come Lucky mine. My father was one of them. Luke Trevedian. He and the other old-timers put every last cent into the Rocky Mountain Exploration Company. Then Joshua brought in a financial adviser, one suggested by your father, if I’m not mistaken. Some guy named Morton. Then, when Morton disappeared with the funds, my father saddled up in the middle of winter and rode off into the snow. We never saw him again.”

Starsky said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Trevedian gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t be. It was his mistake. I’m just telling you so you understand why Joshua was holed up in his so-called Kingdom. Don’t believe the newsprint myths. The truth’s right here in Come Lucky. This town used to be worth something. There was real money here. And then the slide sealed the mine, and Joshua’s oil dream drained what was left.”

He lit another cigarette, flicking the lighter shut with a snap of his fist. “Look around. The old men in that bar, the people of this town, are what’s left. Scraping by on soil too thin for roots. And some still believe that old bastard’s dream.”

Starsky didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything to say. Trevedian’s voice had weight. It rang with a kind of tired conviction. That made it harder to ignore.

“Well?” Trevedian asked. “What are you going to do? If you sell, Marshel Gunther can finish the hydro project. Come Lucky gets its second life.”

“And if I don’t?”

Trevedian hesitated, his mouth a thin line. “I don’t know. That depends.”

He stood and walked to the window, staring out toward the dying length of Main Street. Then he turned back sharply. “This town’s a ghost. You have the power to bring it back.”

Starsky nodded slowly. “My grandfather’s will included conditions. Obligations…”

“Obligations?” Trevedian’s voice snapped. “Obligations, hell.” He stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “Listen. I called Gunther this morning from Keithley. Tried to get him to raise his offer. He’s coming to look over the progress, and I told him he ought to talk to you directly. He agreed.”

He rested a hand on Starsky’s shoulder, the grip firm but not quite friendly. “Think it over. For your sake. For theirs.”

Starsky rose. “I will.”

“Good.”

When he stepped back into the street, the cold hit his lungs like flint. Across the road, parked in front of the Rusted Pic-Ax, sat Hutch’s truck.

He crossed toward it without thinking.

—

As Starsky stepped into the old saloon and crossed the room, he spotted Hutch near the back table, a half-drunk beer in front of him and across from him was a tall man with dark skin. Henry “Huggy” brown.

Hutch looked up and gave a toothy smile. “Hey, Starsk. I was just about to send a search party out to get you. Mac said you were around. This is Huggy. Huggy, meet Starsky.”

“Nice to meet you,” Huggy said, offering a hand. His grip was firm, his palm dry, his voice warm and steady.

“Likewise,” Starsky replied. He glanced at Hutch. “Mind if I sit?”

Hutch nodded, though there was something, a touch cautious in his eyes. “Sure.”

Starsky pulled out the chair, letting it scrape against the old wood floor, and dropped into it. Hutch gave him a long look.

“Heard you made it up to the rock fall,” Hutch said, trying for casual. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy, remember?”

“I did,” Starsky said, “Hitched a ride with a guy taking a dozer up there. It’s not like I hiked it.”

Hutch raised an eyebrow. “Still. Not exactly doctor’s orders.”

Starsky shrugged. “The bulldozers were doing the heavy lifting. I just stood there and watched them chew through the ridge. You didn’t tell me, they’ve almost completed the dam.”

Hutch exhaled through his nose, slowly. Not quite a sigh, not quite surrender. He reached for his beer, swirled it once, then set it down without drinking.

“I was going to,” he said finally. “I just… wanted you to see it first. Make up your own mind.”

Starsky stared at him. “About what? Whether I wanted to be steamrolled?”

“No.” Hutch’s voice stayed level. “About whether it still meant something. The Kingdom. Joshua’s whole mess. It’s easy to walk away when it’s just a story. Harder when it’s right in front of you, already halfway gone.”

Starsky looked away, jaw working.

“They were banking on you folding the minute you saw it,” Hutch added. “I didn’t want to help them stack the deck.”

Silence settled again. Huggy didn’t move, but his eyes flicked between them, sharp and quiet.

“I didn’t come up here to play chicken with a bunch of suits,” Starsky said eventually. “But I’m not rolling over either.”

“Didn’t figure you would,” Hutch said.

“Still,” Starsky added, “would’ve been nice to know where the shit was before I stepped in it.”

“I didn’t want to push you,” Hutch said. “Figured if I told you too much, you’d push back just to spite me.”

Starsky gave him a sideways glance. “You really think I’m that predictable?”

“No, but from what I’ve seen of you in the past week, I think you’re that stubborn. Just like Joshua.”

A beat. Then Starsky huffed a short breath, not quite a laugh. “Fair.”

“You done with the interrogation?” Huggy asked, folding his arms. “Or should I order popcorn for the next round?”

“That survey,” Starsky said, turning to Huggy, “You ran it last summer, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I ran it.”

Starsky nodded slowly, fingers tapping again against the split wood of the table. “How? What did you use: Gravity, Core drilling, Seismographic? what”

Huggy nodded once. “A seismographic survey. Shock waves, reflection time, and strata profiles. Not exactly glamorous, but it gets the job done.”

“And what’d it show?”

Huggy shifted in his seat, uncrossed his legs. “You want the short version or the public one?”

“I want yours,” Starsky said. “Not what the newspaper printed. Not what Dobey signed off on. Yours.”

Huggy held his gaze for a moment, then looked down, thumb rubbing a worn groove in the leather of his grip. “The data came back clean. No dome structures, no traps, no indication of oil pockets. Nothing worth drilling for.”

Starsky’s brow creased. Hutch stepped in gently, as if trying to pull the pressure back. “Starsk, these readings, shockwaves, detectors, timing. It’s like sonar. Huggy just collects the raw data.”

Huggy nodded. “He’s right. I don’t interpret. I log readings, sure, but someone else charts it.”

“But you must’ve had some idea,” Starsky said. “You were watching the results as they came in?”

“I was.” Huggy nodded. “I placed the geophones, ran the detonations, and collected the data. Dobey interpreted it, mapped it. But I read enough of the raw return to know what he’d say before he said it.”

“So you agree with the report?”

Another beat. Huggy’s jaw flexed.

“I don’t disagree,” he said. “That’s as far as I’ll go.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got,” Huggy replied. “Look. I know what the instruments showed. But instruments don’t always see everything. The Kingdom’s weird land. Too much granite, too much weather shift. Maybe the tech wasn’t up to it. Maybe we missed something. Maybe there’s nothing to find.”

Starsky frowned. “But Joshua thought there was.”

Huggy met his eyes then, and for the first time, his voice dropped into something almost soft. “No. Not thought. Your grandfather believed it. Deep down in his bones. And belief can be a kind of truth all its own.”

Starsky sat back. “That’s what your report said?”

“No.” Huggy shook his head. “That part didn’t make the footnotes.” His voice softened, smooth and deliberate. The scar across his face caught the lamplight. His eyes stayed fixed on his hands as he pressed back the cuticles of his nails, slow, careful motions, the nails pale against his dark skin. “If you want the results, the report was published in the Courier back on December third.”

Starsky kept his gaze steady. “How reliable is a seismographic survey?”

Huggy lifted his head. “It won’t tell you exactly where oil is, if that’s what you mean. But it gives you a picture of the underlying rock. Enough for someone like Dobey to say whether it’s worth drilling.”

Hutch finally chimed in, voice thoughtful. “Oil gets trapped in certain formations, right? Anticlines. Domes. Cavities in the rock sealed off by impermeable layers.”

“Exactly,” Huggy said. “That’s what you’re looking for. Structural traps.”

“So,” Starsky said slowly, “the survey you did in the Kingdom, it ruled that out? No dome, no trap?”

Huggy hesitated. “Like I was telling Hutch when you walked up… and I was saying just now. It’s not always so clear cut.”

“But in your opinion,” Starsky pressed, “did that survey show there was no chance of oil in the Kingdom?”

Huggy’s fingers stilled. His eyes stayed low. “I think you’ll find the report makes that clear.”

“I’m not asking about the report. I’m asking you. I don’t have time to go back down the mountain….”

“Look, I just get the numbers.” Huggy cut in, rising to his feet. “If you’ve got questions about the results, talk to Dobey. He did the interpretation.”

Starsky stood and caught him by the elbow. “I’m just asking your opinion.”

“I don’t have one,” Huggy said, eyes shifting toward the door.

Hutch leaned forward. “Hug. All he wants to know is whether there’s any chance. Anything you saw that gave you doubt.”

“The report says no,” Huggy said. “You want to know more. Get a copy. Write to Dobey.”

But something in his voice, just a little too quick, too insistent, made Starsky pause.

“Do you agree with the report?” he asked again.

“I already told you…”

“It’s a simple question,” Starsky said quietly. “Yes or no.”

Huggy’s jaw twitched. Then he looked around the tavern. “Yes.” And without another word, he turned and disappeared through the door into the cold.

Starsky stood there for a second, staring after him. The tension he’d felt since the drive down the mountain coiled tighter. He strolled back to the table, dropped into the chair, and stared at his untouched coffee. The scar on Huggy’s face hadn’t twitched, but something behind his eyes had.

“He was up there last summer,” Starsky said quietly. “Your grandfather, said Huggy believed in it, same as Joshua. Even you think there is something, even if you won’t come out and say it. Something’ got him spooked.”

Hutch didn’t speak. He just reached for his drink and sipped, watching Starsky.

“I’m heading back to the boarding house,” Starsky muttered after a moment, standing.

“I’ll walk with you,” Hutch said, sliding out of his seat.

Chapter 16

Outside the Pic Ax, the sun had dipped behind the peaks, leaving only a pale wash of moonlight to silver the rooftops and pool across the dirt street. The air had softened with the dark, warmer than it had been all afternoon. A westward breeze stirred, rich with the scent of woodsmoke and thawed pine needles. Somewhere in the darkness, water whispered its way toward the lake, threading beneath the ice. Behind them, through the door they’d just closed, voices swelled again, muffled now, but unmistakably sharpened in tone.

“I suppose they’re talking about me,” Starsky said.

“Of course,” Hutch replied, the corner of his mouth twitching into something close to a smile. “What else would they talk about? Not much happens in winter. You’ll be the subject of conversation till spring.”

Starsky looked across the street, eyes lingering on the rows of dark windows and crooked porches. “They don’t seem to have liked my grandfather very much.”

“They’re bitter,” Hutch said, quieter this time. He nodded toward the warped storefronts and sagging eaves. “All the time Joshua was up there in the Kingdom, they had someone to blame for how things turned out. Now he’s gone, and they’ve got no buffer between them and the life they settled for.”

He reached out and caught Starsky’s elbow when his foot skidded on a patch of muddy ice. “Watch it. Sidewalk’s half rotted. No money to fix anything. Come Lucky’s been falling in on itself since before I was born. In spring, the main street turns to soup, and the houses slide one by one down the mountain. You’ll see.”

Starsky said nothing, but didn’t pull away. They walked side by side the rest of the way back in silence. Hutch stole a glance now and then, half worried, half drawn. Moonlight caught on the line of Starsky’s jaw, on the dark lashes that brushed low over his cheeks as he walked, head down, thoughtful. The cold had brought color to his skin, even now, and there was something quietly arresting in the way the shadows moved across his face, soft and unsure and yet very much alive.

He hadn’t been sure at first, not really, when the sense of protectiveness had shifted into something sharper, something more unsteady. It hadn’t made its presence known until the morning after they had arrived, and his new friend had gotten sick, bad enough that Hutch had sat up two nights straight listening to his breathing.

And then yesterday.

Yesterday, when Starsky had finally told him, he was dying. Like he’d already made peace with it. Like it was a fact he’d filed under the same quiet drawer as his inheritance and the awkward family silence he’d carried in with his suitcase.

Hutch hadn’t let it show, but the words had landed like gravel in his gut. He didn’t really believe it. The man walking beside him now was too solid, too vivid, even when worn thin. Pale, yes. Worn down. But dying? No. Hutch would have seen it. Would have felt it. Starsky didn’t move like a man giving up. He moved like a man holding on to something he wasn’t ready to name.

“You said your plan was to live in the Kingdom.”

Starsky nodded. “It was. Until I saw the dam.”

Hutch turned his head slightly as they reached the front porch of the Garretts’ place. His tone was even, but there was something under it now. “So you’ve changed your mind?”

“It’s not that easy. I’ve already sold everything in New York. There’s nowhere to go back to. The Kingdom’s all I’ve got.” Starsky stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Hutch, then away. Thinking.

Hutch watched the light play over the sharp lines of Starsky’s face, and something tugged at him, frustration, admiration, maybe a little fear. But mostly it was that old need, the one that pulled him toward broken things. And Starsky was broken in ways Hutch wasn’t sure how to fix.

“There’s something about you I don’t quite understand,” Hutch said quietly. “When you came here, you’d already refused Gunther’s offer. And now you’re hesitating.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Starsky said, but it didn’t have weight.

“No, but you’re going to.” He waited. Starsky didn’t move. “I suppose they’re all getting at you. Peter. Mac. The others.”

Starsky gave a dry exhale. “Well… from their point of view, I’m probably being a little unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable?” Hutch’s voice sharpened. “Was it Joshua’s fault they went oil-crazy and bought up half the mountain without so much as a core sample? Just because he found one damned seep and coral rock at Thunder Creek? You think they helped him when it all fell apart?” Hutch ran a hand through his hair, then faced the other man, pointing a finger at his chest. “You want to know what happened. I’ll tell you. When he was on trial in New York, they turned on him, Starsky. Swore he was a fraud. A liar. And when he came back, they drove him up into the Kingdom like he was something foul they didn’t want to smell anymore.” Hutch’s voice dropped, and so did his finger. “He died up there. Alone, except for my grandfather. And me. And later, Kathy.”

He ran a hand over his face, breath hitching. “You owe them nothing, Starsky. Not one damn thing.”

He reached for the front door.

Starsky’s voice was low. “I take it you believe he was right?”

Hutch nodded, slow and firm. “I do. You couldn’t live with the man and not believe him. He had this way of… pulling you in. Not just with ideas, but because he believed in you. In people. That was the problem, really. He couldn’t imagine the kind of people who’d cut you down for it.”

He opened the door and was met with a bark as an old collie trotted down from the landing, tail wagging.

Hutch dropped into a crouch, his hand moving automatically to the dog’s thick ruff. “This is Moses,” he said softly. “Kathy must’ve let him out before heading out with the Garretts to visit some neighbors. He belonged to your grandfather. Found him as a pup near the beaver swamps. Hence the name.”

The dog gave a huff and leaned into Hutch’s hand like it understood every word.

Starsky watched, eyes unreadable. Then, with a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, he reached down and rubbed behind the dog’s ears. “Guess he belongs to me now.”

Hutch glanced up and caught the warmth in Starsky’s face. Just for a moment, the weariness eased. He felt it catch in his chest, quiet, uninvited, but real. This was what Joshua had meant.

This.

A man stepping back into the place that bore his name and slowly, without quite meaning to, finding his way home.

Chapter 17

They climbed the stairs, boots creaking against the worn slats of the old wood, each step sounding louder in the quiet that followed their talk. At the landing, Hutch opened a door just off the bedroom and stepped into a sitting room dim with firelight. Starsky lingered, unsure. The space was warm and lived-in, books crowding shelves, two mismatched chairs pulled near the hearth, and a rug worn pale down the middle from years of boots and dog paws. There was a kind of quiet history in it all, the kind that had grown here, not been arranged.

He felt like an intruder.

Hutch was already kneeling by the hearth, coaxing flame from kindling with slow, practiced ease. The fire caught, a curl of smoke and orange glow blooming outward. It flickered over the photographs on the mantel, snowy peaks, solemn faces, and one worn portrait of a young man in uniform.

Hutch stood, brushing his hands clean. He crossed to a low cabinet and drew out a bottle. “Scotch?” he asked, holding it up with a conspiratorial glance. “Don’t tell Ruth. She’d sooner toss me out in the snow than let me drink in her house. Thinks liquor’s the root of all sin.”

Starsky gave a crooked smile, hung up his jacket and took the glass. The fire cast a soft, shifting light between them. They sat across from each other, the silence stretching, not strained, exactly, but full, like they’d each carried something into the room they weren’t ready to name.

He let his eyes fall on Hutch, half-shadowed by firelight. God, the man was handsome. Starsky hadn’t let himself think it too plainly until now. Too much going on. Too much, he didn’t understand. But now, watching Hutch lean back in his chair, the amber in his glass catching the light, Starsky couldn’t not see it. Not just the symmetry of his features or the long lines of his body, but the way he held himself, quietly self-contained, but with a pulse of something waiting underneath. Something steady. Something that saw him, even when he wasn’t sure he wanted to be seen.

Starsky turned his glass slowly in his hands. “How did you meet Kathy?”

Hutch glanced over, one brow lifted. “Would it surprise you if I said she was a spy?”

That got a genuine blink out of him. “Come on.”

“She was. British. Resistance work. We crossed paths in France. I was doing recon; she used her position as a nurse in a local hospital to smuggle documents and gather intelligence.

Starsky sat up a little. “So you and her?”

Hutch smiled faintly into his glass. “No. We weren’t lovers. Friends, yes. That’s all.”

Starsky tilted his head. “That all? No story there?”

“Oh, there’s a story,” Hutch admitted, eyes gleaming now. “Not one of my better moments, mind you. I was three sheets to the wind at the time. Just got a Dear John letter that morning. Thought I’d be clever. Proposed to her on the spot.”

Starsky’s brows shot up. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” Hutch’s grin spread. “She threw me in the Seine.”

Starsky burst out laughing, deep and surprised, imagining the five-foot-four woman he met the other night, tossing the 6ft man in front of him into a river.

Starsky grinned and took a sip of the scotch. “That’s a hell of a story. Not sure I believe it though.”

“Trust me,” Hutch said. “She is a very independent woman. Knows what she wants, and marriage isn’t one of them.”

“So how’d she end up out here. Montana is a long way from England, much less Paris.”

“Very true.” Hutch chuckled. “She came here not long after I did. Said she wanted quiet. She’d heard enough about this place from me, I guess. Joshua gave her that.”

There was a pause. The fire hissed. The dog stirred in front of the fire.

“Some say she’s Joshua’s daughter,” Hutch added quietly. “She’s not, but they understood each other that way. Same kind of steel. She lets people think she and I are more than we are, too. I let her. It keeps folks from asking questions.”

Starsky nodded, then looked toward the fire, the scotch warm in his throat. He felt Hutch’s gaze on him, steady and unreadable, and for a second, he couldn’t look back. Because part of him wanted to. Wanted to see if that look said what it felt like.

But instead, he said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

Hutch’s voice came soft. “Which part?”

“This place. The Kingdom. Maybe it wasn’t just oil for Joshua. That maybe he saw something real here.”

“He did.”

“What do you see?”

Starsky saw Hutch pause, watch the flames. “I see land that hasn’t quit yet. I see people holding on with their teeth, proud or scared or too stubborn to give it up. I see something worth saving, even if most folks forgot how.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asked. “Trying to save it?”

“I think you’re trying to figure out if it’s worth the fight,” Hutch said. “And I think that scares you.”

Starsky looked down into his glass. “I thought I was coming here to die. Do my duty. Make peace with it.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t know what I am. Or what I want.”

He didn’t look at Hutch when he said it. He couldn’t. But the words landed like stones on the rug between them.

“You’re not dying,” Hutch said gently.

Starsky looked up, surprised. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” Hutch agreed. “But I’ve seen dying. I know what it looks like. And it’s not you.”

Starsky swallowed. His jaw flexed. “Then what is it?”

“I don’t know. But whatever it is, it hasn’t beaten you yet.”

He closed his eyes for a second, felt the fire’s heat on his cheek. “That why you keep looking at me like I’m going to vanish?”

Hutch blinked. “Do I?”

“Yeah. You do.”

No accusation. Just truth.

Hutch’s voice dropped. “I guess I’m still trying to figure out what this is. You showing up here, after pretty much cutting Joshua out of your life. The dam. Everything.”

Starsky looked at him now, across the firelight. “What do you mean?”

Hutch didn’t answer at first. Then, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if the grain of the wood could offer something better than what was already lost. “I met a lot of good men during the war. Brave ones. But Joshua was something else.” He hesitated. “I want him to be proved right. Not just for the land. For him. So the world knows he wasn’t a crank. That he told the truth. That he meant it.”

Starsky sat quietly for a moment. “But what about Huggy’s survey? You heard him. No oil. Not in the Kingdom.”

Hutch was already standing, leaning on against the mantle. “Of course, it said that. You think Gunther would agree to delay for a whole season unless he’d already arranged for results that worked in his favor?”

Starsky watched him. “You think Gunther fixed the data.”

“Yes. And so does Huggy.”

Starsky frowned. “Didn’t sound like it earlier.”

Hutch waved that off. “Forget what he said at the Pic-Ax. You can’t say things too plain in this town. People talk. Huggy’s been cautious, but after that first charge last summer. He’d been as convinced as Joshua ever was. He just won’t say it out loud.”

“Perhaps…” Starsky didn’t finish. His voice trailed off into the hiss of the fire.

He sat still, his hands lose in his lap, gaze unfocused. He could feel Hutch watching him, breathing harder than he meant to. “Perhaps,” Starsky echoed, quieter. He shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“No,” Hutch said, releasing the mantle and stepping towards Starsky. “It’s not. But look around, Starsky. They’re working on you. Wearing you down, piece by piece. Peter. Mac. Every bitter old man with a busted truck and a grudge. They don’t want justice. They want absolution. They want the dam, and they want you to hand it to them, nice and clean, so they don’t have to feel like bastards about it.”

Starsky looked up at the man standing over him now, “What do you want from me?” Starsky asked.

“I want you to think,” Hutch said, quieter now. Backing away, “Not with guilt. Not with duty. I want you to see this place the way Joshua saw it. The way I came to see it. He didn’t just believe in oil. He believed in what this place could be. That’s why I stayed. Not for the quiet. Not for the view. He gave me something worth believing in. I want you to believe it, too.”

“I see it,” Starsky murmured. “That’s the problem.”

Starsky stood and moved toward the fire. The dog stirred as he passed, but didn’t lift his head. He crouched next to the fireplace, hands clasped between his knees. He stared into the flames like they might offer an answer.

“I didn’t come here looking to pick up a dream. I came because I didn’t have anything else. The Kingdom sounded simple. A place to finish things.” He stared at the coals. “But it’s not. It’s just another war.”

Behind him, Hutch didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The silence was heavy, but not cold.

Then, quietly: “Maybe you’re looking at it wrong.”

Starsky didn’t respond, but he felt something stir. Heard Hutch’s boots shift against the floorboards, coming closer to him.

“It doesn’t have to be a war, Starsk. Or a grave. Joshua didn’t build it for that. And you’re not him. But you carry his blood. That means something.”

Starsky’s voice came low. “I’ve had a lot of dreams. None of them ever worked out.”

“Maybe not,” Hutch said. “But this one’s yours now. The Kingdom’s waiting. Whatever you decide, it’ll rise or fall by your choice. Just don’t call it a war because you’re scared.”

That stung. Not cruel. Just honest.

He stood and turned, eyes meeting Hutch’s. “You think I’m scared?”

“I think you’re exhausted. And alone. And maybe scared, yeah. Joshua was like that, too. Never asked for help, even when he needed it.” Hutch stepped closer still. Until there was barely any space between them. “But you’re not him. You’ve got me.”

The words settled deep. Starsky didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He just looked at Hutch, heart thudding too loud, and wondered what the hell he’d walked into.

And why, even now, part of him didn’t want to walk away. Couldn’t, even if he tried.

Chapter 18

The fire crackled softly, casting a warm light over the room, gold that flickered against the worn rug, the bookshelves, and the low beams overhead. Shadows danced along the walls, quiet and slow, as if they knew to tread carefully around whatever was unfolding here.

The heat from the hearth had worked into Starsky’s skin, brought a faint sheen to his brow, a flush to his cheekbones. The shirt he wore clung slightly at the shoulders, outlining the strong build Hutch had only half-noticed before, in the way you half-notice the strength of a coiled spring. The man before him looked tired, but not defeated. Less guarded than usual.

And his eyes, God.

In the firelight, they weren’t just blue. They were deep, velvet sapphire. So dark they seemed to drink the glow around them, holding it, hoarding it. Eyes that could unsettle a man without saying a word. Hutch hadn’t realized until now how dangerous they were, not because of anything Starsky did, but because of what they revealed. That steady watchfulness. That strange, impossible pull.

It hit Hutch low in the gut. He wanted to look away, should have, but couldn’t.

Starsky had said something earlier about not knowing what he wanted. Hutch knew the feeling. He hadn’t meant to care this much. Hadn’t meant to notice the way Starsky’s voice dropped when he was tired, or how his fingers trembled when he thought no one was watching. Hadn’t meant to imagine reaching out and feeling the heat of his skin, or what it would be like to touch the side of his face, slow and sure, just to see if he’d lean into it.

Whatever this was between them, it had grown quiet and fast, like frost overnight.

He felt it now more than ever.

Starsky had stepped closer; his profile was lit by the flame, with a strong nose and slightly parted lips, lashes casting long shadows over those impossible eyes. His mouth moved a little, as if on the verge of saying something, but nothing came out.

And then he looked at Hutch.

Really looked.

Not guarded, not deflecting. Just… open.

That was the moment. Not the way he stood. Not the color of his eyes. But the quiet in him. That strange, bare honesty. Hutch felt himself tip forward, not physically, but something inside, like a breath before a fall.

He didn’t know what he meant to do. Touch his arm? Say something? Ask, simply, if he could stay in this moment a little longer?

Starsky didn’t back away.

His eyes held Hutch’s steady, something unspoken passing between them in the hush of the firelight. Not invitation, exactly. But no retreat either.

And Hutch’s hand moved slowly, deliberately reaching toward Starsky’s face, not quite touching. Just close enough to feel the warmth rolling off his skin.

His fingers hovered there, he could almost feel the pulse beneath them.

He didn’t breathe.

Starsky’s lips parted slightly, his gaze flicking down and then back again, pupils wide, not with fear, but something else.

And just as Hutch might have spoken, might have said his name, might have asked, not for much, just for this moment to be real…

A knock.

Sharp. Final.

They both froze. Hutch’s hand fell away like it had never been there, and Starsky stepped back, retreating to the armchair in one fluid motion.

He sank into it like someone who’d remembered too late that it was safer to sit alone.

The fire cracked beside them, unaware. ​​A log split, hissing briefly, and Moses stirred and went to the door, tail wagging.

Hutch stayed where he was, pulse hammering once in his throat before settling. He could still feel the warmth of near-contact on his fingers, the ghost of breath between them. Whatever had been rising, whatever fragile, charged thing had stirred to life in the space between Starsky’s gaze and his own, slipped away again.

The knock came once more. Lighter this time. Hesitant.

Hutch turned toward the door.

He tried to keep his voice even, but couldn’t quite iron out the edge. “Who is it?”

“It’s Kathy…”

Hutch looked back over his shoulder in question. Starsky was watching him, expression unreadable. He gave a small nod, and Hutch stepped to open the door.

Kathy stood there, wearing trousers and a man’s flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms.

Her eyes moved between him and Starsky, taking in more than she let on.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said. She gave Moses a fond look as the dog trotted forward to greet her, before returning to his spot by the fire..

“Not at all,” Starsky said from behind him. “Please. Sit.”

Hutch stepped aside as Kathy entered. Starsky gestured toward the chair he’d just been in, then crouched beside the dog on the rug, settling near the fire. His hand rested on Moses’s back, fingers moving slowly through the fur, as if doing so gave him something to do. A way not to look at Hutch.

“I brought something,” Kathy said, sitting in the chair as she held out a cardboard box tied with twine. “Just a few things from your grandfather.”

Hutch watched as Starsky took the box from Kathy and settled it carefully on his lap. He didn’t rush. His fingers moved with quiet focus, working the knot in the twine loose, then easing the lid open. Inside, everything was wrapped in tissue, packed neatly. Starsky began pulling the items out one by one and placing them on the floor beside him in a careful row.

First came a handful of old photographs, their corners soft with age. Then a pair of tarnished medals, followed by a rolled diploma tied with a faded ribbon. Starsky’s movements slowed when he reached for something heavier, a silver tobacco jar with an oil rig etched into the lid. He turned it over in his hands. The engraving on the side caught the light, and he read it aloud.

“To Joshua Debrins from the Management of the Excelsior Oil Company on his leaving to form his own company: April 8, 1914. Good luck, Joshua.”

He stared at the words for a long moment, then glanced at the signature at the bottom. “The signature on this is Roger Hutchinson,” he said, holding the jar out for Hutch to see.

Hutch eased down into his chair, taking the piece carefully. “That was their last worksite together,” he said. “Before Joshua came up here. He’d been hiking and hunting in the area and found a seep. The one I told you about.”

Starsky’s gaze drifted to the items spread across the rug. “When did he give you these?” he asked. “He must’ve known he was going to die.”

Hutch shook his head. “He didn’t give them to us,” he said. “Kathy brought them down herself. We knew what he wanted you to have. I should’ve sent them sooner, but…” he exhaled, rubbing a thumb over the tobacco jar’s edge, “we weren’t sure if you wanted them.”

Starsky looked at Kathy, curiosity flickering beneath the surface. “You went up after he died?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“By the hoist?”

“No. It wasn’t working yet.”

Starsky frowned, surprised. “You mean you went up there? Alone?”

Kathy gave a slight smile, one corner of her mouth quirking up with quiet satisfaction. “Of course.”

From his chair, Hutch echoed dryly, “Of course.”

She ignored him. “There’s an old Indian trail. A day’s ride round trip, if you know where to go. I just wanted to be sure everything was okay.”

Starsky turned toward Hutch again. “Didn’t you say the snow had started? You said it was rough getting the party down.”

“It was,” Hutch said. “But a few days later, a wind kicked up and blew most of it clear. Melted enough that she could make the trip. I was already back down below, helping make funeral arrangements. She didn’t ask me. Just packed her gear and went. Not that I could’ve stopped her.”

“I’d have liked to see you try,” Kathy said, without looking at him. “I only brought the lighter stuff. You’ll find rock samples at the bottom. And his journal.

Starsky reached into the box again and lifted one of the carefully wrapped bundles. He peeled back the tissue to reveal a chunk of dark, veined stone. One after another, he placed the samples down beside the photos and medals. Then his hand stilled.

Just as Kathy had said, tucked flat at the bottom was a small, leather-bound book. Dark brown, about the size of a thick Bible. The leather was worn at the edges, the clasp still gilded but scuffed. Starsky lifted it gently. “Got the key?” he asked.

Kathy shook her head. “I couldn’t find one.”

Hutch leaned forward, voice steady. “It’s his field journal. I saw him write in it nearly every day. Notes. Ground observations. Old maps. Drawings. That book meant more to him than anything else he owned.”

He stood and crossed to the desk near the window, pulling a pair of scissors from the drawer. He handed them to Starsky. “You’re going to have to cut it open.”

Chapter 19

Starsky slid the scissors through the leather just above the clasp and opened the book. It felt wrong somehow, cutting into something his grandfather had kept locked. The leather resisted, old and stiff, but it gave way cleanly. He opened the cover slowly. The pages inside were thick and heavy, browned at the edges. Every single one was covered. Lines of neat, slanted handwriting filled the paper. There were sketches too—rocks, ridges, fault lines, and formations. Notations, measurements, margin notes, and revisions all pressed together tightly, without any space wasted.

This wasn’t a journal in the casual sense. It was a record. The work of a man who believed every detail mattered. Starsky flipped through them slowly, not reading yet, just feeling the weight of it all. Then a loose sheet slid from between the pages and drifted down into his lap.

It was cleaner than the rest, a separate note. He unfolded it, the paper crisp, and began to read:

The Kingdom

21st November

Dear David,

When you read this, the Kingdom will be yours. I shall not last the winter. I no longer have the energy or the will to fight for my beliefs. Today I received the results of Huggy’s survey. The chart shows a jumble of rock strata below the surface. I have it in front of me as I write, along with the consultant’s report…

Starsky stared at it. Read it again, slower. His stomach tightened. He looked up.

“I thought he died without knowing the results of the survey,” he said.

Hutch nodded. “He did.”

Starsky shook his head, tapping the letter. “No. He knew the results. This says he got them before he died. It says ‘today.’”

Kathy leaned in, frowning. “When was it written?”

“November twenty-first.”

Hutch’s expression changed. “I found him on the twenty-second.”

Kathy reached for the paper, read the line aloud: “‘It is clear, therefore, that in the upheaval which raised these mountains, such disturbance of the rock strata occurred as to make oil traps unlikely…’” Her voice dropped. Her hands clenched the page tightly. “Oh my God. How could they be so cruel?”

Starsky looked at her.

She met his eyes. “What an incredible, beastly way to kill a man, through his hopes.” She held the letter out to Hutch. “I can’t read the rest.”

Starsky stood to get her something to drink. He stayed standing while Hutch unfolded the letter and read aloud:

“…So finally I have to face the fact that I can do no more. You may call it the stubbornness of a crank, but I have spent my life studying rock strata. I refuse to believe the results of this survey are correct. The fault at Thunder Creek proves otherwise. There was oil here in 1913. The trap that held it should have shown up on the chart.

I fear there are forces at work that I cannot understand. My last request is this: find the money to drill. Only drilling will prove the truth. Do it before the dam buries the Kingdom forever.

If I am wrong, know that I shall suffer for wasting half my life. But if I am right, let it be known. Wear this mantle, David. For me.

Joshua Debrins”

Starsky stood very still. He could picture Joshua writing those words. Tired, but still holding onto something. He felt cold, despite the heat from the flames.

“I want to know who gave him the report,” he said. His voice came out flat.

Kathy turned to him sharply. “Someone had to have brought it to him. But who? Hutch was the last one to see him alive.”

“He hadn’t seen it when I spoke to him last. Said he didn’t expect to till December.” Hutch said.

“Who hated him that much?” Starsky asked.

“Most of them,” Hutch replied. “Trevedian. McClellans. Anyone who lost money on Joshua’s word.”

Kathy put down the drink. “You have to prove him right, David. He believed in you.”

Starsky stepped back. Her words landed hard. Drilling wasn’t just a decision; it was time, money, and permits. And he hadn’t even made peace with staying here yet.

“We’ll talk to Huggy,” he said. “He’s got to know something. You said so yourself, Hutch.”

“I’ll go up in the morning,” Hutch said.

“I’ll come with you,” Starsky offered.

Hutch hesitated. Then glanced at Kathy. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. He gets moody. He doesn’t trust too easily. Let me talk to him first.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Hutch paused. Folded his hands. “You should know something. In case someone else tells you first.”

Starsky waited.

“Huggy’s family came from the South. They moved here for work. His father was an oil driller. When the jobs dried up, his father drank. Badly. And when the money ran out, he killed Huggy’s mother. Then himself. Huggy was thirteen. He saw it.”

Starsky swallowed. “Who raised him?”

“No one. He raised himself. He’s done just about everything. Trapping, prospecting, flying. He was a bush pilot. Good one. Then the war came. He was shot down over Germany. Burned badly. After that, he couldn’t fly again.”

Kathy added, “He lost some of his sight in the fire. And more than that, he lost something in himself. He’s quiet until he isn’t. And when the silence comes, it’s deep.”

Hutch said, “He doesn’t trust easily. When you saw us at the Pic Ax, I was trying to get him to talk to you. He didn’t believe you weren’t selling the land. You’re not, right?”

Starsky looked at both of them. “No. I’m not.”

“Good,” Hutch said. “Then I’ll go up and bring him down tomorrow.”

Starsky looked at the journal still lying open, then at the rocks. Everything here, every page, every stone, was a message. A plea. Maybe a final act of faith.

“I want the truth,” he said quietly.

“We all do,” Hutch said. “But you’re the only one who can act on it.”

Chapter 20

Starsky had spent most of the next morning caught in that restless space between sleep and wakefulness, dozing in fits, then staring blankly at the ceiling. When he wasn’t half-asleep, he thumbed through his grandfather’s journal, not really reading so much as trying to make sense of the man behind the pages. The handwriting was familiar now. The drawings. The margins were full of corrections. Still, it all felt distant, like looking at someone else’s memories through a cracked window.

His whole body felt wrung out, days of pushing forward without pause, ever since stepping off the train, had finally caught up to him. The long hours, the weight of what he’d inherited, the truth about Joshua’s life and death pressing in on him from all sides. And now the illness, creeping closer every day. It had taken whatever energy he’d had this morning to get out of bed and down to breakfast.

Kathy had seen him. Hutch hadn’t; he’d already left to find Huggy by then. She didn’t say anything right away, just watched him with that quiet way of hers, then told him to go upstairs and lie down. No discussion. No softness in her voice, just calm certainty. He’d tried to protest, but the energy wasn’t there. Not anymore.

He’d asked her not to tell Hutch. Begged her, really. She hadn’t liked it, he could see that, but she agreed, on one condition: no playing tough. Stay in bed. Rest. He’d nodded.

Didn’t have much choice.

Climbing the stairs, he’d felt the last of yesterday’s strength disappear. Whatever surge had carried him to the dam and the long night speaking with Kathy and Hutch had burned itself out. Now all he could do was wait it out. Hope that he’d come out the other side of it.

He’d laughed a little, bitter and low, as he crawled under the covers. He’d imagined retreating into his grandfather’s mythical Kingdom, a place outside time, untouched by the mess of the world. But the joke was on him. There was no peace up here, after all, just the looming shadow of a half-built dam, swallowing the land inch by inch. In his mind, it had already grown into something monstrous.

By the time a knock came just past one, he was in the sitting room, attached to their room, unable to keep still. He’d taken one of the chairs in front of the fire, drawn there by the silence and the low, steady warmth. His joints ached like he’d been standing in the cold too long. Even sitting felt like work.

He didn’t call out, just waited.

A moment later, the door eased open.

Hutch stepped in, and behind him stood Huggy, framed in the hallway like he wasn’t sure whether to enter or not. Hutch’s voice was quiet.

“Can we come in?”

Starsky nodded once. That was all he could manage.

Hutch gave Huggy a nudge, and the man stepped inside, still wary. He glanced around the room like it might bite.

“Pull up a chair,” Hutch said to their visitor as he shut the door behind them and sat.

But Huggy didn’t move toward the chair. He walked to the window and stood there, silent. His back was tense. His hands were tucked in his coat pockets.

“When Hutch first told me about you yesterday, when I met you at the Pic-Ax,” Huggy said, after a few minutes passed, voice flat, “I didn’t know you’d come all the way from New York, ready to live up in the Kingdom and pick up where Joshua left off. Thought he was exaggeratin’. Still not sure he ain’t.”

Starsky didn’t answer. Just watched. Something was working behind Huggy’s eyes, like he was trying to decide if he’d already made a mistake by walking in.

Then Huggy turned fast on his heel, eyes sharp. “You were outside Trevedian’s office yesterday. Weren’t you? How much did you hear?”

Starsky shrugged. “Enough. Enough to figure out why you went along with the survey report.”

“You knew I was lyin’?”

“No,” Hutch said quickly. “Not at first. It wasn’t till we found a note in Joshua’s journal and talked last night. That’s when we started putting it together.”

Huggy stared out the window for a beat. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said. “Figured you were just lookin’ to sell. Thought you didn’t… Hell, I don’t know!” He turned sharply, facing Starsky. “I panicked. If Trevedian cut me off from the hoist, my gear would be stuck up there for good. Everything I have is in that equipment. Without it, well, I’m done. I’ll have nothing left.”

Starsky let those words sink in. Here was someone else whose life, his entire livelihood, was tangled in the same web of dreams Joshua had spun for decades. Another man left standing on the edge of a promise that might never pay out. He felt the sting of that old bitterness rising in his chest again, the same anger he’d carried since he was that kid, waiting for a tired old man to come out of Rikers. It was easier, back then, to write it all off, his grandfather, this…foolishness, no, not foolishness. Delusion. But now? The cost wasn’t just his own.

He pushed the feeling down. Took a slow breath.

“And now?” he asked quietly.

“Now?” Huggy moved to a chair, straddled it backward, and rested his arms on the back. “Well, I don’t know what the hell Dobey has been playing at, but it wasn’t what I sent him. I ain’t no scientist, but that was a clean anticline up there. East to west, strong lines. I saw it. Whether or not there’s oil, I can’t say. I ain’t that kind of expert. But, I do know this: the report Dobey made based on the figures I sent him is a lot of nonsense. I was never more surprised in my life than when I saw that report.”

Starsky leaned forward slightly, feeling the weight behind Huggy’s words. They weren’t dramatic, just plain truth. It hit differently, hearing it like that. No sales pitch, no big promises. Just a working man knowing what he’d seen, and not being able to square it with what came back. And there it was again, that slow burn of frustration deep in Starsky’s chest. If what Huggy said was true, then his grandfather hadn’t been dreaming. Or not entirely. But someone, somewhere, had bent the facts. Maybe worse.

“Did you reach out to Dobey?” Hutch asked.

“Yep,” Huggy interrupted, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it while he talked. “I wrote to Dobey right away, but all he said in reply was that if I cared to come and check the figures against the seismograms his office had prepared, I’d find them accurate.” He paused and blew out a streamer of smoke. “Maybe I slipped up. I’m not an expert, and I’ve only been in the game for three years. But I took time out to get a working knowledge of how the results of a seismographic survey were worked out, and I can’t believe that the figures I sent him could have given the results he reported.”

“And have you seen him? Dobey,” Hutch asked. “Since you’ve been back. I spoke with him before we came up here. He seemed pretty adamant about what he found. Can’t see how it would be any other way. But he also had some doubts, but couldn’t get a handle on why. He said it was like looking at something, but not really seeing it. You know it isn’t true, but all your data says it is. If you know what I mean.”

Starsky turned his head, blinking once at Hutch, trying to recall when that might’ve happened. He didn’t. His voice was curious. “When did you see Dobey?”

“The afternoon we met,” Hutch said. “After I dropped you off at the hotel, I went to see him.” He shifted slightly, his tone dipping into something more pointed as he stood and looked at Huggy. “Have you talked with Dobey yet?”

“No. I haven’t had a chance. I told you that yesterday. I’ve only just come off this wildcat,” Huggy said, dragging on his cigarette. “I called him, though, told him I was coming through, but missed him. He was out when I stopped by his office. So I came up here. Hoping to get my trucks down.”

Starsky nodded faintly, pressing a hand to his knee to steady the dull ache building behind his ribs. Huggy sounded frustrated, sure, but not dishonest. But what about this Dobey person?

Starsky squinted at Hutch, then shifted his gaze to Huggy. “How well do you know this Dobey?”

“Pretty well,” Hutch answered. “We both know him. He’s been working for my grandfather for a long time.”

Starsky leaned back slightly, still watching them both. “Is he straight?”

Huggy gave a short, firm nod. “Harold Dobey? Yeah, he is. Straight as a die. Fella wouldn’t fudge a number if his life depended on it.”

Hutch frowned slightly. “Why you asking, Starsk? What’s on your mind?”

Chapter 21

Starsky shifted in the chair, the ache in his ribs still nagging. “I was just wondering how he could have produced a report that differs so violently from your impression.”

Huggy gave a tight shrug. “Well, maybe I was wrong.”

Starsky didn’t buy that. “Have you checked your figures with the ones Dobey worked from?”

“I just told you.” He stood up from his chair. “I haven’t seen him. But as soon as I get back to Down Below…” Huggy paused, narrowing his eyes. “What are you getting at?”

Starsky leaned forward a little, keeping his tone level. “Did you take the results of your survey down to Dobey yourself?”

“Of course not. Hutch and I was working up in the Kingdom all the time. We didn’t have time to bring them down ourselves. We sent them to Dobey in batches.”

“How?” Starsky asked.

Hutch replied, “We had them mailed from Keithley.”

Starsky’s voice sharpened. “Yes, but how did you get them down to Keithley?”

“It would go by the hoist,” Huggy answered. “It was still running at the point and Trevedian was runnin’ supplies up to us, and each week…” He stopped mid-thought, his face darkening as he turned to Hutch.

Hutch’s hands clenched at his sides. “Of course. How stupid of me. All they had to do was substitute the figures of some unsuccessful survey.” He spun on his heel and started pacing, the floorboards groaning under his boots. “No wonder Trevedian needed to be sure I kept your mouth shut, Huggy.”

At that, Huggy didn’t answer right away. He turned back to the window, staring out at the ridgeline where the sky broke clean above the pines. Smoke curled from his cigarette, slow and steady.

“There’s somethin’ about the Kingdom,” he said finally, low and thoughtful. “It clings to the memory like a woman who wants to bear children and is lookin’ for a man to father them.”

Starsky blinked at that, eyebrows raising slightly, traded a smile with Hutch, but said nothing.

Huggy went on, voice distant. “Last year, when I left, I had a feeling I’d be comin’ back. There’s a kind of destiny about places. For every man, there’s a piece of land that calls to him, that tugs at something buried deep. I’ve traveled half the world, seen more terrain than most folks know exists. I know these territories like my own damn hand. But nothin’ ever called to me like the Kingdom. Not once.”

He tapped ash off the end of his cigarette. “All this winter, it’s been in my mind. Like it wasn’t finished with me. And I’ve been afraid of it.”

He turned slowly, facing Starsky now. The light from the window caught in his eyes, sharpening them and making them look brighter than before.

“I just wanted to get my trucks and go,” he said. “But now…” He half-shrugged and came forward, steps slow but steady. His cigarette hung forgotten in his hand.

“Hutch said you wanted to prove Joshua right.”

His voice dropped, suddenly grounded, cutting through the haze.

Starsky met his gaze without flinching. “I do.”

“I’m in as well,” Hutch said. “And if you had someone who knew what they were doing…”

“Drillin’ costs money,” Starsky muttered.

“Sure, it means drilling. But ” Hutch hesitated. “How much is a drilling operation worth to you, Starsk?”

Starsky laughed then. “All I’ve got is a few hundred dollars.”

Starsky stayed still, with one hand braced on the armrest, the other limp in his lap. His legs ached. His ribs felt like something gnawed at them from the inside out. He was cold and flushed at the same time, the talk spinning around him faster than he could grab hold of.

But he listened.

Hutch had stepped close again, standing just over his shoulder. “I don’t mean that,” Hutch said, voice calm but focused. “Look. If I get the capital and the equipment, will you split the profits of what comes up?”

Starsky blinked. “What do you mean?”

“He’s talkin’ fifty-fifty,” Huggy said, nodding toward Hutch. “You get half. Me and Blondie split the rest, if we strike.”

“That’s a big if.” Starsky gave a hoarse chuckle that hurt more than it should have. “Even supposing your survey did show an anticline, you said yourself it doesn’t necessarily mean there’s oil there.”

“City boys,” Hutch muttered, grinning, glancing at Huggy. “Ain’t got no sense of frontier risk.”

Starsky shook his head slowly, dragging in a breath. “All right, I get it. But all I’m saying is let’s take it step by step. We don’t even know if the numbers Dobey has are accurate or not…”

“Fair enough,” Huggy said, flicking ash into the small tray on the windowsill. “I’ll go down and talk to Dobey. Look at the figures myself. If something’s off, I’ll see it.”

“Meanwhile,” Hutch said, shifting his weight like he was already preparing to move, “Starsky, you and I head back to the Kingdom once the road’s cleared. James McClellan said they should be through the hoist by tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll find my trucks in the barn,” Huggy added, as he glanced at Hutch.

“I saw them in November,” Hutch said. “Just before…”

He stopped.

Starsky looked away. He didn’t need Hutch to finish the sentence.

“Good,” Huggy said after a beat, clearing his throat. “Inside the instrument truck, you’ll find the final survey results. In the scramble to get off the mountain, I forgot all about ’em.”

“I’ll do that,” Hutch said. “And while you’re down there, Hug, go talk to my grandfather. He told me we’d have whatever we needed to get this going. See if he can start moving on capital. Maybe even rigs. Sooner rather than later.”

Huggy gave a low whistle. “That old man still got some fuel in the tank, huh?”

Starsky watched them both, Hutch upright, confident again, like the weight of indecision had finally broken loose. Huggy steady, sharp now that the self-doubt had burned off. The room buzzed with momentum. Plans unfurling like roadmaps over the table. And he sat there, struggling to focus, like his body had gone soft inside and all that was left was the memory of energy.

But he didn’t say anything.

“Ever since I started in on this business,” Huggy said after a pause, his voice softer now, almost reverent, “I’ve dreamed of bringin’ in a well. Not just some contract job, not just handin’ off the data to some suit behind a desk. I mean all the way. From the first strike of the rod to watchin’ that crude come up outta the ground, knowin’ I had a stake in it.”

Hutch placed a hand on Starsky’s shoulder, a faint smile on his face. “I was tellin’ Joshua, the last time I saw him, that I was hoping to plan for a rig up in the Kingdom come spring.”

Starsky met his friend’s eyes. “Guess we’ll get that chance.”

Chapter 22

The road up Thunder Creek, past the rock fall, looked less like a mountain pass and more like the dried bed of a stream, or maybe one still half alive. Water sheeted across it in wide, shallow fans, and every turn brought new stones, mud, or runoff to test the truck’s groundgrips. Hutch didn’t slow. He handled the wheel like it was a living thing that just needed coaxing, not control. He sang under his breath, as though steering through ankle-deep mud and over half-submerged boulders was no more complicated than a Sunday drive.

The three of them had started late. Earlier that day, they’d tried to take the hoist, but Trevedian had refused them flat, giving some excuse about maintenance. So the plan was made: go up after dark. Kathy had insisted on coming. Someone would need to be at the hoist to turn the engine on when it was time to come back down, and provide interference should someone see them.

Starsky sat stiff in the passenger seat, hands pressed to his thighs. He was cold even with the heat on, his body slow to adjust to the altitude and the chill that came once the sun dropped behind the peaks. He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. Kathy rode between them in silence, curled into her coat and watching the road with the same tension he felt coiling in his stomach.

Above them, the moon sped quickly between clouds, casting brief flashes of yellow light across the trail, dimming the glow from the headlights. Below to the left, Thunder Creek roared unseen in its ravine, a constant, angry sound that made Starsky feel like they were riding alongside something alive and impatient.

The cliffs rose steeply as they climbed. He knew what lay ahead; he’d seen photos, but nothing quite prepared him for the sudden clearing, the broken remains of old log huts lying half-swallowed by young saplings—the remnants of the original work camp for the dam. Hutch didn’t stop. The trail kept on, and so did they.

Gradually, the forest thinned. The snow on the road crunched under the tires, no longer slush but hardened into crusty powder. Then they crested a ridge and the trees fell away entirely, revealing the rockslide.

Starsky leaned forward in his seat.

Massive blocks of stone, each the size of a small house, were stacked like some child’s forgotten toy. The headlights caught jagged edges and broken faces of granite that gleamed faintly under the moving moonlight. Above them, the cliff face rose like a wall, black against the night sky. High above, snow caps glowed faintly, whipped by winds into fine veils that vanished into the dark.

The truck jolted hard as they rolled onto the rough edge of the track. It had been hacked directly from the outer slope of the slide. No guardrails. No warnings. Just the hard rattle of tires over stone as they dropped down into the final turn.

And then there it was, the hoist house.

A square block of concrete crouched low against the slope, its corners sharp and ugly in the light. It looked more like a bunker than a building. On its face was a timbered platform, and at its center rested the hoist cage, heavy, wooden, and still, suspended from cables as thick as a man’s arm. Hutch swung the truck’s spotlight up, following the wire as it disappeared into the heights above them.

Starsky stared at it. Even in the cold, his palms were damp. That cage was their only way up to the Kingdom.

“Well, that’s it,” Hutch said, cutting the engine. “Quite a place, isn’t it?”

Starsky nodded as he stared along the threadlike line of the cable, following it in his imagination up the dark face of the cliff to the narrow V between the peaks of Solomon’s Judgment. That slender thread was the link bridging the gap between here and the Kingdom.

Hutch popped his door open. “Alright. Let’s have a look at the engine house.”

He turned in his seat. “Kath, you don’t have to come out here. We’re just going to check the setup.”

“Like hell, you’re leaving me.”

“We’re just going to check the setup,” he repeated, half-grinning.

“Yeah, well,” she muttered, pulling her coat tighter and squinting at the slope ahead, “Gotta make sure neither of you fall into a hole. Or worse, Hutch, trip over your dumb feet and break your fool neck.”

Starsky gave Hutch a crooked smile. “Can’t say I blame her there, pal.”

Hutch shot him a glare as Kathy caught up to them, stepping carefully over a ridge of frozen slush. “Besides, I’ve seen you try to light a furnace. I am not putting the hoist in your hands without supervision.”

That earned a soft laugh from Hutch.

Inside the truck, the heater had been going full blast, and they’d been protected from the wind. Outside, though, they could hardly stand. The wind tore up the valley. It was not a cold wind, but it had no power to dispel the frozen bite of the air trapped in the circle of the valley head. It was a gripping cold that thrust through one’s clothing and ate into one’s guts.

They all ducked their heads and pushed toward the squat concrete building. Even though there had been work crews up during the day, Snow had drifted high against the pinewood door, and Hutch knelt to clear it with his gloves.

Inside, the cold air felt denser, as if it had been waiting in the concrete for months. Starsky stepped over the threshold and scanned the room, the heavy iron hoist wheel, the diesel engine under its tarp, the control panel, and the field telephone mounted under the window.

Kathy stamped her boots clean at the door, then stood next to Starsky, hands tucked under her arms.

“So this is it,” she said. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“No,” Starsky murmured. She looked at him then, brows drawn. “You sure you’re okay for this?”

He nodded once.

Starsky stood there for a moment, letting it all settle into his senses, while Hutch bent beside the engine, pulling back the edge of the tarpaulin. Slowly, as if compelled by something he couldn’t name, Starsky turned toward the narrow window.

He leaned forward on the windowsill and looked up toward the snow-lipped crest of the cliff. The moon was just beginning to rise above the left-hand peak, pushing through torn strands of cloud. He watched the shadows shift, retreating along the mountainside, until the entire slide below was bathed in stark, pale light.

The cable came into view now, thick and taut, a shallow loop stretching from the engine house to a massive concrete pillar anchored on a broad slab of rock near the top of the slide. From there, it climbed steeply up the cliff face, disappearing into darkness.

Starsky followed the line of the cable upward, his gaze climbing toward the top of the dam. There, thin, distant, no bigger than a needle from where he stood, was another pillar. It looked ancient somehow, like a marker or a lone sentinel watching over the edge of the world.

Kathy’s voice cut in, soft but steady. “What’s on your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away; instead, he kept his eyes on the far-off spire, the cable gleaming faintly in the moonlight like a lifeline drawn taut between past and future. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“Just thinking how easy it’d be to lose it all up there.” He glanced sideways at her. “Or find it.”

“Okay,” Hutch called from beside the hoist engine. “Kathy, let me show you how to run it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please, boys. I’ve been working engines since before I could crawl.”

Hutch grinned. “Be my guest.”

She stepped up to the engine confidently. There was a smaller pilot motor, gas-driven, with a battery starter, used for turning over the big diesel engine. It coughed to life at the touch of a button. Hutch pulled back the tarpaulin from the main engine, opened the oil feed, and a moment later, the whole concrete housing trembled to the roar of the motor.

Starsky went to the truck and came back with an extra coat and a heavy rug. Hutch met him at the doorway of the housing.

Outside, they climbed onto the cage. It was massive, larger than anything Starsky had seen in the Swiss Alps. Hutch shone his flashlight along the cradle, where twin flanged wheels rested on the main cable. The driving cable was secured to the cradle by a hinged arm and pinion. If the engine failed, one sharp knock would drop the pinion, disengaging the cable and letting it fall onto a roller. A braking wheel would catch, allowing the cage to be lowered manually.

“Better take this.” Kathy handed over her flashlight. “Looks like they’ve rigged a phone, probably runs through the main cable. Ring me once you’re up. If it doesn’t work, I’ll bring the cage down at nine. I’ll give one false start to warn you. If you don’t come down then, I’ll run it up again and bring it down every half hour. Okay?”

Starsky nodded, checking his watch against hers. Then he and Hutch stepped onto the wooden platform.

“Good luck,” she called, before vanishing into the concrete housing.

A moment later, the diesel’s tone deepened as it took up the slack in the driving cable. The loop evened out, growing taut. The cage trembled once, then lifted from the staging. The cradle’s wheels began to turn with a low groan. The cage swayed gently as it rose, creaking.

Starsky watched the engine house shrink below them. Then he turned to face the sheer cliff wall ahead.

It was a strange journey, suspended alone in the moonlit dark. The rockfall dropped steeply beneath him, a jagged patchwork of white and shadow. Ahead, everything was swallowed in gloom. A concrete pillar loomed from the dark, passed by in silence as the cage slipped from light into shadow.

Chapter 23

As the cage climbed, Hutch stayed near the gate, hands gripping the edge, though there was nothing he could do if anything went wrong. The cable whined softly above them, metal stretching upward into darkness. He felt the tension in his chest tighten as the cradle tipped to follow the steep pitch of the cliff. The sound of the wheels changed, groaning slightly under the strain, and he glanced over his shoulder.

Starsky sat hunched on the bench, arms braced on his knees, his breath white in the air. His color looked off again—too pale in the moonlight, or maybe that was just the cold. But Hutch had seen it creeping in for days now, the way Starsky moved slower, the deeper pauses in his words. The way he barely touched food at supper.

“You good?” Hutch asked, keeping his voice low.

Starsky didn’t answer right away. He was staring upward, past the cables and into the jagged silhouette of the peaks. “Just cold,” he said finally. “And tryin’ not to think about how high up we are.”

Hutch gave a short breath of a laugh. “Yeah, well… just think of it like an elevator. A really slow, sideways, open-air elevator held up by a cable the width of your wrist.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?” Starsky muttered, glancing at him.

“No. Just trying to distract you.”

“Try harder.”

Hutch turned back to the window slits in the side of the cage but kept one eye on his friend. The cradle creaked again, this time shifting to near-horizontal as they topped the cliff edge. Starsky grunted as the motion tilted them forward.

“You okay?” Hutch asked, this time unable to keep the edge of concern out of his voice.

Starsky nodded, but slowly. “Yeah. Just feels like someone squeezed all the air outta me.”

Hutch watched him for another beat. “You sure you’re up for this?”

Starsky let out a dry breath, leaning back against the wooden slats of the cage. “Little late to be asking that, don’tcha think?”

Hutch gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, maybe. Still gotta ask.”

Starsky glanced at him, eyes catching the moonlight. “Well, I’m still breathin’. Don’t jinx it.”

“I’ll try not to,” Hutch said, voice low. But the way Starsky shifted his weight, the hesitation in his movement, lodged a splinter of worry in Hutch’s gut he couldn’t quite shake.

The cage continued to climb the northern slope of the cleft. Then it slowed and moved gently into a wooden staging that finished abruptly at a concrete housing similar to the one at the bottom. The cage stopped with a slight jerk, setting the cables swaying.

Hutch turned and held out a hand, but Starsky waved it off and pulled himself up with a grunt, wincing slightly as he stepped off the cage.

The dam stood there, looking like some prehistoric rampart built by ancient inhabitants to defend the pass. In places, the concrete had crumbled away, spilling out the great boulders that formed its core. The unfinished center section, where water frothed white over a small fall, gave it the appearance of having been breached in some early raid.

The top of the dam was partially covered by snow, but it was still possible to see the nature of its construction, two outer walls of concrete and the space between filled with rock and scaled-width concrete.

The Kingdom itself lay below them, a natural bowl in the mountains, some 10 to 15 miles long. It was impossible to judge the distance in that light. From this spot on the ridge, one couldn’t tell the width of the valley because a buttress of rock, part of the shoulder of the mountain, blocked the view. The valley was completely bare, a white expanse of snow through which ran the black thread of a stream, branching here and there like the spine of a leaf into tributaries that faded quickly beneath the snow.

There was no sign of habitation.

Hutch tapped Starsky’s shoulder and pointed toward the concrete housing, gesturing for him to follow. Starsky nodded wordlessly and fell in behind.

Inside, the air was still and cold. There was no motor here, of course—just the big iron wheel around which the driving cable ran, and a few cans of grease stacked neatly off to one side. A field telephone hung from a wooden bracket on the wall, its cord slightly twisted from long disuse.

Hutch stepped over to it, lifted the receiver, and gave the handle a slow crank. After a beat, Kathy’s voice crackled faintly in his ear.

“You guys all right?” she asked.

“Yes, we’re fine,” Hutch said into the receiver.

It was strange to imagine Kathy still down in the valley, the truck parked near the hoist, the road winding back toward Come Lucky like a thread in another life. Up here felt like a different world altogether.

“Joshua’s place is on the north side of the Kingdom.”

“Okay,” Kathy replied. “But don’t take too long. And watch your step, don’t go slipping off anything.”

“I’ll be all right,” he said., grinning into the phone. “It’ll probably take about an hour, maybe two, to look around and collect the figures.”

“Okay. I’ll keep an ear on the line.”

Hutch hung up the receiver, and they went back outside. They stood together just beyond the hoist housing, the vastness of the Kingdom spread before them like a frozen dream, rimmed by jagged peaks that clawed at the sky. Below them the valley wa like a white bowl ringed by rock and ice, a ghost landscape half-lit by the veiled moon. But Hutch wasn’t watching; his eyes kept sliding back to Starsky. His partner was pale, unsteady on his feet, breath dragging in sharp, shallow pulls through clenched teeth. He had half a mind to get back on the lift, and go back. But he also knew he would have a fight on his hands. Not that his friend was any shape to fight back.

With a sigh, Hutch tapped Starsky’s shoulder, then pointed toward the trail snaking just off the lip of the dam. “That’s the only way down,” he shouted over the wind. “If we take it slow, we should be okay.”

Starsky nodded once, and followed Hutch as they started the descent toward the buttress, boots crunching through brittle crusts of ice. Hutch stayed close, one eye on the trail, the other on the man beside him.

Every few steps, Starsky staggered slightly, regaining balance with a muttered curse, but he kept moving.

At the summit, the whole Kingdom stretched below them in solemn white silence. Nestled against the lower mountain slopes, half-buried in snow, was the low range of log buildings, not shacks, but solid structures, built in the style of Norwegian settlers.

A line of trees skirted the slope above them, their branches bending under ice. It should have been a short walk, no more than a mile, but the terrain was treacherous. The snow had frozen to a glassy crust, slick as oil. Hutch could hear Starsky panting harder now. The altitude was punishing him, dragging on his strength.

They moved in silence, heads down, cold biting at every inch of exposed skin. From above, a whirl of snow came hurtling down like a scimitar, sweeping past them with a shriek of wind and ice. Starsky ducked into it, squinting, his gloved hand instinctively finding Hutch’s coat and clenching it. Hutch steadied them both, bracing against the blast, his heart thudding too loudly in the eerie hush that followed.

Looking back, their footprints were faint ghosts in the powder, leading to the dark cleft of the pass. Thunder Creek was gone, swallowed by rock and shadow. The dam, just visible in the moonlight, looked pitiful beneath the monstrous wall of Solomon’s Judgment. A new cloud moved in fast behind the southern peak, black as coal and dense as smoke, a curtain drawn across the heavens. Hutch watched the moon vanish behind it as the shadow lunged across the snowfield.

“We need to move,” he said tightly, gesturing toward the cabins less than five hundred yards ahead. But the light twisted in strange ways now, bent and fractured by the swirling snow. Then the peaks vanished. Just like that, the whole Kingdom disappeared beneath a wall of darkness.

A dry rustling started above, faint as leaves or the hiss of steam. Hutch froze. Starsky pressed closer to him, a hand still knotted in his coat.

Hutch didn’t move.

He was calculating.

Could they make it to the shelter? Would turning back to the dam take longer? He couldn’t see the line anymore, not the buildings, not the ridge. Nothing but white snow fading into black air.

Then it hit. The roar from the slopes above drowned out everything. The wind screamed down on them, dragging a torrent of sharp snow, cold enough to burn, heavy enough to bury. Hutch wrapped one arm around Starsky’s waist and pulled him close, shielding him with his body as the white storm swallowed them whole.

Chapter 24

Starsky had never known cold like this, not even in the Brooklyn winters or the wind off the Hudson. This was something different. This was cold with teeth. It chewed through his coat, his gloves, his breath. Snow clawed at every inch of exposed skin, and the wind howled like it had a personal grudge. He kept his head down and followed the faint black bulk ahead, the outline of Hutch, nothing more than a shadow shifting in the whiteout.

The roar above them had grown steady, a terrible sound that promised worse to come. Wind tore across the open slope in bursts that nearly knocked him sideways. And then the snow came, not in flakes, but in sheets, like a wall collapsing on top of them. The world vanished in an instant.

“Hutch!” he shouted, but the wind stole his voice. He could barely hear his own breath. Then, a hand closed on his arm, Hutch’s, and tugged hard.

Starsky stumbled forward, Hutch leaning back into the gusts and shouting, “Stay with me! We’re almost there!”

Almost. That word meant nothing in this. Almost was miles. Almost was hours. Almost was dead if they were wrong.

Starsky kept his grip on Hutch’s sleeve. The light from Hutch’s torch flickered ahead, bouncing in wild arcs across the white chaos. It didn’t show anything helpful, just snow and more snow. Still, it was something. Starsky tucked his chin to his chest and trudged on, matching Hutch’s steps, counting them in his head, trying not to think about how his thighs were cramping or that his breath was burning in his throat.

Another gust slammed into them, and Starsky went down hard on one knee, snow exploding around him. The pain shot through his ribs like a jolt of lightning. He couldn’t catch his breath. Hutch was there in an instant, crouching in the swirl of white, hauling him up with both arms. His face was rimed with frost, cheeks raw, but his grip was unshakable.

Hutch didn’t say a word. He just held on, one hand clamped on Starsky’s arm, the other gripping around his waist, like he wasn’t going to let go for anything.

Starsky coughed, his breath catching.

“I’m good,” he rasped, barely audible. “Keep going.”

They staggered forward again, bodies bowed to the wind. Then Hutch jerked to a sudden stop.

“What…” Starsky started, then stopped.

Through the wall of white, came a flicker. Faint at first. A glow. Something was on fire.

Suddenly, the blizzard let up for one breathless second, and the flames revealed themselves—curling high against the dark sky, licking the edge of a rough-hewn log structure.

“One of Joshua’s barns.” Hutch shouted over the storm, close to Starsky’s covered ears.

Burning hot and fast. Heat poured through the storm and hit Starsky like a blow to the chest. His limbs went loose with relief. At that moment, he didn’t care where it had come from. He didn’t care if it made sense.

Hutch’s head tilted. Then he changed course without a word, drawn to it like a moth to flame. With every step, the light deepened, orange, red, yellow bleeding through the snow. It didn’t look natural. Didn’t look possible.

They broke into the yard. Buildings crouched low beneath the storm, two long barns flanking a squat ranch house at the center. One barn was fully ablaze. The other was still buried in white. Firelight illuminated the falling snow in surreal reds and golds. The wind carried steam and ash in chaotic swirls. A moment later, with a creaking groan and a heavy crash, the burning barn collapsed. A roar of sparks lit up the sky. Snow from the rear drift tumbled inward. Steam burst upward like smoke from a cannon.

Then everything went black again. The fire was gone, leaving only sizzling embers and a blotted-out sky.

Starsky stood frozen, dazed by the sudden silence. “It was like it wanted us to see it,” he muttered.

Hutch didn’t answer. He grabbed Starsky’s elbow and pulled him forward. The main building loomed up, dark, sturdy. Shelter. They stumbled through melted snow to the logs. Hutch’s hand ran along the wall until he found the door. It gave easily, and they pushed inside.

Starsky staggered into darkness. The cold in the room had a different quality. Not biting like the storm, but still deep, still clinging to everything. His teeth chattered. “Jesus,” he breathed.

Hutch swept his torch across the room, a big open space of log walls and pine plank floor. In the center stood a table, and on it, a lamp. Hutch moved fast. Chimney off. Wick lit. The warm flare of lamplight burst outward, gentle and golden. Starsky blinked.

At the far end, the room was dominated by a massive stone chimney that widened just below the rafters into a broad open fireplace. It was built of mortared rock, rough and solid, with baking ovens on either side of the main hearth. The grate still held half-burnt pine logs and a mound of ash. Beams and rafters overhead were rough-hewn, the cuts from his grandfather’s axe still visible in the wood. Most of the furniture was handmade, sturdy, practical, but here and there were smaller pieces, clearly imported, the only signs of another world beyond the mountains.

Hutch was already at the fireplace. He hauled over an armload of logs from a bin beside the hearth and got a blaze going, feeding the fire with quick, practiced movements. Flames leapt, and warmth came pouring into the room like a tide. Starsky hadn’t realized how bad he was shaking until his knees gave a little.

“Sit,” Hutch said, his voice hoarse but steady. He wrapped him in a heavy fur throw and pushed him gently into a chair. Water pooled at Starsky’s boots, soaking into the rug. His fingers were too numb to undo the buttons on his jacket. Hutch knelt and helped him strip it off, followed by his gloves, scarf, and wet outer layers.

Starsky sat hunched in his thermal undershirt and damp undershorts, wrapped in furs, watching as Hutch stripped off his soaked clothes. When Hutch peeled his shirt over his head, the firelight struck bare skin, and Starsky’s breath caught before he could stop it. Hutch’s body was lean, all sinew and long muscle, the kind you only noticed when there was nothing left between you and the dark.

The fire turned Hutch’s skin gold, shadows catching in the lines of his ribs, the smooth planes of his back. For a moment, he looked like something carved, something ancient, like Michelangelo’s David come to life. A man pulled from myth and lit like a god.

Starsky dropped his gaze fast, heat prickling under the collar of his shirt. If Hutch noticed Starsky watching, he didn’t say anything.

When he was done, Hutch wrapped himself in a blanket, slung it around his shoulders like a tunic, and crossed to the kitchen area.

Starsky felt the loss like a sudden chill.

Then cursed himself for it.

He distracted himself, by looking around the room, letting his eyes adjust. The stone hearth dominated everything, wide and blackened with years of smoke. On either side were built-in ovens. The walls held shadowed traces of a life that had long been lived. A buckskin jacket hung from a peg, beadwork catching the lamplight. A battered Stetson sat slouched on a shelf above the firewood. Everything looked like Joshua could walk back in at any minute.

Starsky rubbed his hands over his face, then pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “Feels like I’m trespassin’,” he murmured.

Hutch returned with a tin cup and handed it to him. Starsky sipped. Whisky. Harsh and hot, it cut down his throat and burned into his chest.

“That’ll help,” Hutch said with a crooked smile. He stepped to the window. “Storm’s not letting up. Can’t see a damn thing.”

Starsky shifted closer to the fire. “How long do you think it will go?”

Hutch shrugged. “Could be a couple of hours, or a few days.”

“Hope, Kathy’s ok?

“She will be, the hoist shed had a stove, and supplies. What I’m more worried about is how that fire started.”

“I thought I saw someone.”

Hutch turned. “What?”

“A shadow. By the barn. Just as the snow hit. Thought it was the wind playing tricks. Maybe it still was.”

Hutch looked at him for a long moment, then turned back to the dark glass. “Nothing’s moving out there now.”

The fire crackled and spat. The thick logs of the house muted the storm, the sound dulled like it was happening in a dream. Hutch nudged him. “Come on. There’s a bedroom through here. Stove’s still in decent shape.”

They crossed the room. Starsky half-stumbled, drunk on warmth and whisky. The bedroom was small, with a cast-iron drum stove already rumbling out faint heat. Clothes were scattered everywhere, jeans, flannel, boots, like someone had left in a hurry or maybe never planned to leave at all.

Hutch fed the stove, then turned back to the bed.

“We need to keep warm,” he said plainly. “Both of us.”

Starsky nodded. He didn’t have the strength to argue. Hutch helped him out of the rest of his wet clothes, working quickly but with a gentleness that made Starsky’s heart ache. Once he was under the blankets, Hutch climbed in behind him, pressing close. Body to body, shared breath, shared heat.

Starsky didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Hutch’s chest was solid against his back, a wall, a shield, a barrier against everything howling outside and everything twisting up inside. The storm shrieked across the rooftop like it meant to peel the world apart, but inside the cocoon of blankets and fire-warmed air, there was just breath. And warmth.

Then something shifted. Not outside, but inside him. A flicker of warmth that had nothing to do with survival. His body, traitorous and tired, responded to the strength wrapped around him—the press of Hutch’s limbs, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The warm breath against the nape of his neck.

Starsky bit down on the thought, hard. Not now. Not here.

He turned his focus to the icy floorboards, the ache in his side, and the way his fingers still trembled with cold. He forced the spark down, as his fingers flexed beneath the blanket, restless, wanting. He willed it away, shoved the heat down where it couldn’t reach his voice or his hands or the way he leaned back just slightly into Hutch’s hold.

Hutch adjusted behind him, one arm tightening slightly around his waist. Starsky let himself lean back, just enough to chase the warmth, not enough to give anything away. He stared at the dark, listening to the wind, to Hutch’s heartbeat, and tried to believe this was enough.

Somewhere in the dark, the storm howled like it wanted to tear the world apart.

Chapter 25

A faint creak broke the hush of the cabin. A sound barely louder than the whisper of cooling embers in the hearth. The air shifted. In the half-dead light, just above the fire’s last red breath, a shape stood in the doorway.

Motionless. Watching.

A shadow: tall, indistinct. Its outline was no sharper than a smudge against deeper black, and seemed carved from the dark itself, absence layered over absence. For one breathless instant, it watched. Then, without sound, it turned. No footfall. No rustle of cloth. Only a presence vanishing like vapor, one moment there, the next… not.

A soft metallic click followed. The latch. Then the slow pull and close of a door. Gone.

The room seemed colder after.

Something shifted. A sound, too soft to register consciously, brushed the edge of Hutch’s sleep. He blinked into blackness. No wind, no voices. Silence.

And yet… something was off.

He sat up, looking around the room as his eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. The bedroom door was ajar. Hutch frowned. He remembered closing it. He always closed it. With Starsky running cold and their body heat doing the only work in that room, outside of the small stove, he wouldn’t have left it open.

He didn’t move. Just listened.

His gaze dropped to the man beside him as Starsky mumbled in his sleep. Hutch’s mouth quirked up in a vague smile. Starsky had shifted in the night, the covers half-kicked off. He lay stretched out on his stomach, one arm curled under the pillow, the other across the bed. His shirt had ridden up, exposing bare skin. Warm, flushed. Not fevered. But not cold anymore either.

Hutch’s eyes lingered. He couldn’t see much beyond shapes in the dark. The curve of the shoulder, the narrow dip of the spine. The dark mess of hair curling against the nape of his neck. He watched the steady rise and fall of his friend’s back, the flex and settle of shoulder blades under the thin fabric. The blanket bunched at Starsky’s hips, and the fabric clung to his legs.

He didn’t have to see Starsky now to know what he looked like. Memory offered it up in sharp, unbearable clarity. It wasn’t the firelight that made it vivid, it was the feel of it. The moment of it. Clearer than Hutch wanted.

Starsky had stood in front of him, swaying slightly, soaked through and shivering. Hutch had crouched to peel off his jeans, the denim stiff and cold, clinging to his skin, which was flushed hot from exertion and exposure.

The curve of Starsky’s shoulders as he pulled off his thermal undershirt had struck him next, broad and deceptively graceful, all that wiry strength in such a compact frame. Starsky’s skin had been clammy and hot all at once, his breath hitching not from pain or exhaustion, but from something else Hutch hadn’t named at the time. Hutch had looked away too late, pretending not to notice the way the light touched the hollow at the base of his throat, the slope of his neck. Pretending he didn’t feel his own breath stutter.

And the hands…God, the hands. Starsky had braced himself with his hands on Hutch’s shoulders, fingers curling there, strong, sure, unconscious in their trust. Hutch could still feel the ghost of them. Hutch imagined, for just one breath, fingers trailing down his back, across his ribs, lower. A ghost of pressure, a line of heat.

Starsky’s legs had been solid, muscular, flecked with dark hair and gooseflesh. Power and tension, the kind of body that moved like it knew how to move. His thighs were firm beneath Hutch’s hands, and Hutch had gripped harder than he needed to, just to steady himself. Had imagined, for just one breath, fingers trailing down his back, across his ribs, lower. A ghost of pressure, a line of heat.

He’d banished the thought like a curse. Stuffed it down fast and hard. Starsky had been cold. Hurt. Vulnerable. And Hutch had been his friend. Nothing else.

The memory stayed, nonetheless.

He remembered catching Starsky’s gaze. Wet curls plastered to his temple, eyes dark and unreadable, but locked on him. Watching him strip his own shirt off, slow and silent. Watching the way firelight licked along his ribs and arms, gold turning skin to sculpture.

Hutch hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t let it show.

But he’d felt the heat coil low and deep. Not just the practical kind, not just survival. Something messier. Hungrier. And now, with Starsky stretched out in the dark, beside him under the blankets, warm and silent, that same heat stirred again.

Hutch didn’t move at first. He continued to watch the slow rise and fall of Starsky’s back. Leaning up on one elbow, his hand hovered barely above that bare skin. A breath’s width. He traced a path in the air, down the ridge of spine, over the shallow dip of waist, the flare of a hip beneath the blankets.

Not touching. Never touching.

His fingers curled in on themselves, betraying nothing. Then he reached for the furred throw draped over the foot of the bed, pulling it up around them both with deliberate care. The rustle of the pelt masked the sound of his own breathing. He lay back down, careful to leave space, to keep the air cool between them even as his body burned.

Desire pulsed low in his gut, stubborn and inconvenient. He shifted, willing it away. Mind over matter. He wasn’t some teenager at a boarding house. He was a man, and Starsky was his partner, his friend—injured, exhausted, and completely unaware.

Except that Starsky moved.

Hutch stilled. The man beside him stirred in the half-dark, a soft sigh escaping him as he turned slightly beneath the covers. Then, faintly, unmistakably:

“…Hutch?”

The word was barely a breath, slurred with sleep but edged with something that stopped Hutch’s heart for half a beat.

He turned his head. “Yeah?” he said quietly.

But Starsky didn’t answer. His breathing evened out, slow and deep. Already gone again.

Hutch lay back and stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the quiet.

Chapter 26

Starsky woke up cold. The fur blanket had slipped halfway off in the night, and the warmth that had curled around him, Hutch’s body, Hutch’s breath, was gone.

The storm had passed. He knew it even before he opened his eyes; the silence was different now. Not the chaotic hush of white noise and wind, but a deeper quiet. The cabin creaked gently around him, timbers contracting in the cold, but the air was calm. No groan of wind against the eaves, no rattle of snow scouring the shutters.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Just lay there blinking up at the log beams above, trying to orient himself. The room was silent but not still; somewhere in the house, he could hear the distant clatter of movement, the low murmur of someone humming.

Hutch.

Starsky sat up slowly, the blankets slipping into his lap. The fire in the stove had burned down to faint orange coals. Cold air nipped at the sweat cooling on his neck. His jeans from the night before lay draped over a chair, stiff but no longer wet. He pulled them on anyway, wincing at the chill. His thermal undershirt clung damp to his skin, and he grabbed one of the fur pelts off the bed to wrap around his shoulders.

He stood barefoot in the doorway of the bedroom, looking out.

The wide, open space beyond was quiet and golden, touched faintly by the morning light filtering through the frosted windows. The long pine table stretched down the middle of the room, flanked by benches worn smooth by generations of use. The big stone fireplace stood cold now, its black maw empty, soot-shadowed stones rising to the rafters. Beside the door he leaned against, a ladder angled upward toward the loft. He followed the line with his eyes, tilting his head back to see the shadowed beams and a railing of squared pine.

A sleeping platform, maybe, likely for visitors back when this place ran as a summer outfitter’s stop. The kind of setup Hutch had talked about, tourists he sometimes brought here to see Joshua, greenhorns with soft boots and wide eyes.

A door beneath the ladder stood open, leading into the undamaged barn. Looking through it, Starsky could make out the dark hulks of Huggy’s equipment, the trucks, the spare drums and crates. He was glad the fire hadn’t touched that side of the place.

He padded across the living room, drawn to the source of sound and heat.

The kitchen was tucked into an alcove beside the chimney. Hutch stood with his back to him at the old range, humming to himself, bare feet planted wide, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A kettle whistled faintly. A pan sizzled on the stovetop. The scene was so absurdly domestic that it hit Starsky like a punch, this quiet morning, this cabin, this man who moved through it like he belonged.

Starsky leaned against the doorway, watching.

To the right, a closed door gave off a sharper edge of smoke in the air. Starsky figured that one led to the fire-damaged barn. Hutch had left it shut.

Without turning around, Hutch said, “Morning.” He nodded toward a pot near the stove. “Coffee’s drinkable. Help yourself.”

Starsky poured himself a cup, cradled the mug in both hands. The heat seeped into his fingers. “You always sing when you cook?”

Hutch shrugged. “Keeps the bears away.”

Starsky smirked. “From the smell, the bears might be right to worry.”

“I found a can of meat and some biscuits,” Hutch said. “Could be worse.”

Starsky glanced toward the charred barn. “Good thing Huggy’s gear was in the other barn.”

“Real good, cause there’s nothing left in there to salvage,” Hutch said, tapping the edge of the skillet with a fork. “Go have a seat, this’ll be done soon.”

Starsky moved back through the room, pacing slowly, warming up. He passed the old desk tucked beneath the loft stairs. The drawers were swollen with age, half-jammed with a mix of old bills, prospecting notes, photographs, keys, yellowed correspondence, all of it jumbled and cluttered, but not carelessly.

Between the wall and the desk, a box had been jammed and overturned, half-crushed beneath a scatter of papers. Starsky tugged it loose, shaking off dust and a few yellowed receipts. Inside, wrapped in stiff oilcloth and tucked beside a leather-bound book, were several rolled maps, seismographic charts, from the look of them. He squinted, turned one over in his hands, but they made about as much sense as a radio manual written in Swahili. He eased them back and turned to the book.

On the inside cover, in bold, slanted ink, he recognized immediately, was Joshua’s formal script:

“An Account of the Efforts of Joshua Debrins to Establish the Truth that There Is Oil in the Rocky Mountains.”

The ink had faded. The paper was brittle, yellowed with time. He flipped through to a page marked with a corner turned down. Then he read:

“This day, whilst on a visit to my old friend Roger Hutchinson, I was involved in the terrible disaster that overtook the mining community of Come Lucky…”

He read aloud without realizing it, voice low but steady.

Hutch came over with two plates in hand. “What’ve you got?”

Starsky gestured with the book. “Joshua’s notes. Listen to this…”

He kept reading, voice gaining urgency as he hit the part about the Thunder Creek avalanche, the landslide that swallowed the town, the day he’d found the first black gleam of oil at the base of a newly exposed cliff. His words faltered when he read the part about the black slime on the rocks, a river of oil. The awe. The failure to find it again.

“This is what he must’ve used to get the initial injunction against the dam,” Starsky said. “Acheson told me about when I saw him, and it was in the papers I was given.”

“I remember.” Hutch nodded. “ When that came through. They came into the office after the verdict. Roger and Joshua. It was late afternoon. Snow was still clinging to their coats. Joshua’s boots left wet prints across the rug.”

He gave a short breath, part exhale, part rueful laugh.

“I was sitting at my drafting table, sorting out plans for an upcoming drill. I looked up and saw them walk in, and I knew before they said a word they’d won. Joshua looked… lit. Like there was something burning in him. Not joy, exactly. Righteous. Like a man who’d finally beaten Goliath.”

Starsky listened, quiet, fingers resting still on the journal.

“He slammed the injunction papers down on the desk like he was laying a winning hand of cards on the table,” Hutch said with a faint smile. “And my grandfather…Roger just nodded at me. He looked exhausted, but proud of his friend. Joshua said Gunther turned purple when the judge read the ruling..

He paused, then added, more quietly, “That ruling may have stopped construction. Even though he had charts, notes, and samples…it was all smoke after that. All it ever did was buy him more time. And now that has run out.”

Starsky looked back down at the open page. The words were faded but clear. A river of oil. The cliff, fresh and raw, torn out of the earth by violence. And then it had vanished. Gone back underground, as if it had never been.

“Gunther didn’t take that well, huh,” Starsky said.

Hutch’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “He hated losing. My grandfather always said Joshua bought himself enemies that day, not just time.”

Starsky let that sit a moment, staring at the looping script on the brittle page. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Enemies with long memories.”

Hutch tapped the edge of the plate. “Eat. Then we pack it all up.”

They ate quickly, silent except for the occasional clink of their forks on their plates. Then, Hutch swept the black ledger into a pack with the charts, as well as spools from Huggy’s equipment, containing the recordings of his final survey, wrapped them tightly, and shouldered it.

The hike back to the hoist was slow going. The snow lay thick in some places, drifted in others, deceptive in its texture. One step would find firm ground, the next would swallow a leg to the knee.

Starsky didn’t talk much. He saved his breath for walking, his limbs stiff but functional again, thanks to warmth, sleep, and Hutch’s cooking. Hutch kept a steady pace, checking their route against the distant landmarks. It took them nearly an hour to reach the great rock buttress overlooking the Kingdom.

They climbed the final slope in silence, boots crunching through crusted layers. Hutch reached the top first, brushing snow from the ledge with his glove, and stood looking out.

Starsky stepped up beside him and stopped cold.

Below them lay the hoist station, but the cage wasn’t there. The staging area was empty, bare rails gleaming in the light. The stillness was unreal. Not a whisper of wind. No snowflakes drifting, no birds in the sky. Even the air felt frozen mid-breath. The peaks were clear of mare’s tails. No clouds, no movement. A deep and absolute quiet had taken hold, as though the world had stopped exhaling. Only the dark line of water moved, cutting through the gap in the dam below like a wound.

Starsky was bone-tired by the time they staggered into the concrete hoist housing, every muscle heavy and stiff from the long trek. He leaned against the cold wall, catching his breath, while Hutch crossed directly to the field telephone mounted near the controls. He lifted the receiver and gave the crank a firm turn.

For a moment, there was nothing but static.

Then a crackle burst through the line. “Hallo? Hallo? Is that you, Hutch?”

Kathy. Her voice was faint and warbled, barely cutting through the interference. Relief hit Starsky like a wave.

“We’re here,” Hutch said into the receiver, calm but tight. “Is the hoist working?”

“Thank God,” she breathed. “I was scared stiff you’d gotten lost in that storm last night. Are you all right? Did you make it to Joshua’s place? How’s Starsky?”

“We’re Fine, Kath,” Starsky said, leaning in so she could hear him. “We found what we were looking for.”

“You were damned lucky,” Kathy muttered. “I’m just about all in, too. It was a hell of a night.” She paused, then. “Trevedian’s here, and he’s hopping mad, Hutch. They’re sending the cage up now.”

Hutch hung up without a word. Outside, the heavy cable wheel clanked to life, rotating with slow, mechanical rhythm. Starsky moved to the narrow slit of a window, watching the ledge where the hoist platform would rise. The valley beyond was a frozen sea of white, the snow unbroken, the mountains looming silent and still.

Ten minutes later, the cage groaned into place with a metallic clang, its steel frame glittering with frost.

Chapter 27

As the cage dropped into its concrete cradle at the bottom of the dam, Hutch reached out instinctively, catching Starsky around the shoulders. The man sagged heavily into him, legs folding as though the last thread of strength had finally given way. He helped Starsky over the edge, feeling the weight of fatigue settle through him like sand.

Now that they were out of the Kingdom, the adrenaline had gone.

The door to the hoist housing swung open, and a figure strode toward them, boots ringing hard on frost-bitten concrete. Hutch’s stomach tightened. The set of the shoulders, the glare sharp as flint, he didn’t need the name. He already knew.

Peter Trevedian.

“Seems we gotta start locking up our property out here now,” Trevedian snapped. “Next time you want to play around in the hills, let me know. We’ll get you a nursemaid.”

Starsky didn’t answer. He was barely upright, head low, face gray with exhaustion. Hutch stepped between them without thinking.

“Cut it out, Trevedian,” he said, voice calm but deadly quiet, finger jabbing at the man. “Can’t you see he’s dead beat? Back off.”

Trevedian’s jaw clenched, but Hutch didn’t flinch. James McClenan stood just behind him, arms crossed and watching.

“The hoist is mine, Trevedian,” James said. “They had my okay. And I’m glad they’re all right.”

Hutch knew McClenan was lying about letting them use it, but still met Trevedian’s glare. “Like the man said, the hoist belongs to him,” he said, nodding toward McClenan. “James didn’t have a problem with us using it.”

“You had no right to use the hoist,” Trevedian continued, biting off each word. “I don’t care who owns it, it’s on my land.”

“If you’d let us use it during the day, it wouldn’t have been a problem.” Hutch’s voice was steel. “So don’t bark at me like I kicked your dog.”

Trevedian sputtered, trying to come back with something else, but Hutch ignored him. Kathy had already reached Starsky’s other side, slipping in like a wedge. Together, they got him to the truck, Trevedian still barking behind them. Hutch didn’t turn around. He slid behind the wheel as Kathy settled next to Starsky. By the time they pulled out, the storm was just wind in the rearview.

They made it back to the Garrett house in one long, quiet haul. Starsky protested weakly when Hutch helped him upstairs, saying he didn’t need to be coddled, but it didn’t matter. By the time they got him under the covers, he was already half asleep. Within minutes, he was out cold.

Hutch collapsed into the second bed. Kathy vanished to her own room without a word.

——

It was evening by the time Hutch stirred. The clock on the wall read just after seven, its hands glowing faintly in the dim room. The air was still, muffled by drawn curtains and the weight of sleep. Hutch turned his head. Starsky was still dead asleep, sprawled on his side, arm tucked under the pillow, breathing slow and steady. A faint snore caught in his throat and drifted into quiet again.

Hutch didn’t move for a moment. Just watched. The lines of tension in Starsky’s face were finally gone. He looked younger somehow, unguarded in a way Hutch rarely saw. Whatever bruises and chill lingered from their time in the Kingdom hadn’t chased him here yet. Let him rest, Hutch thought. God knows he’d earned it.

He eased out of bed and padded to the door, opened then pulled it closed behind him without a sound.

Downstairs, warm light spilled from the kitchen. The smell of food—real food—hit Hutch like a memory. Meat, onions, fresh bread. His stomach growled. He stepped into the room and found the table already laid: bowls, plates, bread in a linen-lined basket. At the end of the table, Huggy leaned back in a chair, hands laced behind his head, chatting with Kathy. A third man sat beside them big, broad-shouldered, with a sun-cracked face and silver stubble that looked like it had been filed into granite.

Hutch raised a brow. “When’d you get in?”

Huggy grinned and sat up. “’Bout an hour ago.”

Hutch shook his head, exhaling. “You’ve got the timing of a raccoon in a henhouse.”

“And that’s why you keep me around me,” Huggy said, then gestured across the table. “Hutch, this is Garry Keogh.”

The big man stood and extended a hand. Hutch met it: A big hand wrapped around his and shook like it meant business. Keogh looked like a bulldozer in human skin—grizzled, bald on top, knuckles like stone, but there was a spark in his eye.

“I’ve almost talked him into doing the drilling for us,” Huggy said, standing nearby with his arms folded and a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “It was Keogh’s rig I was wildcatting on last winter.”

“You looked at Dobey’s numbers?”

“Sure did,” Huggy replied. “And we were right. Someone, probably Trevedian, messed with the data.”

“Dammit.” Hutch turned to Keogh. “So you think there’s oil?”

“There may be,” Keogh said. “Huggy’s impulsive, but he’s no fool. And with those tapes from his gear, we can verify. I never met Joshua, but I heard stories. Crazy bird, maybe. But every strike starts with someone folks call crazy.”

Hutch nodded. “We’ve got the tapes. And Joshua’s original report.”

A voice spoke behind them. “But I don’t own the mineral rights. Your grandfather does. Hutch”

They turned. Starsky stood in the doorway, pale but steadier on his feet than Hutch had seen him since they’d met. The sight pulled something tight in his chest.

Keogh turned sharply to Huggy. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that?”

Huggy reached into his coat and slid a thick envelope onto the table. “Because it ain’t a problem anymore. Roger signed them over to you when I met with him and Dobey.”

Starsky moved forward. Sitting in a chair, he took the envelope and opened it. Inside were documents and a letter on Bank of Montana stationery. The message was short and formal. Roger Hutchinson had cancelled the mortgage. The mineral rights to the Kingdom were no longer held in trust. They now belonged to one man.

Starsky passed the papers to Hutch. “It’s all mine now.”

Hutch took them, fingertips brushing the edge of the parchment, and felt the shift like tectonic pressure underfoot. This was real—no longer theory or legacy or ghost story. The Kingdom was Starsky’s. All of it.

Kathy stood abruptly, her face alight. “Yes, you do. And this calls for a celebration.” She vanished into the kitchen before anyone could answer.

“I need someone experienced,” Starsky said aloud, gaze drifting between Huggy and Keogh.

Keogh must’ve seen the hesitation on his face, because he said, “What do you plan to do? Go ahead and drill?”

Starsky hesitated. The silence stretched. Then he nodded. “If Dobey’s report is good, we go ahead.”

“And Roger said he’d free up some money,” Huggy added.

Keogh rubbed his chin, callused fingers rasping over his beard. “You’d find it easier if you’d already brought in a well,” he said.

“I know that.”

“Heard you were offering fifty-fifty on profits for those who do the work.”

“Yeah. That’s the deal.”

Keogh let out a low whistle. “Been in this game over twenty years, and no one’s offered me something like that. It’s the kind of deal you dream of.”

He glanced toward Huggy. “If the tape pans out, you go back up and survey again?”

Huggy nodded.

“And if it still looks good,” Keogh continued, “I’ll come back and take a look myself. But this is a hell of a gamble. I’ve got two months of operating cash. No more. I’ll need water nearby and shallow depth. But if it lines up, it’s a deal.”

“Not a problem,” Starsky said.

Hutch chimed in. “My grandfather can help supply whatever else we need.”

Keogh leaned back in his chair. “I started as a roustabout,” he said. “Worked my way up, roughneck, driller, tool-pusher, fifteen years before I got my own rig. Another five to pay for it. Now I’m in the black and making real money. But funny thing about men, we don’t know how to stop. You start with a rig, then you want a well. And once you’ve struck oil, you want your name on the map.”

He laughed. A big, deep, tooth-missing laugh that filled the room.

The kitchen door swung open just then. Kathy stepped in, cradling a bottle of wine and several glasses. “Looks like this venture isn’t the only thing we’re celebrating tonight.”

Behind her came Ruth Garrett, holding a tray proudly in her hands. At its center sat a modest cake, one crooked candle already lit and flickering in the warm air. She started singing Happy Birthday , off-key, cheerful, utterly unbothered, as she set the cake down in front of Starsky.

He froze, and his eyes went wide. “My birthday?!”

Hutch blinked, then turned toward the old calendar tacked beside the kitchen door. Calculated from the time he met Starsky that first day to now and came up with March 23. He’d known it because of Joshua. “Well, I’ll be damned. It is.”

Starsky laughed, a startled sound that slipped out before he could stop it. The room filled with warmth and applause, voices rising around the flickering candle. Starsky stared at the little flame like it was something magical. Maybe it was. Hutch watched him, heart catching on the sight, tired eyes bright, shadows gone for once. Maybe this was what hope looked like.

Chapter 28

A few days later, the house had settled into a quieter rhythm, but the glow hadn’t faded. Kathy and Starsky played poker near the stove, laughing too hard at nothing hands, riding high from the turnaround. Keogh had gone back down the mountain that morning, but promised to let him know what Dobey said. Tomorrow morning, Hutch, Starsky, and Huggy would head out.

For now, Hutch sat back from the table, watching Starsky and Kathy bluff and grin like it wasn’t the edge of a war they were dancing on. The fire cracked. Kathy tossed in a bet too big for her cards. Starsky raised, called her bluff, and lost big. But Hutch was only half listening his mind was elsewhere, thinking about who he’d run into earlier in the day. And what it would do to Starsky when he found out.

“You’re holding squat,” he said.

“You wish,” Kathy purred, flipping two pairs.

Starsky groaned, flopping back in his chair like he’d been shot. Hutch’s mouth twitched. Then he stood. The weight in his chest had grown unbearable. “We need to talk,” he said.

Starsky blinked up at him, surprised by the grit in his voice. “Okay,” he said. Then, catching the tight set of Hutch’s mouth, the way his eyes burned too bright, he added, “What about? What’s got you so… whatever this is?” Starsky waved at him.

Hutch tried for a smile, but it came out crooked. There was no light behind it. “I’m madder’n hell, is what I am,” he said quietly. “And when I’m that way, the meanest critter on four legs won’t get the better of Kenneth Hutchinson, nor on two legs neither.”

He turned without waiting for a reply. “Let’s go get something to eat. Huggy’s waiting for us.”

He didn’t look back to see if Starsky followed, just trusted that he would.

⸻

The Rusted Pic-Ax was warm, busy, full of the kind of idle noise that normally soothed Hutch’s nerves. Tonight it barely registered. Huggy was already at a back table, nursing a beer and chatting with the old man behind the counter like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Food came fast. Hutch barely touched his plate. He sipped at his beer, made a few jokes, even laughed at something Huggy said, but every muscle in his body was coiled. By the looks his friend was giving him, he knew Starsky noticed.

Eventually, though, Hutch saw him lean in, eyes narrowed, voice pitched low.

“What’s going on?”

“Just wait,” Hutch said, and that was all.

When the plates were cleared, Hutch stood. He asked Mac where Trevedian was, voice casual. It was Creasy who answered.

“Down at his office.”

“Appreciate it,” Hutch said. He turned to Starsky, holding his gaze steady. “Come on. You’re gonna want to hear this.”

Starsky rose, slow but sure, the air around him tightening like he already knew this was no ordinary conversation. They crossed the tavern side by side, shoulder to shoulder.

And that was when Trevedian walked through the front door.

The bastard stopped cold when he saw them. For half a second, he looked like he might turn right back around. Starsky stepped forward and grabbed his sleeve. “Hold it.”

Trevedian yanked free with a sneer. “What’s this about?”

Hutch took one step forward and let his voice snap like a whip. “Just a minute, Trevedian.”

That got his attention. Trevedian’s mouth twisted into a smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Why, of course. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Hutch kept his stance loose, casual. His hand drifted to his belt, not resting, just there. But inside, he was burning. Burning with the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

“I came on account of something that’s been brought to my attention,” he said. “Something you might want to explain.”

“That much I gathered.” Trevedian’s face stayed smooth, but his body was wound tight.

“Then let’s start with this.” Hutch’s voice dropped. “Why’d you have to go pulling a dirty trick like that on an old man who never did you harm?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hutch felt it break open in him. Not rage exactly, but something cleaner. Sharper. “Don’t play dumb. I’m talking about Joshua. You killed him.”

The tavern went still. Even the creak of the stove seemed to hold its breath.

“You didn’t shoot him, no” Hutch went on, low and measured. “But you killed him just the same. Struck at him through what he loved, his land, his family, his dream.”

Trevedian tried to recover, to spin it. “Let’s talk in my office.”

Hutch didn’t budge. “There’s nothing private in what I’ve got to say.”

The room watched. No one moved.

“What were you afraid of, Trevedian?” Hutch said. “That he’d tell someone about the dam? A court? A newspaper?”

“You’re talking nonsense,” Trevedian snapped. “I didn’t touch the old man.”

“Maybe not. But you sabotaged him. Maybe that’s worse.”

Trevedian’s face twisted. “What the hell are you saying?”

“You know damn well Joshua wasn’t a fool. Why do you think he didn’t fight harder to stop the dam? Even with the injunction, he could’ve slowed things down. But he didn’t. You know why?”

Trevedian gave a tight smile. “Because he gave up. Finally saw reason.”

“Wrong,” Hutch said. “He knew the dam wouldn’t hold. And he was gathering evidence to prove it.”

Trevedian started to speak, but Hutch cut him off. “I’m talking about the Marie Bell. Her cargo. You remember that name, don’t you?”

He turned slightly, letting his voice drift toward Starsky. “You see, Starsk, I took a Vancouver ship owner up to the Kingdom back in ’40. He told us the whole story. I’d forgotten it until Huggy gave me something. Something your grandfather wanted us to have.”

Starsky said nothing, just watched him with those sharp, dark eyes, waiting.

Trevedian tried to interrupt again, but Hutch pressed on. “Joshua gave me a package before he died. Told me to pass it to Roger. I did. Huggy gave it back. Letters. Documents. Shipment logs.”

“Shipments of what?” Starsky asked.

“Cement.”

The effect was immediate. Trevedian’s face drained. His fists balled. He looked like he’d just taken a hit to the gut.

“You didn’t make enough off those runs to build a transport company from scratch,” Hutch said. “Not unless you were hauling junk and selling it as gold.”

“Gunther’s the one building the dam,” Trevedian shot back. “They’ve got inspectors.”

“Sure they do,” Hutch said, smiling without warmth. “But how would they know you were hauling cement that’d sat for a year on the Queen Charlotte Islands? Stuff that’d turned to dust in the bag?”

“That’s a lie,” Trevedian barked. “All the cement I delivered came from Seattle.”

“They shipped to Alaska too. One of their boats…”

Trevedian cut him off with a loud, barking laugh. It echoed, brittle and false.

“So I’m the villain now?” he said. “Killed Joshua because he caught wind of a few bad bags of cement? That’s rich, Hutchinson. Damn rich.”

The laughter stopped as fast as it had begun. “For the record, I didn’t kill Joshua. And if that cement was so bad, how come the dam’s still standing? Not a single crack.”

He turned. “You ought to get your facts straight before you go slinging that kind of bullshit around.”

He walked out, boots heavy against the floor. The silence he left behind was louder than any shout.

Hutch stayed frozen, staring at the door. Smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers. He didn’t even seem to notice.

When he finally went back at the table, he knocked back the rest of his beer like it was just water.

Starsky leaned in, voice quiet but pointed. “What’s all this about the dam?”

Chapter 29

The laughter faded, but it didn’t take the tension with it.

Starsky sat still in the tavern’s hushed aftermath, like he’d just come out the back end of an avalanche. Everything in him felt scraped raw, like even blinking might knock something loose. Trevedian’s booming, smug laugh still rang in his ears, echoing against the knot forming behind his ribs. The air left behind felt thin and used up, like it didn’t want to be breathed.

Starsky leaned in, voice quiet but pointed. “What’s all this about the dam?”

Hutch turned to them. Voice scraped low. “Let’s head back.”

Starsky didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Couldn’t trust his voice, or what would come out of it. Huggy stood, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves with the kind of quiet gravity that made Starsky’s stomach turn again.

“I’ll catch up with you boys later,” Huggy said. “Think I’ll walk some of this off. Let things settle.”

They didn’t ask what “this” was. They all knew.

Outside, the wind bit down hard. Huggy vanished into it, long coat trailing behind him.

The walk back to the boarding house was quiet. Starsky’s boots scuffed against gravel and frozen ground, but he couldn’t feel his legs. Couldn’t feel anything except the low thrum of dread in his chest. He didn’t look at Hutch. Just kept beside him, hands buried in his coat, collar turned up against the night. Moses, who found them outside the Pic-ax, padded along at his side, unusually quiet. Even the dog could smell it, that something had shifted for good.

Upstairs, Hutch poured them both a drink. Cheap bourbon. Sharp as a slap. Starsky took it but didn’t drink, just stared into the red glow of the stove like it might give him answers. Nothing came. Just the same loop: Trevedian’s laugh. Hutch’s fury. That silence afterward like the world had stopped turning.

Hutch disappeared down the stairs with Moses, taking the dog to Kathy. Starsky caught the low murmur of voices, Kathy’s warmth, a door shutting soft. Then nothing.

When Hutch came back, Starsky didn’t wait.

“Okay,” he said, voice tight, jaw aching. “What the hell was that? That whole scene tonight, you don’t just throw a bomb like that and walk away. What’s going on?”

Hutch didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked relieved. Like the waiting was worse than the telling. He crouched down beside the bench, unzipped a worn canvas duffel, and pulled out an envelope, thick, heavy-looking, corners softened with time.

“This,” Hutch said, and dropped it on the table like it weighed more than either of them could carry. “This is what it’s about.”

He sat down slowly, dragging his hands over his face before leaning forward. Shoulders hunched. Spine curved in like he was trying to keep something inside from cracking out.

“Your grandfather gave this to me the last time I saw him. Asked me to get it to Roger. I did. Never expected to see it again. Huggy gave it to me this morning, before he and I met Keogh at the hotel.”

Starsky stared at the envelope. It looked ordinary. It wasn’t. Everything in him recoiled from it.

Hutch pulled out a photo first, black-and-white, folded, old as hell. He didn’t say anything about it yet. Just set it aside and took out a letter.

“This talks about the cement. The first batches they used on the dam. Came from a wreck that sat near the Queen Charlotte Islands. A year in the weather. Worthless. But someone bought it. Dirt cheap.”

Starsky’s voice barely came out. “Trevedian?”

Hutch shook his head. “Gunther. But same coin.”

He pushed the photo across the table.

“That’s the man who arranged it.”

Starsky picked it up like it might bite. His fingers had gone numb. The paper was soft, worn to velvet at the edges. He opened it.

And the world cracked.

His breath caught. Stopped.

Nick.

Not the Nick he remembered. Not the punk kid with grease-slick hair and a busted sense of humor. Not the tagalong pain-in-the-ass who used to shadow him through the neighborhood looking for scraps of attention.

This was a stranger. Thin. Cold-eyed. A man who looked like he hadn’t smiled for real in years.

“Jesus,” Starsky whispered. “That’s Nick.”

“Not anymore,” Hutch said. “He goes by Henry Fergus now. Works for Gunther. I didn’t know until I saw Joshua’s handwriting on the back.”

Starsky flipped it over. The scrawl was there. Joshua’s hand.

Henry Fergus (Nick Starsky?)

“How?” The word cracked as it came out. Like it had to drag itself through something sharp. “What… what the hell’s he doing in this?”

“Joshua was tracing the cement. That bad batch from the wreck. Gunther or Trevedian bought it. But Joshua figured out who sold it and who bought it for Gunther. And guess who shows up in the middle of that trail?”

Starsky’s jaw clenched. “Nick,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Starsky moved to the window. He didn’t open it. Didn’t want the cold in. It was already inside him.

“You think he brought that report up to the Kingdom?”

“I know he did.”

Starsky turned, voice hoarse. “How?”

Hutch’s gaze was steady, but something flickered deep inside.

“I saw him,” he said. “At the hotel. When Huggy and I were seeing Keogh off. He was in the lobby. Plain as day.”

Starsky’s hands curled at his sides. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m telling you now, and I wanted to be sure. And when I confronted him, he didn’t deny a damn thing.”

It hit like a punch.

Starsky stared. “You also think he set the fire?”

“I’m certain.”

“How?”

Hutch looked up. And Starsky could see it, whatever wall he’d built around the truth cracking at last.

“He admitted it,” Hutch said, voice low. “Talked about it like it was nothing. Like we were just another line in some plan.”

He paused. His jaw clenched. Hutch’s eyes lifted, hollow and raw.

“He said he saw us, Starsk.”

Starsky stared at him, his whole body going cold, a tight dread spreading slowly from the pit of his stomach.

“What do you mean, he saw us?”

“He watched us while we slept. That’s who you probably saw before the storm hit. He knew exactly who he was lighting that match on.”

Starsky took a step back, knees weak, his pulse hammering in his ears. The words didn’t fit…didn’t make sense. Nick had been there, right outside the cabin. Nick had looked at him through that glass, watched him breathe, watched Hutch sleep, calm as could be, then tried to burn the place down with them inside.

His voice came out raw, broken. “Nick stood outside, watching us sleep, and killed Joshua. Jesus Christ, Hutch.”

Hutch exhaled slowly, as if every word took something from him. “He wasn’t outside, Starsk. He told me he stood right there, in that room, watching us sleep. That he was the one who took up the report. Laughed about Joshua dying because of it. Said all of it so calmly, I lost it right then and there. If Huggy hadn’t pulled me off, I would have done worse…wanted to do worse. He slipped out of the Hotel. I thought he might come to the Pic-Ax. Which is why I had us go there for dinner.”

Starsky took a stumbling step back, hand gripping the back of the nearest chair. “No,” Starsky said softly, voice cracking. “You can’t mean he was in the room? That he killed Joshua?”

His mind reeled, replaying that night in sudden, brutal clarity…the quiet warmth of the cabin, the slow breathing of sleep, Hutch beside him unaware. And now Nick, his own brother, had stood inches away, watching him in the dark, deciding whether to let them live or die.

He could barely force the words out, choking on disbelief and something deeper, uglier. “He was right there, watching me sleep, watching us, and then he tried to….Jesus Christ, Hutch.”

Hutch moved closer, voice softening, heavy with sympathy. “Starsk, I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be him. God, I hoped it wasn’t. But he didn’t even deny it. The look in his eyes…” Hutch paused, his jaw tightening. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Starsky’s hands clenched into fists, knuckles bone-white. All these years, he’d convinced himself Nick was gone, lost to something Starsky couldn’t fix. But this, this betrayal, was worse than death. It was his own blood, Killing…He felt sick, rage twisting hard against grief, leaving him dizzy and raw.

“My brother,” Starsky said, voice barely above a whisper. “How could he…Jesus, Hutch, how could he kill Joshua? Burn the place down?”

Starsky’s throat tightened. A month ago, Joshua had been nothing more than a bitter memory, a shadow that had haunted and fractured his family. He’d carried that resentment for years, feeding it, letting it fester, believing he was justified. But now, faced with Joshua’s real, tangible legacy, the letters, the land, the broken dreams. Starsky felt his anger slipping away, replaced by something far more painful. Guilt and regret churned in his gut, mingling with confusion and grief. It was like he’d betrayed Joshua, too, by giving up on him so quickly, by never giving him a chance to explain.

He hadn’t realized until now how badly he’d wanted Joshua to be the villain. But Joshua wasn’t. Nick was.

Hutch reached out, gripping Starsky’s shoulder hard, anchoring him. “I don’t know,” Hutch murmured, voice low and fierce, “getting rid of evidence, maybe. But we’ll find him, Starsk. We’ll deal with this. I promise you that.”

Starsky nodded, hollow, hearing Hutch but barely understanding. Inside him, something broke loose, dark and jagged, too painful to name. He was drowning in a sea of contradictions, hatred, and grief, as well as loyalty and betrayal.

He leaned into Hutch’s grip, desperate for something solid, something he could hold onto.

But it wasn’t enough…not yet. Maybe nothing would be.

Chapter 30

Hutch didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He let Starsky rest there against his hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the floor. Maybe it was. He could see the edges of it unraveling behind his partner’s eyes, grief colliding with guilt, hatred folding into something quieter, heavier. Starsky leaned into his hand like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart, and Hutch didn’t pull away. Didn’t dare.

Instead, Hutch wrapped his arms around him, slow and steady, like gathering a man who didn’t yet know if he wanted to be held. One hand slid up to the back of Starsky’s neck, fingers threading gently into the curls there. The other settled across his back, palm flat and warm through the worn flannel. He felt the tension in Starsky’s shoulders, tight, wound-up, like something barely holding itself together.

The stove clicked in the background. A log shifted with a soft crack. The rest of the room held its breath.

Starsky’s did too. The breath he let out came shaky and low.

“Starsk,” Hutch said quietly. “You gotta breathe.”

“I thought he was dead,” Starsky said finally, voice raw. “Nick. I thought…I thought he died years ago. Got caught up in something stupid and didn’t come back. And I hated him for it. I hated him for a long time.”

Hutch swallowed. His throat felt scraped raw. And just held on tighter

“I let Nicky go. Wrote him off. Told myself I didn’t care anymore. And now he’s out there with Gunther. After everything Mother…did for us. After…” He stopped, shook his head like he couldn’t get the words out.

Hutch felt a tight coil in his chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said quietly. “You’re not responsible for what he turned into.”

Starsky flinched, barely. Pulling back, looking up at Hutch, “Aren’t I? He’s my brother.”

“No. He was.” Hutch’s voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t back off either. “Family isn’t just blood. Not anymore.”

Starsky looked at him then. Really looked. Eyes glassy but sharp. Like he was trying to find something in Hutch’s face he hadn’t dared name until now.

“I didn’t want Joshua to matter,” he said. “It was easier to believe he was just some bitter old bastard who ruined everything. Because if he mattered, then I had to face the fact that I walked away from him. That I didn’t come when he called.”

Hutch didn’t look away. “He knew you were angry. But he still wrote you. Still gave you this land. Still trusted you.”

“Yeah, well.” Starsky huffed out something that was too shaky to be a laugh. “I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

“You don’t have to know right now.”

They stood like that for a long moment. The heat from the fire made the air thick and close, but neither of them moved. Starsky swayed slightly. Hutch tightened his grip without thinking.

And that was what broke it.

Starsky let out a breath that hitched halfway through, and then leaned in until his forehead pressed against Hutch’s. The movement was small, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. But he did it anyway.

Hutch froze for half a second, stunned by the closeness, by how natural it felt. Then he exhaled and leaned into it, too.

There weren’t any words. There didn’t need to be. Everything had already been said, or shouted, or grieved.

They stood like that, forehead to forehead, breath mingling. Grounded in the only truth that hadn’t come undone.

Then Starsky pulled back just slightly, his gaze drifting down to Hutch’s mouth, then up again. He didn’t say a thing. Didn’t have to.

Hutch brought a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing gently over stubble. “You sure?”

Starsky nodded once. It wasn’t a dramatic thing. No speech, no confessions. Just a nod. Quiet. Certain.

That was all Hutch needed.

He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, and pressed his mouth to Starsky’s.

It wasn’t polished or practiced. It didn’t need to be. It was soft and steady and trembling around the edges, like grief translated into something warm. Starsky kissed back with the same hunger Hutch felt in his own bones, like the world had been spinning too fast for too long, and this was the one moment they could finally stand still.

When they broke apart, neither moved far.

Starsky’s forehead rested against Hutch’s. Their breath mingled, tired, quiet, uneven.

“I didn’t think,” Starsky whispered, “that this would be where we ended up.”

Hutch gave a small, broken smile. “It’s not the end.”

“No?” Starsky’s voice was fragile.

“It’s the part where we stop running,” Hutch said. “And start fighting. Together.”

Starsky let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close. He nodded, eyes shining, and leaned in again, not for another kiss, but just to stay close.

And Hutch let him, anchoring them both.

Chapter 31

Three days had passed since they left the Kingdom, trading snow and stillness for the dry heat and dust of the lowlands around the Hutchinson ranch and the nearby city. Roger didn’t say much about them staying there, or that they shared a room. But Hutch could see the look in the old man’s eyes. A little melancholy, a kind of softness in his gaze when he looked at Starsky and Hutch together.

“Reminds me of the way Joshua used to go at things,” Roger had said that first morning, after Starsky asked a dozen questions about sediment layers and field casing. “No formal schooling, but a head like a damn sponge. Didn’t stop until he knew it all.” He looked over at Starsky. “Stubborn, too.”

Starsky just gave a weak grin. “Must run in the family.”

Keogh had come through town two days before they made it down, dropping off Huggy’s tapes from the latest shot line. Dobey said he’d need at least three days to review it all, and Starsky didn’t want just to sit idle, so Hutch did what he could to keep him busy. He walked him through the pipe racks and pump jacks, explained rig schematics and drilling depths. Starsky asked good questions. He listened like a man trying to learn the whole world in a week.

But by the end of the second day, Hutch noticed something wrong.

Starsky’s body, already worn thin from the weeks of stress, just didn’t have the energy Starsky had shown before they came down. His skin looked pale in the shadows, his hands shaky even when he tried to hide it. The third morning, he didn’t make it out of bed at all.

“I’m fine,” Starsky rasped when Hutch leaned over him, pressing the back of his hand to his brow. “Just tired.”

“You’re not fine,” Hutch said quietly. “And you know it.”

Starsky let his head roll toward him, a ghost of a grin curling at his lips. “Okay. Maybe I’m not great. But I don’t need a doctor, Hutch. I just need rest. Real rest.” He tugged weakly at Hutch’s shirt. “Stay with me. We’ll keep it simple. No lectures, no books. Just you, me…” His fingers skimmed lower, suggestive even in their lack of strength. “I can think of a few things we could do without leaving the bed.”

Hutch’s breath caught, torn between worry and want.

Starsky smiled again, softer now. “Besides. I sleep better when you’re close.”

Hutch hesitated, logic digging its heels in, but then he saw the truth in Starsky’s eyes. Not just want. Need. Trust.

He exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he said. “But if you don’t listen to me, I might read you some damn poetry.”

“God, I hope not. That might just be the death of me.” Starsky’s low laugh broke on a cough, but the smile stayed, lazy, lopsided. He shifted just enough to make room for Hutch, fingers curling against the sheets in invitation.

Hutch didn’t say anything. He just toed off his boots, stripped out of his clothes and slid in beside him, one arm wrapping gently around Starsky’s waist.

“Death by bad poetry,” Starsky murmured, voice rough in his throat. “At least I’d die happy.”

On the fourth day, Starsky rallied enough for them to keep their appointment with Dobey. The oilman’s office wasn’t as polished as Roger’s across the hall or as imposing as Acheson’s next door, but it suited the man who worked there. The walls were crowded with filing cabinets and curling maps pinned in crooked rows. Dust floated in a shaft of light from the single window, catching on the edges of paper and worn wood.

Dobey sat behind a desk buried in reports and weathered logbooks. He was a big Black man in his fifties, solidly built, with a booming voice and the kind of face that warned against wasting his time. Gruff, sure, but Hutch had learned he was meticulous, loyal, and sharp as a drill bit.

He glanced up as they entered, then gestured toward the two mismatched chairs in front of the desk. Starsky dropped into one, adjusting his weight as if he were still fighting off the weakness. Hutch hovered a second longer, then settled against the edge of the desk, arms loosely folded.

“Glad you’re here,” Dobey said, flipping open a folder. “I’ve got the latest from the recordings you dropped off.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, then back at Dobey. “And?”

“I’m not gonna blow smoke, Gentlemen,” he said, dropping the last page onto the pile and pushing his chair back. “This isn’t a green light. But it ain’t a red one either.”

Starsky raised an eyebrow. “Yellow, then?”

Dobey gave a short, amused huff. “Caution. That’s what I’m saying.”

Hutch stepped forward. “But there’s no sign of the break?”

“No,” Dobey said, shaking his head. “No collapse. No washout. The pulses aren’t clean enough to swear by, but they’re consistent. And that,” he jabbed a thick finger toward the map pinned on the board, “that looks like the curve of an anticline to me.”

Starsky frowned. “In English?”

Dobey sat back, hands folding over his middle. “What I’m saying is there’s a good chance there’s oil under that mountain. But I need more data to prove it.”

Starsky nodded slowly, letting it sink in. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, maybe something clearer, maybe something to take all the weight off his shoulders. But this? This was still something.

“And you believe the original set was tampered with?” Hutch asked,

Dobey gave him a long look over the rim of his glasses. “I can’t prove it. But this recording doesn’t match the ones in the report signed off on in December. I may be a little older than you boys, but I know what the hell I wrote. The numbers I was sent last summer had been fiddled with.”

Starsky sat up straighter. “So Huggy’s team and Keogh going back up there, it’s worth it?”

Dobey nodded once, slow and certain. “It’s worth it. There’s enough here to raise serious questions. Enough to keep digging.” He closed the folder with a soft thump, then looked between the two of them. “And I’d like to be there myself when Huggy’s team runs more tests. If you don’t mind me tagging along when you head back up.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, who was already nodding.

“We don’t mind,” Starsky said. “Not at all.”

Hutch gave a half-smile. “We’d be glad to have you.”

——

They left Dobey’s office with the late afternoon sun casting long shadows down the steps of the field office. Back at the ranch, Huggy was already waiting for them in the sunroom, sipping coffee like he’d never left. Hutch gave him the rundown, watching as Huggy’s expression shifted, eyebrows rising, mouth flattening with quiet satisfaction.

“That’s something,” Huggy said, rising from his chair. “I’ll wire Keogh, round up the rest of the team.” He grabbed his coat, slinging it over one shoulder. “I’ll head back up the pony trail once it’s clear, get the survey done. Might take a month to pull it all together,” he added, already stepping toward the door. “But I’d rather carry the data out myself than risk someone screwing it up.”

“You set for money?” Hutch asked him as they stood on the porch.

Huggy shrugged. “We’ll make out. There’s fuel up in the Kingdom. Food too. Won’t need to haul much. Wages, I’ll manage. If I can’t…Well, I know where to find you.”

After he left, Starsky and Hutch ate a quiet dinner in the sunroom, evening light stretching across the floor.

“We need to go back soon,” Starsky said.

“We will, tomorrow,” Hutch said.

They hadn’t answered Acheson’s calls, hadn’t wanted to. But a knock came at the front door, and a minute later, Margie came in.

“There are two men here asking for Mr. Starsky,” She said, holding out a card.

Hutch read it, sighed. “Thanks. Show them to the study.”

“Acheson,” Hutch said, handing Starsky the card.

Starsky groaned. “God, there’s no pushing them off, is there?”

“Nope. Sooner we face them, the better.”

Starsky closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. “I hate when you’re right.”

Hutch gave a half-smile. “I know.”

Chapter 32

Starsky had to bite down hard on a grin the moment they stepped into the study.

Acheson and Henry “Nick” Fergus looked like they’d just crawled out of some Upper East Side tea room, not off a mountain range bleeding politics and power. Pale and smooth-handed. He thought about Africa, about tanks half out of gas and fire in every dune, and almost laughed. These two wouldn’t have lasted a day.

“Please have a seat,” he said, keeping his voice even. He motioned toward the two high-backed chairs arranged in front of the desk. Acheson took the one nearest the window, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve before lowering himself into place. Nick moved slower, a little smirk playing on his mouth like he already knew the hand he was holding would win.

Starsky didn’t sit behind the desk. Instead, he leaned against the front of it, arms folded across his chest.

Hutch stood off to the side, arms loose, face unreadable.

Nick came straight to the point. “How much do you want, David?”

Starsky shook his head. “I’m not selling.” His eyes flicked to Acheson, then back to Nick. “And does he know? That you were Joshua’s grandson? My brother? Did Gunther?”

Acheson blinked, taken off guard.

“I take that as a no.”

Nick snorted. “Gunther knows. That’s why he hired me. Thought it’d be easy. Friendly blood, soft touch. Lonely man up in the hills, pretend family off to war.” He turned his gaze on Hutch with a sneer. “Bet the old man never told you I met with him, huh? Because you know, family.”

Hutch didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But Starsky felt the shift in the room like a weather front.

“So Joshua did know who you were,” Starsky said.

“Oh yeah,” Nick said, straightening his sleeve. “Welcomed me with open arms, right up to the minute he realized I was working for Gunther.”

“Threw you out.”

Nick shrugged. “Didn’t matter. Not like he ever gave a damn about his real family.”

Hutch stepped forward, but Starsky held up a hand. Their eyes met, no need to say it. Joshua knew who his real family was. Of course, Joshua hadn’t told Hutch anything. Hutch had been in Europe. By the time he got back, Nick was already gone, off running errands for the devil.

“What’s this got to do with anything?” Acheson asked, shifting in his seat. “Why were you visiting Dobey, talking to Keogh and Brown?”

“Is that any business of yours?” Starsky snapped. “I suppose you’ve been talking to Trevedian?”

Acheson nodded. “We’ve just come from Come Lucky. That’s why we’re here. We had gone up there to see you, but you’d left. And if you’re thinking of drilling in the Kingdom, I need to remind you that you don’t own the mineral rights. They were mortgaged to Roger Hutchinson. As I am sure, his grandson is well aware,” he nodded toward Hutch. “And will agree that I am doing this for Roger and his grandson’s best interest.”

Hutch snorted. “I don’t agree…”

“Just who are you acting for, Acheson?” Starsky cut in. “Me or Gunther?”

Acheson’s complexion darkened. “For both of you,” he said sharply. “And it’s lucky for you that I am. Otherwise, Mr. Gunther would never have considered purchasing the land…”

“That’s a lie,” Hutch said coldly. “And you know it. Gunther had planned to complete the dam over a year ago, regardless of whether the injunction was in place or not. My grandfather and Joshua agreed to hold Gunther to the court order, so they could get another survey. That’s what delayed it.”

Acheson stared at them, his lips parted slightly.

“You’re not acting for me,” Starsky said. “You never have been. You’re acting for Gunther. As for those mineral rights…did you even bother to check with the bank on who holds them now?”

Nick stiffened. “What are you getting at?”

Starsky reached into his pocket, pulled out the letter, and handed it over.

Nick read it slowly, without a flicker of emotion. Then passed it to Acheson.

The solicitor didn’t have the same control. His face flushed. “How did you get these?” he snapped. “What story did you feed the old man?”

He turned to Nick. “We could challenge this. Possibly under false pretenses. We could contest the will. Get the property put in your name.”

“Should have thought of that to begin with, Acheson,” Starsky leaned back against the desk again, one brow raised. “Besides, that should be an interesting road to take, considering what you have been doing this whole time regarding Joshua’s estate. And on whose team Nicky here is playing for.”

“Speaking of which,” Hutch said, stepping forward, “I’m sure the court would be very interested in what you’ve been up to lately, Mr. Acheson.”

When the lawyer’s eyes widened, Hutch gave him a wolfish smile. “Good. I see we understand each other. So, before you cause yourself any more embarrassment, do us the courtesy of lodging all documents related to Joshua Debrins’ property with the bank and my grandfather’s attorneys. Include a statement detailing every action you’ve taken without our knowledge.”

He let that hang for a beat. “And just so we’re clear, we’ll have the entire thing reviewed by a real lawyer. An honest one.”

Before Acheson could respond, Starsky added, “Now maybe you’ll leave us to talk privately. As this no longer concerns you.”

Acheson opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He turned helplessly toward Nick, who had lit a cigarette and was watching them all like it was a theater act.

“I think Davey and I will get on better on our own,” Nick said.

Acheson hesitated, fumbling for a response he never found. Then stood and left without a word.

Nick waited a beat, then leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes flicked toward Hutch.

“You planning to hang around for the whole show, or just the intermission?” he said, voice lazy with mock politeness.

“I’m staying,” Hutch said flatly.

“He’s staying,” Starsky echoed, his glare daring Nick to press it. “Say what you came to say.”

Nick shrugged and smiled without showing teeth. “You’re smarter than Acheson gave you credit for, Davey.”

“Stop playing Games Nick,” Starsky said flatly.

Nick’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Fine.” He leaned back, ankle resting on one knee, looking right at Starsky. “Gunther’s got no alternative power source. The ore in those mines is low grade, barely profitable even now. He needs cheap, permanent power. And he’s playing the long game. Not just about the mines. He wants the infrastructure, the leverage. And he has the full legal authority to do it. The state passed the bill not long ago,” Nick said, flicking ash toward the tray, “dressed it up in language about innovation and building for the future. But it means one thing: the dam goes through. And that means your precious Kingdom’s under water in five months.”

Starsky just watched him. He’d learned a long time ago that with Nick, you let him talk. Let him fill the room with his own hot air. The trick wasn’t arguing. The trick was waiting him out.

“So,” Nick went on, cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth, “you can take his offer, which is now…” He made a show of fishing a notepad from his coat pocket, flipping through the pages with deliberate slowness, like he was doing Starsky a favor by being thorough.

He found the spot and tapped it with a fingertip. “Here it is. Seventy thousand.” A glance up, eyes sharp behind the smoke. “Or we go to arbitration. But you won’t like how that turns out.”

“You’ll have to take it to arbitration,” Starsky said, voice quiet but steady.

Nick gave a low whistle, mock impressed. “You’d drag this into court? Over seventy grand? That’s mighty noble, Davey. Over a hunk of useless rock.”

“How much was your price, Nicky?” Hutch asked from where he stood.

Nick’s expression twitched, just for a moment, but enough for Starsky to see it.

“C’mon,” Hutch continued, voice hardening. “We’re being honest now, right? You, me, your brother. Everything on the table. So what’d Gunther pay you to walk into that cabin and shake hands with your own grandfather, knowing you were gonna knife him in the back?”

Nick’s mouth worked once, then shut. He looked away, jaw tightening, but didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought.” Starsky took over, his tone had gone low and flat. “So don’t stand there and talk to me about nobility.”

“You think you’re righteous,” he muttered. “Like this land gives a damn whose name is on the deed. It’s just dirt, Davey. Dirt and dead men’s dreams.”

Starsky didn’t blink. “Yeah. And I’m still not selling.”

“Davey, Davey, Davey,” Nick let out a soft, mocking laugh. “What am I gonna do with you. You never did know how to gamble. Never learned to play the money game right.”

Nicky stood, slow and deliberate, crossing the room with the same smug swagger he used when he was younger. When he reached the desk, he leaned over and crushed his cigarette out directly on the polished wood surface, like he owned the place.

“That mountain’s gonna drown,” he said, straightening. “And you’re standing there like you can hold back the flood with your bare hands.”

Starsky’s eyes locked on Nick like he was memorizing every line of that smirk for later.

Behind Nick, he saw Hutch move. His shadow stretched across the desk. “And if there’s oil up there…” Hutch asked, voice low and pointed.

Nick flinched, barely, but covered it with a sarcastic grin when he backed away, then wandered the room. “There’s only one way to prove it. Drill a well.”

“I intend to,” Starsky replied.

Nick’s smile widened, nastier now as he turned back to his brother. “Then you better use a shovel. You won’t get a rig up there. I’ll see to that. Face it, the court won’t hand you seventy grand in compensation, not with the way you’re playing it.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes. “You already messed with the last survey, Nicky. You’re tied to Joshua’s death. That won’t look so good in court.”

Nick shrugged, brushing invisible dust off of Starsky’s shoulder. “Just think it over. Hmmm. Seventy thousand’s a lot for a sick kid like you. Heard you’ve got, what…two months?”

He turned, gave Hutch a slow, sweeping look from boots to brow, and smiled like a snake. “Three, maybe, if you don’t burn yourself out on extracurriculars.” He licked his lips, eyes flashing. “Though I don’t blame you. Really.”

Hutch stepped forward, jaw clenched, but Starsky reached out and caught his wrist without looking. Just a touch, just enough. Hutch stopped. Barely.

Nick didn’t even blink. He leaned in toward Starsky. “Don’t throw it away trying to play oilman, Davey. And don’t forget, our grandfather was a crook. That’s public record. That name of yours? It won’t help you when this hits court. I’m sure you remember Joshua never did us any good.”

Then he turned, slow and smug, and walked for the door like he hadn’t just lit the room on fire.

“Acheson!” he called, voice echoing down the hall.

Starsky stood frozen for a long moment, every muscle drawn tight.

Then he moved to the window and watched them walk out to their gleaming city car. Watched it turn toward the road and vanish into the dusty horizon.

Chapter 33

Hutch barely kept a lid on the anger simmering beneath his skin. Watching Nick, his oily grin, his casual cruelty, the way he spat Starsky’s name like it meant nothing, turned something deep in Hutch’s chest molten. He hadn’t moved during the meeting, hadn’t said more than he needed to, but he’d seen everything. The subtle tension in Starsky’s jaw. The way his shoulders locked tight to keep from shaking. The way Nick chipped at him, jab by jab, until it was all Hutch could do not to throw the bastard through the window.

Nick turned and strolled to the door, calling out, “Acheson!” His voice echoed down the hall like a sneer that wouldn’t die.

The gloves were off. It was time to go back to the Kingdom, lay it all out on the mountain where it mattered. Hutch turned to tell Starsky as much, but stopped cold.

Whatever fire had kept Starsky upright through that meeting, stubbornness, adrenaline, sheer will, it was gone. He’d gone white as bone, both hands gripping the edge of the desk like it might float him through a storm. His knees looked ready to fold.

“Hey,” Hutch said, crossing the room fast, catching Starsky just as his grip slipped.

Starsky sagged into him, fingers curling in the fabric of Hutch’s shirt as Hutch guided him toward the nearest chair. But Starsky shook his head weakly, resisting the pull.

“I’m alright…” he murmured, breath thin, face pale.

“The hell you are,” Hutch started, but Starsky interrupted, voice rough but clear.

“I meant, I don’t want to sit up.” He took a breath that trembled on the exhale. “I want to go to bed.”

Hutch didn’t argue. Just nodded, slipped Starsky’s arm over his shoulders, and wrapped an arm firmly around his waist. Together, they made it to the door.

But the moment they stepped through, Starsky’s legs buckled.

Without a word, Hutch caught him, one smooth motion, strong arms beneath knees and back. He lifted him easily, holding him close as he turned down the hall. Starsky didn’t protest. His head rested against Hutch’s shoulder, breath shallow, eyes closed.

“I’ve got you,” Hutch whispered, more to himself than to Starsky. “I’ve got you.”

“Mary…Margie.” Hutch shouted as he went towards his bedroom.

Mary appeared first, wiping her hands on her apron at the sound of Hutch’s shouting.

“Mary!” Hutch’s voice echoed off the hall walls as he turned the corner, Starsky slack in his arms. “Get the doctor. Now.”

She froze for only a heartbeat. Then Margie came running behind her, catching the urgency in Hutch’s face even before Mary spoke.

“Kenneth, what happened?” Mary’s voice was tight with worry as she pushed open the bedroom door.

“He passed out,” Hutch said, already stepping through. “Call Dr. Samuelson.”

Margie nodded and turned, skirts flying as she dashed down the hall. Mary moved ahead and threw back the bedcovers.

“I don’t need a doctor…” Starsky mumbled, head heavy against Hutch’s shoulder.

“Too bad,” Hutch murmured, cradling him closer. “I already sent for him.”

Starsky didn’t fight him after that. Just let himself be lowered onto the bed with a soft groan. He curled onto his side, pulling his knees up slightly, one hand fisted near his chest as if that could steady the rattle in his lungs. His breathing was shallow, every inhale tight and strained.

Hutch knelt beside the bed, brushing back damp curls from Starsky’s forehead. The color had drained from his face; his lips were tinged gray. Hutch didn’t let himself panic, not outwardly. He just stayed there, hand resting lightly against Starsky’s back.

The doctor arrived twenty minutes later. He was their family doctor, the same man who had cared for Hutch’s grandfather after his stroke. Older, gray-haired, with a firm hand but a gentleness that came from having seen more endings than beginnings.

He nodded once at Hutch, unspeaking, then set his bag down by the bed. Hutch stayed close, hands clenched at his sides, watching as the doctor leaned over Starsky with practiced calm.

Starsky lay still under the covers, the flush in his cheeks darkening to something too close to fever. He blinked slowly as the doctor took his pulse, listened to his lungs, and pressed along his ribs with quiet precision.

“He’s been like this since this morning? How long has he been sick.” Samuelson asked softly.

“No.” Hutch shook his head. “I mean, he’s been sick for a while, off and on. And yesterday he didn’t make it out of bed. He was fine today, until he passed out.” He paused, swallowed. When the doctor looked up at him in question. Hutch elaborated. “There’s… something wrong with his lungs. And anemia. That’s what a doctor told him in New York. It was before I knew him, before he came out here.”

“And his doctor there?” the man asked, gently.

Hutch blinked. “I don’t know.” The words came out low, tight in his throat. “I didn’t think to ask.”

Samuelson gave him a long look but didn’t scold. “It’s alright, son.” Then he turned back to his patient.

When the exam was over, he pulled Hutch out into the hall. “He needs hospitalization.”

“He won’t go,” Hutch said flatly.

“I figured as much. He is just like Joshua.”

Hutch looked up at that. He didn’t realize that Samuelson knew Starsky was Joshua’s grandson.

“I saw the resemblance right away.” Samuelson smiled, “Keep him in bed.” The doctor handed over a paper slip. “This is what I’d give him to help him sleep. I’ll have the pharmacy send over a prescription to help with the cough and antibiotics. No exertion. No stress. And keep him drinking fluids, even if he doesn’t want to. I’ll come back the day after next. If he gets worse…”

“I’ll call,” Hutch promised.

The doctor nodded. “We’ll set up the oxygen Roger used. It should help the pressure in his chest. He doesn’t have pneumonia, not yet, but he’s a good candidate. That antibiotic should help.”

When Hutch stepped back into the bedroom, Mary was connecting the oxygen tank beside the bed. Starsky was trying to push her hands away.

“I don’t need that crap,” Starsky muttered, turning his face to the wall.

Hutch crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress, close enough to feel the heat still radiating from Starsky’s skin. “Hey,” he said softly, knuckles brushing Starsky’s arm. “Stop fighting it. It’s helping.”

Starsky looked up, his eyelids heavy. The fight in his eyes dimmed. “Feels like giving up.”

“It’s not,” Hutch said. “It’s just breathing.”

Starsky didn’t reply and let Mary settle the mask over his face without another word. Hutch stayed beside him, fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, grounding himself in the weak but steady beat beneath Starsky’s skin.

“Don’t let them take me to a hospital,” Starsky rasped beneath the hiss of oxygen. “If I go… I won’t come back out. Please, Hutch.”

“You’re not dying here,” Hutch said, steady, even as his throat tightened. He laid the damp cloth across Starsky’s brow with shaking hands.

“There’s no time for this, Hutch,” Starsky whispered, voice thin as paper. “I just want to go home.”

Hutch swallowed hard. “We’ll get back up there,” he said. “I promise.”

Chapter 34

The first day, Starsky didn’t argue. Hell, there wasn’t anything in him to argue with. His limbs felt full of sand and smoke, the weight of fever keeping him pinned to the mattress. Hutch moved around him like a storm front, quiet, intense, relentless. Water, broth, and bitter pills lined up in precise rows on the nightstand. Starsky swallowed what he could and closed his eyes when he couldn’t. Hutch never raised his voice. He didn’t have to. The worry in his silence said enough.

Day two, the rhythm settled in. A tray appeared like clockwork: tea with lemon, dry toast, and scrambled eggs that were too fluffy to be hospital food but not quite diner-grade. He nibbled, mostly to shut Hutch up. His chest still burned when he breathed too deeply, but the edges of the pain were duller now, easier to ignore. Hutch sat nearby with a book open on his knee and his eyes a thousand miles away. Sometimes he’d read aloud, soft and slow, like he was coaxing Starsky’s mind back from wherever it had drifted. Starsky let the sound of his voice carry him back to sleep more than once.

By the third morning, the fever broke. Sweat clung to Starsky’s back and soaked the sheets. Hutch changed them without saying a word, sliding a hand beneath his shoulders, helping him shift and settle. The clean cotton felt like heaven. Starsky’s head still throbbed, and his lungs fought him on every breath, but he could think again.

He started noticing things, how the morning light fell in bars through the shutters, how Hutch’s jaw tensed when he thought Starsky was asleep, how the corners of the room felt too still, like the whole house was holding its breath. That afternoon, he sat up, slow and careful. Stretched his arms. Rolled his shoulders.

And of course, Hutch was right there in the doorway, arms crossed, brow set.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

Starsky lay back with a groan, flinging one arm over his face. “Jesus, Hutch. Just stretching. You’re worse than the MPs.”

Hutch didn’t smile. “Stretch all you want, from the bed.”

That night, Starsky pretended to sleep through the coughing fit, trying not to wake Hutch, who’d finally dozed in the armchair. But the next morning, the worst of it had passed. His lungs still rattled, but the tight band around his ribs had loosened. He could stand without the world tilting sideways. And with each hour, the restlessness gnawed deeper.

By the fourth morning, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He waited until Hutch left the room to see the doctor out. The moment the door clicked shut, Starsky threw the blankets off and started to get dressed. His boots were under the bed, Hutch had hidden them there like a guilty secret. Starsky pulled them out, cursing under his breath as he bent to lace them. His hands still shook, but the fever was gone. He wasn’t strong, not yet, but he was done lying still while the rest of the world moved on.

He was yanking the second boot tight when the door swung open behind him.

And there stood Hutch, tray in hand, mouth already halfway open.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hutch asked.

Starsky didn’t look up. “Getting dressed. What’s it look like?”

Hutch’s sigh was thunderclouds again.

“God,” Hutch muttered, setting the tray down hard enough to rattle the cups and plates. “What do I have to do? Tie you to the bed?”

Starsky’s mouth twitched, eyes catching the light. “I didn’t know that was an option,” he said, the grin half-formed but unmistakable.

Hutch didn’t answer. Just crossed the room, knelt, and began unlacing Starsky’s boots with quick, irritated fingers. He tugged them off, tossed them into the corner, and pushed Starsky gently back onto the mattress before pulling the blanket up to his chest again.

“You’re supposed to be resting, dammit. Did you take your pills?”

“Samuelson said I was getting better,” Starsky countered. “They taste bad,” he complained.

“ You’re supposed to swallow them, not suck them like jellybeans! And getting better’s not the same as all better. I can hear you wheezing from here.”

“Hutch…” Starsky sighed, a hand dragging across his face as he tried to swallow down the cough building in his chest. “Hutch… just listen, will ya? I ain’t ever getting back to the top of my game. We both know I don’t have much time left…”

Starsky could tell that it hit Hutch like a gut punch. “Don’t… don’t talk like that, Starsk.”

“If I’m gonna die, I want to do it in the Kingdom, Hutch,” Starsky said, quieter now. “I have to keep fighting. I want to prove Joshua was right. For my dad. For my mom. And yeah… for me.”

“You don’t have anything to prove.”

“You’re right, I don’t have to,” Starsky murmured. “But I need to. I can’t waste what time I’ve got left, not rotting in some hospital. I’ve seen what it’s like up there. It’s clean. Still. Like the air’s waiting just for me. I can breathe up there. You know I’m right.”

Hutch didn’t speak. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire. Then his shoulders sagged, just enough to let the fight go out of him. He reached down, tucking the blanket tighter around Starsky’s legs. Starsky knew he was just doing it to keep his hands busy, a way to hide the tremble.

“Tomorrow,” Hutch said quietly. “We’ll go up tomorrow.”

Starsky nodded, the smallest smile ghosting across his lips. “Deal.”

—–

It was actually two days later when Starsky, leaning heavily on Hutch, walked out to the waiting power wagon. His breath came fast, but he was grinning like a man who’d just won a bet with the Reaper. Hutch steadied him without a word, jaw tight, his arm solid and unyielding around Starsky’s back. Dobey had gone ahead a few days and said he’d meet them up there.

Spring had finally come to the Rockies. Where February had buried the roads in snow and turned the trees to skeletons in white shrouds, April had coaxed the green back. Patches of snow clung stubbornly to the north faces of the slopes, but the road was clear, muddy, rutted, but open. Ice no longer laced every dip and curve. Birds darted over thawing creeks. The wind that battered the side of the truck no longer howled; it hummed, fresh with pine and meltwater.

They spent the night in the same hotel they’d stopped at the last time, more for Starsky’s benefit than necessity. The roads were passable now, but Hutch insisted on giving him one more night to rest.

They were on the road again before dawn the next morning, headlights cutting through the mist as they plowed up the newly graded track toward Come Lucky. The power wagon churned through soft mud, tires slipping now and again, but never faltering.

Now that Starsky was back in the mountains, something inside him settled. His chest still burned, his heart thudded against his ribs like it had a grudge, but the air was cool and clear and sharp. Each breath felt like it belonged to him again. For the first time in weeks, he felt sure, sure that he’d get stronger. That he might not just survive up here, but heal.

The peaks of Solomon’s Judgment rose ahead, painted gold and bright blue in the afternoon light. They cut across the horizon like cathedral spires, serene and eternal. Starsky leaned against the passenger window and stared up at them, wonder blooming in his chest.

It wasn’t just awe. It was belonging. It was home.

Chapter 35

They found Kathy and Dobey in the dining room, coffee on the table and a stack of papers spread between them. The windows were cracked to let in the crisp evening air, and the low hum of the kitchen suggested Ruth was still at work.

“Welcome back, guys.” Kathy greeted them as they entered. “Dobey filled me in on some of the details. Including your health,” she added, her eyes flicking to Starsky with a note of concern.

Starsky gave a lopsided shrug. “Still here.”

She didn’t smile. “Well, I’m glad.”

Before either of them could sit, Ruth swept in, her apron already dusted with flour, eyes narrowing at the sight of Starsky.

“You’re skin and bones,” she scolded, ignoring the introductions. “Sit. Both of you. I’ll fix you something before you start another crusade.”

“We’re fine, Ruth,” Hutch said.

“You’re not,” she snapped. “I’ve seen twigs with more meat than that boy’s arms. And don’t think I didn’t hear what happened down the mountain.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, muttering about ‘damn fool men with no sense of their own limitations.’

Dobey cleared his throat, hiding the grin he wore. “Huggy made it on the same day I did. Brought two men with him. They’ve already headed up.”

Hutch pulled out a chair. “He take the pony trail?”

Dobey shook his head. “Didn’t try that first.”

“You tried the hoist,” Hutch said.

Kathy nodded. “Dobey thought maybe, since he had no visible stake in the land or the legal fight, they might get Huggy and his men through without trouble.”

“Did it work?” Starsky asked

Dobey shook his head, jaw tight. “No. About a mile up the creek, where the road cuts back into the mountainside, we hit a log gate. Big one. Guard shed next to it, doubling as a checkpoint.”

He paused. “They were armed. Didn’t even glance at the paperwork. Just told us to turn around.”

Kathy said, “They came back down and Huggy took the trail up to the Kingdom, like he planned.”

Starsky nodded, then looked up when Kathy added, “Henry Fergus was there too, and from what Dobey’s told me, that’s not his name. It’s your brother, isn’t it?”

Starsky let out a breath. “Unfortunately, yeah. That’s Nick.”

Ruth returned just then with a tray, setting down plates heaped with meat, fresh biscuits, and mugs of coffee that steamed in the cool air. She placed a hand on Starsky’s shoulder as she passed, firm and warm. “You eat. All of it. And don’t pick around the carrots, I’ll know.”

Starsky gave a theatrical sigh but reached for a fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

Dobey traded a look with Hutch, then leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.

Starsky, halfway through his first bite, pointed his fork as if it were a declaration of strategy. “That means we’ll have to take the trail up.”

Kathy and Hutch said it at the same time, their voices overlapping with equal parts exasperation and concern: “You’re still recovering.”

“I can recover on horseback.” Starsky gave them both a look and went right back to chewing. “Besides, we have to get Dobey up there. He needs to see the land, see the anticline himself. To determine if there is oil up there.”

“I can take him,” Hutch said. “You stay here. Rest.”

“No.” Starsky’s voice was sharp. “I’m not staying behind. Not now.”

Hutch leaned in, his voice lower. “Starsk, that trail’s rough. You’re barely holding weight. What happens if…”

“I don’t care.” Starsky’s hand tightened on the edge of the table. “That land, Joshua’s land, is my responsibility now. Seeing this dream through is…”

“God,” Hutch cut in, shaking his head. “Roger was right. You are just like Joshua. Stubborn as a jackass in a flood.”

Starsky gave a half-smile. “You said I got his blood in me.”

Hutch leaned back, arms folded. “You’d find a way up there with or without me, wouldn’t you?”

Starsky didn’t answer, just leaned his chair back on two legs, one boot propped on the edge of the table, giving Hutch a look that said exactly that.

“Fine,” Hutch muttered. “Might be a moot point anyway. I don’t have my horses up here; they’re still down at the ranch. It’ll take a few days to get them up here from below.”

“No, it won’t. When Dobey came back from the dam, I called down to the ranch,” Kathy said. “One of your hands is bringing them up. They should be here later tonight.”

Starsky grinned. “Smart girl.”

Kathy arched a brow. “I’m honestly not sure how either of you survived this long without me.”

Hutch shot her a withering look. Kathy just laughed and reached for her coffee.

Starsky tapped the table. “So. Where’s the pony trail start?”

Without a word, Hutch got up, returned a minute later with a folded map and spread it across the table. He barely had time to smooth the creases before Ruth bustled out again and clicked her tongue at the sight.

“Really, dear,” she chided Hutch. “You’d think Roger left you to be raised by wolves.”

Starsky flashed her a boyish smile and stood. “We’re sorry, Ruth. Let me get these dishes out of your way.”

“Oh, you’re such a nice boy,” she said, fondly swatting at his elbow. “No wonder Roger liked you.”

Starsky disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later, minus the dishes but carrying a single plate with a fat slice of huckleberry pie. He set it down in front of Hutch with all the innocence of a fox in a henhouse.

Hutch gave him a narrow-eyed glance but said nothing. He pointed to the map instead. “You cross Thunder Creek by a ford a few hundred yards above the lake, then it runs up through the timber below Forked Lightning Mountain. From there, you climb to the Saddle below the northern peak of Solomon’s Judgment…”

——

Later that evening, the ranch hand, as Kathy had promised, arrived. He led the horses into the corral and barn behind the Garrett house without fuss. The animals moved easily, hooves muffled against hay. Hutch double-checked their gear while Starsky leaned on the fence, watching, a quiet satisfaction blooming in his chest. Tomorrow, they would ride.

Hutch gave a low whistle and motioned for him to come over. “Come meet the team.”

Starsky pushed off the fence and walked over. He stopped beside Hutch, who introduced two of the horses.

“This one here,” Hutch said, patting the rump of a broad-chested bay with a speckled nose, “is Dobey’s. Solid build, good temperament, old trail horse from the ranch. Name’s Racer. Won’t win any races, despite his name. But he’ll get you where you’re going with all your bones still in place.”

Starsky nodded, giving Racer a cursory once-over. The horse turned and snorted like he was used to being underestimated.

“And this one,” Hutch gestured to the smallest of the group, a stocky dun mare with a short neck and alert ears, “is the pack horse. Her name’s Tansy. Smart and stubborn, like most mountain ponies. Don’t try to ride her, she’ll plant your ass in the nearest streambed.”

Tansy flicked her tail at the sound of her name, eyeing Starsky suspiciously like she’d heard just enough of his history to have opinions.

Then, Hutch led the way over to a massive black gelding, standing a full head taller than the others. His coat shone like polished coal in the fading light, thick neck arched with quiet pride.

“This is Goliath. Best mountain horse I’ve ever had. Strong, steady, smarter than most men.”

“You ride that thing?” Starsky gave a low whistle. “Figures you’d ride a giant.”

“He fits me,” Hutch replied with a smirk, running a hand along the glossy black neck of his own mount. Then he moved down the line, patting the flank of a sturdy paint with a broad white blaze and mismatched patches down her side. “This one’s yours.”

Starsky raised an eyebrow. “You’re giving me the clown horse?”

“Her name’s Patch,” Hutch said, deadpan.

Starsky grinned. “That’s, yeah, that’s appropriate.”

The horse gave a low nicker at his laugh, turning her head to fix him with a look before nipping at his sleeve like she had something to say about it.

“Hey!” Starsky tugged his arm back, still grinning.

“She’s a little rough around the edges,” Hutch said with a chuckle like her rider was left unsaid. “But she’s got a good sense of balance and doesn’t spook easily. Solid choice for someone still getting their legs under them.”

Starsky laid a hand on Patch’s shoulder, the warmth of her muscles solid under his palm. “Hey, I’ve been on worse first dates.”

“Just try not to flirt with her too much,” Hutch muttered, heading toward the tack wall. “You’ll make Goliath jealous.”

Starsky chuckled and gave the paint’s neck a slow rub.

Chapter 36

At dawn, Starsky, Hutch, and Dobey followed the trailer up to the head of Thunder Valley. Kathy rode in the cab with the ranch hand. They parked in a clearing shielded by trees just before the trailhead. Starsky watched as Hutch and Kathy helped get the horses out of the trailer, while Moses leapt down from the back of the truck bed, tail wagging and nose already to the ground.

“You sure he’s up for this?” Dobey asked, eyeing the old dog as Moses trotted in a wide loop, then came back to heel beside Starsky.

“He’s tougher than he looks,” Hutch said. “Knows the trail better than any of us.”

Hutch took charge, getting the horses ready. Once he was done, he instructed the driver to take the trailer back to the ranch. Kathy would return his truck to the Garrett house.

“Keep your eye on the weather,” Hutch said to her. “If it turns, we’ll have to turn back and try again once it clears.”

“Be careful,” Kathy replied, “All of you.”

While they left, Hutch adjusted the stirrup leathers, checked the cinches, and handed out the reins.

“You ride good?” he asked Starsky, eyeing him as he mounted.

Starsky gripped the horn and settled into the saddle. “I’ll manage. I’m used to an eastern rig, not this bucket seat.”

The saddle wrapped around him, big, deep, with a wide roping horn and leather straps for tying gear.

Hutch gave him a dry look. “Western’s different. You need to ride with your stirrups long, loose reins. Let the horse think. Don’t fight her, just stay balanced.”

“Easier said than done,” Starsky grunted, tightening his grip on the horn of the saddle, as Patch shifted beneath him.

Hutch gave him a sidelong glance, lips twitching. “She’ll figure you out. Just don’t get in her way. Remember she knows what she’s doing, and where she’s going.”

With that, Hutch turned and swung up onto Goliath in a fluid, practiced motion. The big black horse shifted his weight easily as he gathered the reins in one hand and reached for the packhorse’s lead in the other. he nudged Goliath forward and took the lead, pulling the packhorse behind him. Starsky followed. Dobey brought up the rear. Moses trotted along beside the line of horses, occasionally darting off trail to investigate a scent or scout ahead.

They headed down into thick brush. Water pooled around old beaver dams. They headed down into thick brush. Water pooled around old beaver dams, slick and black under the shadow of trees. The rush of Thunder Creek grew louder ahead, fast, wild with spring runoff. When they reached the crossing, the river wasn’t a gentle ford anymore. The current boiled over pale boulders, thick with meltwater and cold enough to burn.

Hutch scanned the bank and whistled once, sharply. “Moses, come here.”

The old dog trotted over, ears flicking, tail down. He took one look at the river and let out a short, uneasy whine.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” Hutch muttered. He swung off his saddle, knelt, and with one practiced heave, lifted Moses into his arms and onto Goliath’s back. The big black gelding barely twitched as Hutch mounted behind him and adjusted the dog between his knees.

“Hang on, boy.”

Then he nudged Goliath forward.

The horses plunged into the current, hooves fumbling across the rocky bottom. The cold struck immediately. Starsky gasped as water surged over his boots and up his legs. Patch surged forward, neck straining, and Starsky leaned low to follow her motion, breath catching. Hutch stayed steady ahead, one hand on the reins, the other braced over Moses, keeping the dog tucked tight against his saddle.

The river bucked and twisted around them, churning white and loud. For a moment, Starsky couldn’t see the far bank, only spray and water crashing against rock. But then they were through, Patch found her footing and lunged up the opposite side. Goliath followed, surging free with a grunt of effort. Moses leapt down the moment they cleared the current, shook from head to tail, and sneezed once like he was offended by the whole ordeal.

Starsky wheezed out a laugh, half relief, half adrenaline. “Tell me that’s the worst part of the trail.”

Hutch only looked back at him and smirked.

They stopped to rest the horses on the opposite bank of the river. Hutch and Dobey kept watching Starsky, quiet and calculating. Starsky caught their looks but said nothing. He knew what they were thinking.

A man too sick for a hospital bed didn’t belong on a mountain trail.

But that doubt only drove him harder. Starsky pushed through the ache in his chest and the sharp burn in his legs. His heart beat fast, too fast, but he focused on breathing. The pain faded into background noise. As the ride went on, his body adjusted. He finally followed Hutch’s advice and let the saddle carry him, letting the horse’s movement sync with his breath. He didn’t feel strong, but he felt steady. That was enough.

By midday, they rose above the treeline. Thunder Creek slashed through the valley below, a dark ribbon of water cutting stone. Snow still clung to the higher peaks, glowing white against a sky the color of cornflowers. The sharp scent of sun-warmed rock and pine filled the air.

Below them, the Kingdom opened up in full. The valley gleamed with green, the first true green of spring. Water traced silver lines through the meadow. Joshua’s ranch house stood off to the right, weathered but whole. Near the dam, two trucks sat idle, their tracks cutting faint scars across the field.

Hutch reined in his horse and circled back, drawing alongside Starsky, while Moses trotted forward, tail raised and nose to the ground, picking his way along the rocky trail with the ease of someone who’d walked it a hundred times before.

Starsky followed the dog’s progress. “He’ll be alright?”

Hutch nodded. “He knows where he’s going.”

They watched in silence as Moses disappeared into the curve of the trail ahead, his lean shape disappearing into the timber.

“Lot different looking than the last time we were here,” Hutch said, his voice quiet beneath the breeze.

Starsky turned to look at him, brow furrowed in confusion. Then it hit, Hutch was right. It was just a month ago that they’d been swaying on the hoist line over the dam, half-frozen and soaked to the bone, pushing through a snowstorm just to reach Joshua’s cabin.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

He looked out over the valley again. The sun caught the water like it was threading silver through green velvet. The air was clean, alive. The only mark on the beauty was the dam, unnatural, squatting at the far edge of the land like something that didn’t belong.

“Yeah,” Starsky said, the word coming out on a long breath. “Yeah, it does.”

Chapter 37

The mountain crests caught the last of the sun like a match strike on steel, sharp, golden, fleeting. As they rode into the basin, the rimrock flared briefly, then dulled to shadow. From beyond the parked trucks, near the end of the seismic line, came the crack of a geophone shot. The sound hit the valley like a hammer-blow softened by distance, echoing back off the cliffs with a hollow resonance.

The burned barn came into view first, jagged and stubborn against the slope. Its frame still stood, a skeleton of blackened timber and half-fallen rafters. Some pieces clung to their shape. Others leaned or splintered, bowing to time and fire.

They dismounted in the barn’s long shadow. The air had already turned cold, the kind of cold that came quickly at elevation and lingered overnight.

As Starsky slid from the saddle, his eyes were glazed with exhaustion.

Hutch had been watching him the whole trip, tracking each sway in the saddle, every time Starsky’s jaw clenched against pain. He’d known this moment would come, the inevitable collapse. The only question had been when. Hutch stepped in close just as his friend’s body began to tip forward.

“I’ve got him,” he said quietly, stepping in under one arm.

Dobey moved to the other side without a word.

They got Starsky inside and laid him down on the bed they’d both used the last time they were here. Hutch pulled the blanket up over him, saw his partner’s lashes flutter once, then settle. His breathing evened out in seconds. Sleep took him like a tide pulling back to sea.

Outside, Huggy was already riding over from the direction of his trucks, his mount moving at a trot. Dobey went to meet him while Hutch returned to their horses.

He moved on muscle memory, loosening girths, brushing dried sweat from coats, checking hooves and fetlocks. He filled buckets and watered the horses in turn, the ache in his back settling deeper as the light faded. When the work was done, he joined the others for dinner around the table.

Huggy introduced the two men he’d brought: Bill Mannion was a university graduate who had recently abandoned Government survey work to become a geophysicist. He was the observer. Don Leggert, a younger man, was from Colorado. He was the driller. Together, they’d been working nonstop with Huggy, doing the job of a full seismograph team, which usually held 12 men. Hutch didn’t need the technical chatter to see how sharp they were. Dobey sat nearby, papers spread beside his plate, still doing calculations between bites. Huggy was riding the high of it all, grinning widely and throwing out theories like cards in a poker hand.

Hutch listened, nodding here and there. He could follow most of it; he’d grown up with this kind of talk, spent nights like this around fires and bunkhouses, at rigs both inside and outside Roger’s empire. This kind of language had once been the beat of his life. But tonight, his mind kept drifting.

Starsky. Quiet behind the wall, too quiet. He hadn’t stirred once.

Eventually, Hutch excused himself from the group and left them to their excitement. They’d be up most of the night, he knew. That kind of momentum didn’t stop just because the sun went down.

Closing the door behind him with a quiet click, he drew the latch more out of habit than caution. The warmth of the main room faded behind him, giving way to stillness. In here, the air held the scent of old wood, earth, and the faintest trace of cedar from the blanket folded at the foot of the bed.

Starsky hadn’t moved.

He lay sprawled under the quilt, one arm thrown over his face, his mouth slightly open, dark lashes resting against skin that had grown too pale. His hair was damp near the temple, with curls flattened where his hat had pressed against it all day. Hutch stood there for a long moment, letting his eyes adjust and letting his thoughts settle.

In the quiet, the sharp edge of the day dulled. It had been a hard ride. Harder on Starsky than anyone would admit, himself included. And still, he hadn’t complained. Not once. Just kept moving forward with that same quiet insistence that he’d had since Hutch met him that first day. Every step up that trail was a refusal, not of help or logic, but of whatever fate had tried to hand him.

He moved slowly, quietly. Took off the remaining boot and set it by the door. Found the canteen and placed it within arm’s reach. Then, careful not to wake him, he sat on the edge of the bed and just looked.

Last time they were here, Starsky had been freezing, soaked to the bone, teeth chattering while he tried to be brave about it. Now he looked older, no, not older. Just more worn. Like a man who had fought a long war and was still standing, but only just.

Hutch felt the ache of it settle in his chest. That helpless wish to carry the weight for him. To shoulder it for a day, a week, however long it took, just so Starsky could rest.

He turned down the lamp and stripped quietly to his undershirt. The room cooled fast once the light dimmed, and he slipped under the covers, careful not to jostle him. The quilt held the day’s sun still, just barely. Hutch let himself sink into it, bone-tired.

He’d just started to drift when he felt Starsky stir.

“What time is it?” came the low, rough murmur beside him.

“Late,” Hutch whispered, shifting onto his side. He reached out and smoothed a hand over Starsky’s hair, brushing it gently from his forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

Starsky turned his face toward him. “Not sleepy now, Hutch. You woke me up.”

Even in the low light, Hutch could make out the faint curve of his smile, just before the man leaned forward pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was soft, tentative, more a question than a need. Hutch answered it in kind, lips finding his, deepening gradually, like a fire fed slow and steady.

The covers shifted as they moved closer. There was no urgency in it, just the steady, familiar rhythm of bodies relearning the shape of comfort. The press of a hand at his waist. The warmth of breath on his cheek. A murmur of his name, spoken not out of desperation, but recognition.

When Hutch pulled back, bracing himself on one arm, he looked down at the man beneath him. Starsky’s eyes were open now, dark and clear despite everything. The lines of exhaustion were still there, but there was a peace Hutch hadn’t seen in weeks.

Starsky reached up and ran his fingers lightly over Hutch’s jaw. Hutch sighed, tilting his head into the touch, then kissed him slowly, sweetly, more about presence than passion. The quiet kind of closeness that made the rest of the world drop away. And when they finally lay curled together beneath the quilt, limbs tangled, Hutch felt the last of the day’s tension bleed out of his spine.

Starsky tucked against him, one arm around his middle. His breathing slowed, deepened.

This time, sleep came for both of them.

Chapter 38

Starsky woke to sunlight striping the floorboards and the soft murmur of voices beyond the wall, punctuated by the steady thump of boots. For a moment, he couldn’t place the sounds. Then he remembered: the passage to the second barn ran just behind the headboard, cutting along what used to be Joshua’s outer bedroom wall.

A sharp bark broke the stillness: Moses. Then laughter followed, low and familiar. Hutch.

Starsky turned his head. Hutch’s side of the bed was empty, the blankets pushed back, the pillow still holding the faint dip of his head and the scent he left behind. Starsky lay still, listening to the morning unfold.

He exhaled through his nose and rolled onto his side, blinking against the brightness filtering through the uncovered window. His back and shoulders ached, a slow pull of pain that traced every mile of yesterday’s ride. The muscles in his legs and neck tightened in protest. Little gifts from the trail, he thought wryly as he swung his feet to the floor. The air was brisk, still holding the night’s chill despite the sun. He rubbed a hand down his face and reached for the flannel shirt draped over the footboard. As he stood, his gaze landed on Hutch’s bedroll beneath the window, neatly spread across the wooden platform. It looked as though it had been slept in, deliberately rumpled and carefully staged. For appearances.

Starsky gave a soft snort. They both knew better. Last night’s warmth still lingered on his skin.

He pulled on his shirt and boots, then stepped into the main room. Sleeping bags lay in a loose half-circle around the cold hearth, where the last embers glowed faint beneath a drift of ash. Gear cluttered the floor: tools, boxes, notebooks, scraps of ration wrappers. Every window and door stood open, letting in the crisp bite of mountain air and the sharp, green scent of wet pine.

At the far end of the table, Dobey sat hunched over his breakfast, glasses low on his nose, chewing methodically as he flipped through a dog-eared notebook full of figures. A pencil was tucked behind one ear, and another worked steadily across the margin of a chart beside his plate. The older man didn’t look up as Starsky passed.

Outside, the light made him squint. Moses, curled in the grass, lifted his head and padded over as Starsky bent to scratch behind his ear, smiling at the familiar press of warm fur beneath his hand. He looked toward the damaged barn. Hutch worked with two other men, all three of them hauling blackened timbers from the charred frame. Starsky didn’t recognize the men, but he could guess they were Huggy’s seismic crew. Hutch paused to lift a scorched beam, gesturing something to the younger guy beside him. He moved with ease, confident. The sight hit Starsky low in the chest. The sun had just cleared the ridge, catching in the silver streaks of Hutch’s hair and along the strong line of his shoulders.

From the side of the cabin, Huggy appeared, all motion and wide-legged swagger. His sheepskin coat was slung over one shoulder, hat pulled low, but his grin was unmistakable.

“Well, well,” he called. “Look who finally decided to join the land of the living. Was startin’ to think you’d grown roots in that bed.”

Starsky straightened and ran a hand through his curls. “Guess I needed it.”

Huggy reached him in a few strides and pulled him into a one-armed hug, thumping his back. “You look better. Still pale, but the mountains put a little color back in your cheeks.”

“Must be the altitude,” Starsky said dryly.

“Could be.” Huggy grinned and jerked his head toward the open door. “C’mon. Breakfast’s still hot, and Dobey’s got about ten pages of numbers he’s just itchin’ to recite.”

Starsky chuckled, following him inside. Moses trailed after them, tail wagging in hope of scraps.

The cabin buzzed with quiet energy. At the long table, Huggy was clearing maps and survey gear just enough to make room for breakfast. Dobey remained at the far end, chewing steadily and scribbling figures. Huggy motioned to the bench. Starsky dropped onto it, and Moses flopped to the floor beside him with a huff. Huggy disappeared into the kitchen and returned with plates, bacon, beans, and thick toast seared on the cast-iron stove.

“Not Miss Garrett’s,” he said, setting the plate down. “But they’ll do.”

He slid it in front of Starsky. “Didn’t figure you’d wanna wait on Hutch. Figured you’d wake up hungry.”

“Yes! Starving,” Starsky muttered. The coffee was hot and bitter, just right. He tore into the toast, suddenly aware of how empty his stomach was.

Dobey looked up as he finished scribbling. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Starsky answered around a bite. “Huggy said you’ve been crunching numbers all night.”

Dobey grunted, which usually meant yes. “Results came through around three. Huggy’s seismic line hit solid. Five charges. Good spread. The dome formation’s there. Classic anticline. Clean curve. You’re sitting on it.”

Starsky slowed his chewing. “You sure?”

“As sure as I can be without drilling,” Dobey replied, pushing his plate back. “This land’s got the right bones. What we don’t know is what’s in them.”

“Joshua saw a seep,” Starsky said, glancing toward the far wall, as if memory lived in the wood. Near the north trail. He staked the whole claim on it.”

“Could’ve been mistaken,” Dobey said. “Surface seeps can mislead. It could’ve been decaying shale. Sulfur runoff.”

“Or,” Huggy cut in, fork raised, “he was right. And we’re one well away from proving it.”

Starsky nodded, leaning back in his chair, cradling the coffee cup in both hands as Hutch stepped in, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. He brushed his hair back and gave Starsky a quick, unreadable look before grabbing a mug.

“You eat yet?”

Starsky lifted his fork. “Trying to.”

Hutch dropped beside him. “You should see the east slope. Bill and Don cleared another section. If we set up a derrick by the old corral, we might be right on top of the dome.”

“Jumping ahead a little, aren’t we?”

“I like planning.” Hutch sipped his coffee and nodded toward Dobey. “Tell him what we talked about this morning.”

Starsky looked between them. “What idea?”

Dobey took a bite and washed it down. “We’re thinking of reaching out to a major company. Not Gunther. Someone else. I do contract work for a few who might be interested.”

Starsky raised a brow. “You don’t think your grandfather’s outfit is big enough?”

“They’re steady,” Hutch said. “They can probably carry us through summer without going under. But it’ll be tight. Gunther has more financing and more clout. He’ll do everything he can to see that dam finished.”

“You really think one of these companies is gonna throw money at a wildcat up here? With a dam going up downstream?”

“We can try,” Hutch said. His voice was calm, but his eyes stayed fixed on the table. “If we strike oil before the dam’s done, we have leverage. If not…”

“There’s oil in these mountains?” Starsky asked, teasing, but his gaze was sharp.

Dobey didn’t answer.

Starsky looked toward the window, at the ring of peaks surrounding the Kingdom like stone sentinels. “No one’s going to take that chance. If we’re going to do this—really do it—we do it ourselves. Keep it small. Careful. And hope your grandfather’s bank account holds.”

Huggy gave a low whistle. “Going lone wolf, huh?”

“It’s the only way we keep it.”

“I get that, but listen to what I’m saying. And listen good.” Dobey pointed a finger at him, voice flat. “That dam out there. That behemoth is costing Gunther a significant amount each day it sits there, with no work being done. And that makes you and whatever you decide to do a threat to him. You’re not just poking dirt, Starsky. You’re poking a bear.”

“I know. I’ll think it through.”

No one spoke for a long moment. The silence was broken only by the clink of Hutch refilling his mug and Moses shifting at Starsky’s feet. Eventually, the conversation drifted back to logistics and gear, easier topics to discuss, but the weight of the moment lingered with Starsky.

After breakfast, he carried a chair outside. The sky was a sharp, blue, seemingly endless, above the Kingdom, despite the ridges that towered around it. The breeze tugged snow off the high peaks and scattered it in shining threads. Starsky sat with one ankle crossed over the other, shoulders tilted toward the sun, watching Huggy, Bill, and Don walk toward the instrument truck. They moved with purpose and ease, already talking shop before they reached the gear. He envied them.

A few minutes later, Hutch emerged, followed by Dobey, who had a rucksack slung over one shoulder and a geologist’s hammer tucked at his hip.

Starsky squinted. “What’s the plan?”

“Hutch is giving me the tour,” Dobey said. “I want to get samples before I head back Saturday.”

“Four days enough?”

“It’ll have to be. Huggy’s survey gave us a head start.”

Hutch gave Starsky a look. “And you?”

Starsky grinned up at Hutch. “Following doctor’s orders. Sitting. And Soaking up the sunshine.”

“Now you follow orders? When there’s work to be done.”

“I pick my moments.”

Dobey chuckled and headed toward the trail, calling something to Huggy in the distance.

Hutch lingered and laid a hand on Starsky’s shoulder, warm through the flannel. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I know,” Starsky said quietly, placing his hand over Hutch’s. “And I’m not.”

But even as he said it, something inside him held back, tight and private. Because no matter what Hutch said or how often he stood beside him, the fate of the Kingdom still settled squarely on Starsky’s shoulders. This land, this fight, wasn’t just Joshua’s legacy anymore. Or Gunther’s dam, or the people of Come Lucky. It was his. What Dobey had said only confirmed what Hutch had told him at the ranch. What Starsky had known deep down and tried not to face. Hearing it cold and clear like that, backed by both of them, left no place to hide.

When Dobey left that Saturday, Starsky handed him a sealed envelope addressed to Keogh. He had written it that morning, detailing the survey results to date. Beneath that, underlined twice:

Drive straight. No stops. Thunder Creek. 2 a.m. Tuesday. Come alone. We’ll be waiting with horses.

Chapter 39

On Saturday morning, Hutch sat on horseback at the edge of the ridge, watching Dobey’s large figure grow smaller as the older man followed the trail down toward the truck. Kathy would be waiting at the trailhead, engine running, ready to drive Dobey back to Come Lucky. Hutch had arranged it days ago on one of his rides into town, quietly setting everything in place. When Dobey disappeared behind a granite outcrop, Hutch turned his horse, gathered up the lead rope of Dobey’s borrowed gelding, and nudged them both down the slope. The snow was soft underfoot where the sun had melted through the crust, and it took care to descend the narrow switchbacks into the bowl of the Kingdom.

As they cleared the timberline, Hutch caught sight of the drilling truck. From this height, it looked like a metal toy set beside the stream that fed Thunder Creek, its lines small and straight against the chaos of stone and pine. The machine rattled steadily, echoing off the cliffs, while three men worked the drill. Huggy stood near the cab, overseeing things with an intensity that belied his easy posture. Starsky was farther off, leaning against the truck with Moses at his feet, looking perfectly content in the sun.

Starsky spotted him and called out over the clatter, pointing toward the dam. “They’ve started!”

Hutch turned in the saddle and looked back toward the dam. Movement flickered across the concrete housing. Men were scattered along the buttress, some stacking cement bags at the base, others working the cableway that ferried loads to and fro. His eyes caught a glint high on the ridge, a flicker like sun on glass. Reflexively, his breath caught.

“You got a pair of binoculars?” he called to Huggy.

Without looking up, Huggy nodded and reached into the cab, passing the glasses back to Hutch. Raising them to his eyes, Hutch adjusted the focus until the world snapped into clarity. No question. Trevedian and Nick, standing together on the rocky ledge above the dam, were watching through their own field glasses.

A chill crept over his neck. Trevedian didn’t move unless he had reason. If he was watching, it meant they had officially become a problem.

“Did you have to start at this end of the Kingdom?” Hutch called, lowering the binoculars.

Huggy gave a slow shrug, turning down the corners of his mouth.

Starsky answered instead, pushing off the truck. “Gotta start somewhere, Hutch. They were bound to find out anyway. They had to have seen us come into town.”

Fair enough. Hutch passed the binoculars to Starsky, who brought them up and studied the dam. The cable cage was unloading another bundle, along with two tip trucks and a rack of steel rails. Cement sacks were being slung across the top like a well-rehearsed routine. Then Starsky shifted his aim, pausing.

“What’s that pile of junk over there?” he asked.

Hutch followed his line of sight, then smiled faintly. “Can’t you guess? That’s Joshua’s Number One.”

Starsky turned back toward Hutch, brows lifted. “How far did they get down?”

“Don’t know. Something over four thousand feet, I think.”

They rode over to the ruin. The metal was pitted and flaked with rust, the teeth of the massive cogwheel crumbling at the touch. The wooden baulks that once formed the rig’s base were soft and brittle, dark with age and rot. The old boiler had collapsed in on itself, surrounded by half-buried lengths of pipe and unrecognizable machinery. What remained of the borehole was a black puddle rimmed in oily scum.

“Where’s the top of the anticline?” Starsky asked quietly.

“According to Dobey, we’re standing on it,” Hutch said.

He watched Starsky take it in, the mess, the silence, the long shadow of failure that clung to the place. Joshua had staked everything on this. And when it failed, he had nothing left to offer except belief. Hutch had often stood here and wondered what that moment must have felt like. To be so close and still come up dry. A whole life poured into the ground, lost for want of a few hundred feet.

Now he watched Starsky wrestle the same ghosts. The younger man stood with his hand on the boiler, eyes scanning the remnants, lips pressed together. Hutch didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Starsky would carry this weight, or he wouldn’t.

But Hutch could see something else, too. The sun was on Starsky’s shoulders, warming the gray out of his skin. He looked stronger here, steadier. Some of the sickness had burned off. No wonder, Hutch thought. With the rest and the high altitude, and all that time spent sunning himself like a pampered cat, he was bound to recover. Still, the change was striking.

Whatever came next, Hutch knew this: the Kingdom had marked them both. And one way or another, they would either stand their ground or be buried in it.

By midday on Monday, Hutch and Starsky left Huggy and his crew drilling the second shot hole on the long traverse and saddled up. The plan was set to meet Keogh at the clearing by the road. Moses barked once as they mounted, tail thumping against the frozen dirt, then trotted after Huggy toward the sound of the drill.

The wind hit them as soon as they rode clear of the cabin’s lee. It tore down off the high ridges in long gusts, cold enough to sting their cheeks through the scarves they’d wrapped tight. Mare’s tails of snow whipped off the crests in ghostly streamers, turning the high slopes white and shifting. It had snowed during the night and into the morning, and now the Kingdom lay tucked under a fresh drift that glittered when the sun broke through. Below them, the two trucks sat like black flecks in the whiteness. The drill’s long arm moved rhythmically, but the wind stole the sound.

As they climbed toward the Saddle, Hutch turned his collar up higher, fingers cold inside the reins. The snow came in gusts, blowing sideways into their eyes, and by the time they reached the steeper rise, they had to dismount. Hutch took the lead, tugging both Goliath and the spare behind him. Starsky followed close, shoulders hunched, scarf drawn high.

At the top, the wind hit them full force. It tore across the gap, stinging their eyes and draining their breath straight from their chests.

“You sure you’re okay?” Hutch shouted over the wind, glancing back.

Starsky’s eyes were narrowed slits in a reddened face, but he gave a nod and shouted back, “I’m fine.”

Hutch held his gaze a moment longer. He could see the grit in Starsky’s expression. Hutch nodded and turned back, leading them down in a long diagonal across the slope toward the timberline.

Below the crest, the wind eased slightly, and the drifts were thinner. Through the swirling flakes, Hutch could glimpse the long, snaking road from the lake. Trucks moved slowly uphill, inching their way toward the dam. Off to the left, the valley widened into the fault, and there in the pale distance was the hoist, dwarfed by rock and activity. Men moved like ants around the concrete shed that anchored the cable.

By the time they hit the timber, Hutch could feel his fingers again. The snow underfoot was deep in spots, packed in others, soft enough in places to swallow a hoof.

The trees grew closer, older. The trail became clearer, tracing narrow cuts along the side of the slope, dipping into glades where sunlight filtered through thin branches. They rode through a lattice of game tracks and old beaver dams that broke the snow in tangled, frozen tiers.

Hutch pointed them out to Starsky, explaining how the dams shaped the runoff in spring, how the game trails followed ridgelines and frost shadows.

Starsky listened at first, asking about bears, wolves, and cats. Hutch grinned behind his scarf.

“Bears should still be hibernating,” Hutch said casually. “Oh, I’d say for about another month, maybe more.”

Starsky shot him a look, sharp, suspicious.

“I mean, probably.” Hutch shrugged, voice mild. “Depends on how hungry they are.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes.

Hutch couldn’t help it, he smirked. “Though, if we hear anything big crashing through the brush, feel free to panic. And Keep up. They always catch the slow runners.”

Starsky muttered something under his breath, low and pointed, about Hutch and exactly what he could do with his attacking bears.

Hutch grinned wider. “What was that?”

Starsky didn’t answer, just nudged his horse ahead, shaking his head.

Still grinning, Hutch followed.

As the afternoon wore on, the questions faded, but Hutch noticed Starsky’s eyes scanning the woods more often, tracking shadows, flinching once at a squirrel darting from a snowbank.

Hutch kept talking, this time telling stories, ridiculous ones, about his encounters with porcupines, moose, a raven that had once stolen half a sandwich and dive-bombed Huggy for the crust. Starsky laughed despite himself, the sound muffled by wind and scarf.

They made good time, and by the time dusk began pooling in the hollows, they reached the ford at Thunder Creek. The water was shallow and bitingly cold, but the horses took it well, and they crossed without issue, despite their wet boots. Hutch led them up into the dark glade where he’d met Dobey the week before, a narrow shelf of open ground tucked just back from the road.

They unsaddled in the stillness, tethered the horses, and sat together on a fallen tree to eat cold bread, dried meat, a flask of something dark and sharp that Hutch had tucked in the bottom of the pack. Once in a while, headlights slashed across the trees, and the distant growl of a truck climbing the road reached them.

Then it faded again, swallowed by pines.

Starsky sat hunched over his meal, quiet. Not tired exactly, but subdued, and Hutch didn’t press. They cleaned up, rolled into their blankets, and lay side by side beneath the stars. The wind had died, and the snow glow turned the world a pale blue.

The horses were close, hobbled, and Hutch listened to them breathe and shift, the soft crunch of hooves, the odd jerk of movement when they reared their front legs to inch forward.

Starsky was asleep in minutes.

Hutch stayed awake, eyes on the black sprawl of trees beyond the fireless ring. He wasn’t worried about the Bears or any animal on four legs. He was thinking about the dam, the drilling, the figures he’d seen through the binoculars. Trevedian and Nick watching from the rock face like buzzards on a perch. Hutch shifted slightly, pulled the blanket up to his chin.

If anything came for them, it would come soon.

He let his hand rest lightly on the rifle beside him and kept his ears open long into the night.

Chapter 40

Starsky felt someone nudging him awake, followed by a whisper near his ear. He blinked into the dark, half-frozen and stiff, as Hutch leaned over him.

“It’s nearly two,” Hutch murmured.

Starsky pushed himself up slowly, every muscle aching. The cold bit deep, curling around his shoulders and down his spine. They made their way to the edge of the road, slipping through a thin screen of cottonwood where snow clung to bare branches. A diesel engine roared in the distance. Moments later, headlights cut across the trees, sweeping the road in twin beams. A heavy truck thundered by, its taillights fading red as it climbed toward the hoist.

Silence returned, thick and brittle. Starsky listened to the wind murmuring through the trees and the rush of water pouring over rocks below. Somewhere up on the ridgeline, a coyote let out a scream that split the night. An owl flapped out of a tree above them and disappeared into the darkness.

By the time the next vehicle approached, the hour had crept toward three. Hutch stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the approaching glow of headlights. The beams widened, picking out every branch and bush in harsh silhouette. As the car neared, they flagged it down.

It rolled to a stop, and Keogh emerged, broad and bulky in a sheepskin coat, his breath fogging as he stepped into the cold. “Sorry, I’m late. Had a flat. What in hell are we playing at, meeting in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night?”

Hutch tilted his head, one hand up, listening. “Is there a truck behind you?”

Keogh paused, then nodded. “Yeah. Passed it about six miles back.”

“Quick, then,” Hutch said, already swinging into the passenger seat. He motioned Keogh to follow and directed him to the glade where the horses were tied. They left the road just as another truck rumbled past, unaware.

Inside the car, Hutch killed the lights. Starsky sat in the back, hugging his coat tighter as the engine ticked and the heater pushed out a slow, welcome warmth.

Keogh, still frowning, glanced back at them. “What’s all the secrecy about?”

Starsky tried to explain: about Trevedian, Gunther, the dam, the land, and the stolen report, but he could tell it didn’t land the way it needed to. If Trevedian had been running a rival drilling outfit, maybe Keogh would’ve understood. But the man didn’t see a dam as competition. He chuckled, dismissing their tension with a wave of his hand.

“You boys are just nervous. Why not strike a deal with Trevedian? Or your brother, for that matter. You’ve got to use the hoist anyway to get a rig up there. You’re not seriously thinking of packing it up by pony, are you?”

His laugh echoed around the quiet glade like a shotgun blast.

Starsky clenched his jaw, then launched into the whole story. No holds barred. He laid it all out: Joshua’s belief in the land, the forged seismic tapes, the sabotage, the stakes. The engine idled beside them, the heater humming. By the time Starsky finished, Keogh had stopped laughing.

He asked a few questions. Then fell quiet.

Finally, Keogh said, “So… how do we get the rig up there?”

Starsky glanced at Hutch, then back at Keogh. “We’ll talk about that later. After you’ve had a look at the place. After you decide if you’re in.”

The car’s warmth and the hour pressed down on them. One by one, they nodded off in the seats. By the time the first gray light filtered through the cottonwoods, they were groggy but alert enough to move. They covered the car with brushwood and began the long trail back up to the Kingdom.

By midday, they reached the Saddle of the mountain. Snow was falling again, wind slashing in from the east. Starsky was swaying in the saddle, his heart thudding erratically, vision blurring at the edges. He barely registered the ranch house before stumbling through the door and falling into bed, too tired to speak. He slept through the rest of the day and night.

The following morning, the soreness had settled in; his legs were stiff, his back tight, but his pulse was stronger and steadier. He got up feeling almost like himself again.

Keogh spent the day out with Hutch and Huggy, riding the ridgelines, reviewing terrain, and surveying options. When they returned, Starsky had coffee ready and the fire roaring in the hearth. Supper was simple, but warm.

They gathered in front of the fire with mugs in hand and Keogh’s notes spread across his lap. A cigar hung from his mouth, curling smoke around his furrowed brow.

“You think we’ll hit basalt around four thousand?” he asked, aiming the question at Hutch.

“I think so,” Hutch answered. “That or something like it stopped Joshua’s Number One in 1916. They were drilling with a cable tool, and they just couldn’t make any impression. With a rotary drill—”

“It’s still a snag,” Keogh cut in. He turned toward Starsky. “I already told you, Starsky, I could only stand two months operating on my own, no more. Huggy here says that if we’re going to hit oil, we’ll hit it at around five to six thousand. That’s okay, but this isn’t Lubbock. We aren’t down in the plains here. There’s this sill the surveys talk about, and down to that, it’ll be metamorphic rocks all the way. It’ll be tough going. And on top of that, we may drill crooked and have to fool around with a whipstock. Anything could happen in this sort of country.”

Keogh leaned forward, elbows on his knees, smoke curling around his face.

“And we’re working on a financial shoestring with no facilities. We can’t take a core sample. We’ll just have to look at what the cuttings bring up, by guess and by God. We’ve no certainty that we’re on top of country that is oil-bearing. We’ve no knowledge whatever of the nature of the strata at five thousand feet. We’re working entirely in the dark, with minimum crew, and against time.”

He sat back in his chair, sucking on the cigar with a long, thoughtful pull. “The only clue to what’s under the surface is this story of Joshua’s. That some thirty years ago, he saw some oil on the waters of Thunder Creek.” Keogh shook his head. “It’s a hell of a risk.”

“Joshua knew a lot about oil,” Huggy murmured from his corner of the table.

“So you tell me.”

“Starsky showed you the old man’s progress report,” Huggy said. “It’s obvious from that that Joshua was a sound geologist.”

Keogh gave a small grunt. “Sure. I’ve seen what he’s written, but how do I know that it bears any relation to the ground itself? All I know about Joshua is that he was reckoned to be crazy.”

“I can confirm a good deal of it from my own observations,” Huggy said.

“Yeah, the straightforward stuff. But what about the conclusions Joshua draws? Can you confirm them?”

“There’s nothing particularly revolutionary about them,” Hutch said, shifting forward in his chair. “We all know the oil deposits in North America come from marine life deposited on the floor of the central sea area, from Hudson Bay down to the Caribbean. These mountains here are a fairly recent formation. Most geologists say this isn’t likely country, but the fact remains: the first wells were drilled at points of seepage along the eastern escarpment. Because those wells weren’t successful doesn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t oil there. They were drilled early in the century, and the equipment just wasn’t good enough to go deep.”

“In two months I won’t be able to drill much deeper than five thousand, not in this sort of country,” Keogh said, relighting his cigar with a quick flick of a match. “There’s water here, sure, and the ingredients to make decent drilling mud. Weather shouldn’t be too bad now, and Dobey’s got a sound reputation. But…” He trailed off, shaking his head again, more gloom than certainty in the gesture.

Hutch leaned forward. “If Dobey’s original report had been based on the results we’re getting now, in other words, if those recording tapes hadn’t been switched, my grandfather would’ve drilled a well up here by now.”

“Sure, he would have. But I’m not Roger. He could afford to lose any amount of dough. I can’t. I’m just in the clear, and I mean to stay that way.” Keogh rubbed the side of his jaw. “The only thing that makes me go on considering the idea is this fifty-fifty proposition of yours, Starsky.”

He turned his eyes toward Starsky, the frown still settled in like weather. “I keep telling myself I’m a fool, but still I keep considering it. Maybe if I were younger…”

He gave a low sigh and shook his head again, slow and restless, like a dog bothered by a buzzing in its ears. “You know, if this location were just beside a good highway, I guess I’d be crazy enough to fall for your proposition. But how the hell am I supposed to get my rig up here?”

“By the hoist,” Starsky said.

Keogh stared at him for a long second. “But you’ve told me about this fellow Trevedian. He owns the valley of Thunder Creek. He owns the road and the hoist, and he doesn’t aim to have any drilling done up here. Because of him, I have to come here at the dead of night, hide my wagon in the brush, and ride up to this place like I’m rustling cattle. All this tomfoolery because he’s got guards on the valley route, and now you’re telling me you’re going to bring my rig up by the hoist?”

“I think it can be done,” Starsky said. “Once.”

Chapter 41

“I think it can be done,” Starsky said. “Once.”

Keogh cracked a grin. “You’re going to play it rough, huh? Well, I don’t blame you, given what you’ve told me. But I’ve got my equipment to think about.”

Starsky raised an eyebrow. “It’s insured, isn’t it?”

Keogh snorted. “Yeah, but I don’t know how the insurance company would feel about me acting outside the law, busting through two guard points and then slinging my equipment up through a mile of mountain air to some eyrie. How the hell do I get it down, anyway?”

Hutch leaned in. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem. If you bring in a well here, you won’t need to get it down. And if you don’t, Trevedian will likely be more than happy to give you a free passage out of the area.”

Keogh considered that for a moment. “Fair enough. But what about the cable? Will it take the weight of my equipment?”

Starsky shrugged. “I don’t know the breaking point exactly. But I’ve been up on that cable, and from what I’ve seen, it’ll hold about three or four times the tonnage we can get onto the cage. What do you think, Hutch?”

“I think it will,” Hutch replied. “Huggy brought his trucks up that way last year..”

“He’s right,” Huggy agreed, “I don’t think Keogh needs to worry about that. Like Starsky says, that thing was built to carry heavy loads.”

Keogh rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. “Alright, but how do you expect to get the use of the hoist? There’s a guard at the entrance to Thunder Creek, another at the hoist terminal, and a camp nearby. I’ll have five, maybe six trucks, probably more if we’re hauling everything for the whole operation. Fuel, pipe, rig, draw works, tools, spares, casing… We’re talking a big operation.”

He paused, glancing at Huggy for confirmation.

Huggy gave a slow nod.

Keogh sighed. “Seven trucks, at least. That means four to five hours at the hoist. How do you think you’re going to fix that?”

Starsky met his eyes, steady. “I don’t know. Hutch and I haven’t worked out the details yet. That’s our problem. But if you’re willing to try, I’ll give you my word to get your equipment up here. If I fail, I’ll make good any loss you sustain. How’s that?”

Keogh’s eyes flicked toward Hutch, then back to Starsky. “Except I understand you only have limited funds.”

Starsky didn’t hesitate. “I’d sell the Kingdom,” he said quietly.

Hutch turned toward him, jaw tight, as a stunned chorus burst out from around the room

“To Gunther?”

“Hell no.”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

The voices came fast, angry. And for good reason.

Starsky held up a hand. “I know what this place means to me. But if we can’t get Keogh’s rig up here, then we’ve got nothin’. We don’t drill, we’re sunk.”

Hutch stepped in close “I’m not gonna let that happen, Starsk. My grandfather…”

Starsky cut him off gently. “I know, Hutch. But if, and that’s a big if, we can’t get that rig up here, I’m not going to fight it anymore.”

Keogh nodded slowly. “Alright, Starsky. You get my stuff up here, and I’ll accept your proposition and drill the well. That is, assuming Dobey gives me a written report on the two traverses when they’re complete, and that report looks good.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of the promise settling like dust in the air. Hutch watched Starsky’s jaw tighten, knowing that the fight for the Kingdom was only just beginning.

——–

After that, they worked late into the night, hammering out the details, everything Keogh would need from the first spud of the drill to the chance he might bring in a well. Nothing could be left behind. Once the equipment was up the mountain, there’d be no going back for forgotten supplies. Trevedian would lock down the valley, maybe worse.

The math came out to seven trucks, rig, fuel, pipe, casing, food, tools, bedding, and the rest. Seven trips up the hoist, with tight, dangerous loading between each one. Huggy and Hutch helped estimate the timing. “Forty minutes minimum per truck,” Huggy said, “if you want to do it without killing someone.”

They ran through a long list: mud chemicals, cigarettes, blankets, extra boots, spare gears. No one wanted to admit it, but the moment that last load came up, they’d be stuck. Isolated. Keogh seemed to take it lightly.

“There’s always the pony trail,” he’d said.

Hutch had let that stand. No use scaring the man with what he and Starsky might have to do to get the rig up the hoist in the first place.

They finished around two in the morning. Starsky turned in fast, but Hutch couldn’t sleep. His mind kept churning through the lists. Twice, he lit a match to jot something down before it slipped.

The next day, Huggy rode down with Keogh. Before leaving, Keogh shook Hutch’s hand and asked, “If everything goes well, I’ll be seeing you in about three weeks. You’re sure you can get us up the hoist?”

“If Starsky isn’t able to, we’ve got to sell to pay your expenses,” Hutch said. “And I’m not going to let that happen. Isn’t that enough of a guarantee?”

Keogh chuckled. “Sure, and it is, but I’d like to know just how you’re going to fix it. A bit of bribery and corruption, eh?”

Hutch looked over at Starsky, sitting in the sun, asleep from exhaustion. “Don’t worry about how it’s going to happen. Just be ready, and be there when we tell you, Keogh.”

“Well, see you let me have details before I bring my convoy up.”

“I will,” Hutch said. “I’ll mail you full instructions in advance.”

“Okay.” Keogh climbed onto his horse. “Be seeing you, Starsky,” he called back, and rode for the Saddle.

That night, Huggy returned with deer meat strapped behind his saddle. The timing was good, canned food was low, and fresh meat lifted spirits. The only thing missing was flour. Over the next few weeks, Hutch, Huggy and the others worked sunup to sundown finishing the traverse, while Hutch kept one eye on the growing activity at the dam.

Each day, if the weather held, he rode alone to the outcrop above the buttress. From there, he could track progress in the valley, watch the slow tightening of Trevedian’s grip. Once, on a particularly clear day, he climbed up the northern shoulder of Solomon’s Judgment.

From that height, he could see everything.

Below, the construction camp had been stripped clean of saplings. Paths had worn through between the bunkhouses, cookhouse, dining hall, and latrines. Trucks came and went with mechanical precision. As soon as they were emptied, a grab crane swung down, loaded them with rock from the slide, and sent them back down the road. Through his field glasses, Hutch could just make out road gangs working along the lower slopes, patching up sections with fresh hard core where the surface had broken up.

Then one day, the mountain shook.

The blast hit like thunder dropped into a metal drum, bouncing off the peaks, rattling down into the Kingdom. Hutch didn’t need to ride out to know what it was. They’d started blasting on either side of the dam. Construction had begun in earnest.

When he finally climbed back up to the outcrop, the change was unmistakable. Workers swarmed over the dam site. Rail lines had been laid, and tip wagons ran back and forth like toys. Giant cement mixers churned and clattered, cables swung loads of stone to the dam’s heart. The race had started, and their rig hadn’t even left base.

That night, as Hutch pulled the covers up, Starsky rolled toward him in the dark.

“How long do you reckon they’ll take?”

“We’ve got time,” Hutch said, pulling him close.

He didn’t know if it was true. He hoped saying it would make it real.

But the strain of it hit them all. After supper the next day, everyone walked out toward the buttress, just to see it for themselves. The moon was young, throwing a soft, pale wash over the valley. They wanted to see how far the work had come. Hutch’s one fear was they’d start working through the night.

But it was too cold for that, at least, for now. Even so, they were already laying down straw to keep the fresh concrete from freezing.

They walked down as far as the hoist. The light there was strange, flat, white, drained of life. The valley looked like a man-made graveyard: roads scraped, structures squared, the ground beaten flat beneath boots and machines. But no one moved. The crews had turned in for the night. It felt like the men had vanished, leaving only their work behind.

“I think I never saw such a starved, ignoble nature,” Huggy murmured. Then added, “Seems the ultimate in futility. All this effort to build a hundred-foot wall when nature’s already raised peaks seven and eight thousand feet high.”

“Isn’t that the measure of our greatness?” Don asked. “We go on, whatever the odds.”

“Ants,” Bill said.

Starsky stood quiet for a moment, eyes on the jagged skyline. “It’s all comparative. Compare these peaks to the stars. To the vastness of space.”

“Is it worth it? The effort we’re making?” Huggy asked, voice soft.

Starsky looked at Hutch.

Hutch shrugged. “What is anything but an idea?”

He turned and began to climb further up the slope. Starsky and Huggy followed without a word, while Huggy’s men went back down to the cabin. They climbed higher. From the ridge, they looked down into the deep cut of Thunder Creek. The lights of the construction camp twinkled below like embers scattered in the dark. A gust of air carried the distant sound of a radio, the drift of a dance band melody blending with the low rumble of a diesel engine. Arc lights ringed the hoist platform, bathing the trucks in a harsh, white light. Far down the valley, a pair of headlights wound their way slowly up through the trees.

“We’re wasting our time,” Huggy said, almost to himself. “Fooling around with a survey while they build a damn fortress down there.”

Hutch didn’t turn. “What makes you say that?”

“There’s nearly a hundred men in that camp now. You haven’t a hope in hell of getting one truck, let alone seven, past them and up that hoist.”

Starsky’s voice was calm. “The number of men doesn’t make much difference.”

Huggy wheeled on him. “Are you crazy? What about those arc lights? You think you’ll just stroll in under a spotlight?”

“We’ll need them,” Hutch said evenly, “to load by.”

Huggy grabbed his arm. “Just what are you planning to do?”

Hutch hesitated. He and Starsky had made a pact, whispering plans beneath blankets at night. No one else needed to know, not yet.

“All in good time,” he said. “Let’s go back. Get some sleep.”

On May 29th, the final traverse was completed. The next morning, Huggy and his men rode out with the seismic recordings tucked into his saddlebag. Before he left, Hutch handed him a letter for Keogh, instructing him to move his convoy to Keithly by June 5th. He promised contact there and enclosed a written guarantee to cover all expenses if they failed to get the rig into the Kingdom. He also gave Huggy a list of supplies they would need, as well as a copy of the profit-share agreement, fifty-fifty for those who stuck it out and saw the job through.

There was another letter too, the first was addressed to Dobey. Hutch asked him to give Keogh a signed copy of the traverse report, and if the findings were optimistic, to start planting seeds, quiet ones, among the oil company scouts. The second was addressed to the newspaper down below.

The way things were going, Hutch and Starsky weren’t just planning for a drilling operation.

They were preparing for a fight.

Chapter 42

After Huggy and the rest of the team packed out, quiet settled over the Kingdom like snow. Just Starsky and Hutch remained, tucked into the bones of the land. The air was thinner without the others. No hammering. No heated talk. Just wind in the pines and the soft creak of the new barn’s rafters.

They spent the first couple of days getting ready, stacking supplies, setting bunks, and making sure there was enough space for everyone when they returned. Starsky had insisted the crew shouldn’t all be crammed into one bunkhouse, especially if the weather turned or tempers frayed. Hutch had agreed, silent but firm, and they spread out their preparations between the barn and the original cabin. It helped keep their hands busy and their minds off the ticking clock.

On the third morning, Starsky woke to the slow weight of Hutch’s arm draped across his waist, warm and solid beneath the blankets. The light was soft and grey, just beginning to seep in through the cabin’s rough-framed window. A bird chirped once outside, then went quiet again.

Over by the door, Moses gave a soft snore, one ear twitching at the early sounds outside. The old collie was curled into himself on the braided rug, tail tucked close, chest rising and falling in rhythm with the quiet cabin.

Starsky didn’t move at first. Just lay there, breathing in the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine and Hutch’s skin, clean sweat and flannel. The old wool blanket scratched faintly at his bare shoulders, but he didn’t care. Hutch’s breath stirred the back of his neck, steady and slow, like he had all the time in the world.

He turned gently, shifting under the covers until he faced his lover. Hutch stirred a little, eyes still closed, mouth relaxed. There was a line of sleep-creased skin along his cheek and a bit of stubble on his jaw.

“You awake?” Starsky whispered.

Hutch hummed low in his throat. “Might be.”

“Guess I should start talkin’ louder, then.”

Hutch cracked one eye open and smiled, just a little. “You do that, I’m rollin’ over and sleepin’ through to the end of summer.”

“You better not.” Starsky leaned in and kissed him. Just a soft press of lips, slow and unhurried. Hutch kissed him back, eyes still half-closed, fingers brushing lightly along Starsky’s ribs where the blanket had slipped.

“Your feet are cold,” Hutch muttered.

“Your fault for stealing all the damn blankets,” Starsky murmured against his mouth.

Hutch chuckled quietly, and his hand drifted over Starsky’s hip, running his fingers across it. For a moment, they just lay there, nothing but warmth and breath and the quiet creak of settling wood around them.

“You think we’re gonna make it, Hutch? Get the rig up, spud in, find what my grandfather thought was here?”

Hutch dropped his arm and turned his head toward him. “I think we’d better. Or we’ll lose the Kingdom, and maybe more than that.”

Starsky reached up, ran his fingers through Hutch’s hair, brushing it back from his forehead. “I’m not lettin’ Gunther win, Hutch. Not after everything Joshua gave up for this place.”

“I know,” Hutch said. He kissed the inside of Starsky’s wrist, gentle and brief. “I won’t let him win either.”

They were quiet after that, holding onto each other as the morning light grew stronger.

Eventually, Starsky groaned and shifted upright. “Well. Guess we’d better go argue about loading schemes and hoist weight limits.”

Hutch stretched like a cat, hands behind his head. “And you say I don’t know how to romance a man.”

Starsky laughed, tossed a shirt at his face, and climbed out of bed barefoot.

The day was waiting, but for that small stretch of morning, wrapped in each other’s warmth and silence, the mountain still belonged to them.

After breakfast, Hutch stood by the door, buckling his coat and lacing up his boots. Moses sat close by, ears perked, tail giving the occasional hopeful thump against the floorboards.

Starsky was stacking the last tin dishes on the dry rack near the basin when Hutch spoke.

“Need to check some traps. Up near the north basin, far side of the Kingdom.”

Starsky turned, wiping his hands on a rag. “That where you wandered off to the other day?”

Hutch didn’t answer right away. He tugged his gloves on, checked the line of his belt, then met Starsky’s gaze with a shrug. “Same general area.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes. “You layin’ snares or drawin’ maps?”

“Maybe both,” Hutch said, and gave him a crooked half-smile.

Starsky stepped over, leaned against the doorframe beside him, shoulder brushing his. “You planning on coming back with supper, or with trouble?”

Hutch looked out at the trees, then down at Moses, who whined once and stood up.

“Was hoping for a couple of rabbit,” he said. “Maybe a fox if I’m lucky. And I’ll be back by mid-afternoon.”

Starsky nodded slowly. “You want company?”

There was something in the way Hutch didn’t answer right away, just reached for the saddle blanket and slung it over his shoulder, that made Starsky hold still.

“No,” Hutch said finally. “You should rest. Chop some wood if you get itchy.”

Starsky arched an eyebrow. “You makin’ a list now?”

Hutch’s mouth quirked. “Just trying to keep you busy.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what’s in that head of yours.”

“I know.”

“You gonna tell me when you get back?”

“Probably.”

“Hmm.”

Starsky watched them go, Hutch striding out into the bright morning light, the frost still glittering on the tall grass, Moses bounding ahead and then doubling back like he wanted to be sure they were all still part of the same pack.

When they disappeared down the eastern trail, Starsky stood for a long minute in the cabin doorway, arms folded, jaw tight.

As he turned into the house and paused, realizing Hutch had a full pack on his horse

Something was brewing in Hutch’s mind, something more than traps.

Mid-afternoon, Hutch came riding in from the west, hat low, shirt sleeves dusted with sweat and pine needles. They had a late lunch, and Hutch didn’t say much until the plates were cleared and the kettle drained.

“Pack your bedroll,” he said then, rising from the bench. “We’re going.”

Starsky raised an eyebrow. “Going where?”

Hutch just glanced at him and said, “You’ll see.”

There was no pushing when Hutch got like that, flat, determined. So Starsky rolled up the bedding, lashed it tight, and cinched it to his saddle. Within the hour, they were packed for a day’s ride, rifles cleaned, canteens full, camp tools bundled in canvas. The horses moved slowly as Hutch led them west, then north, winding along the timberline until the trees thinned and the ridges rose in steep folds of shale and scrub.

They didn’t talk much on the ride. The trail was narrow in places, and the climb took their breath more than once. But Starsky didn’t mind the silence. He watched Hutch’s back instead, steady in the saddle, lean as a switch, always just a little ahead, like he knew exactly where he was going.

And maybe he did.

Chapter 43

They rode until the sun sat just above the ridgeline, catching fire on the peaks and spilling gold through the trees. Moses trotted along behind them, paws soft on the trail, as the horses picked their way along the narrowing trail, hooves brushing against frost-stiff branches. Hutch led the way, eyes forward, hand occasionally resting on the worn leather of his saddle horn.

This place, this trail, Hutch hadn’t brought anyone here before.

He’d found it when he was younger, but after the war, it became a refuge for when the noise in his head got too loud, and the world down below felt like it might tip sideways. Up here, where the air thinned and the trees bowed low, he could breathe again. Could feel the weight inside him ease, just enough to stand it. And now… he wanted to share it. Not just show it, but share it, with the one man who saw through the quiet without ever asking for explanations.

They left the horses tied just below the rise, where a shallow stand of scrub gave them cover and soft ground. Hutch glanced back once, then started up the final stretch. It wasn’t long, but it was steep, hand-over-hand over the rocks, loose shale and cold wind cutting down from the tree line above.

Halfway up, Hutch paused and looked back. Starsky was climbing steadily, his breath easy, face flushed but not strained. Hutch offered a hand without a word. Starsky grinned as he took it with a strong grip, his warm fingers closing around it.

“No complaints,” Starsky said, hoisting himself up beside him. “But if there’s not a damn good view up here, I’m kicking you back down.”

Hutch chuckled. “You’ll like it.”

The ledge opened up in front of them, narrow but solid, laid against the curve of the mountain just below where the trees gave out. The sky stretched wide above, already streaking lavender and indigo. The wind was calmer here, caught behind the rocks. At the far end of the ledge stood a lean-to shelter, the wood rough but well-placed. A platform ran along the back wall, made of split timber and weather-smoothed planks.

The fire pit sat a few paces from the lean-to, ringed with blackened stones, shielded on one side by a half-wall of stacked logs to catch the wind. Hutch’s bootsteps crunched softly on the frost-hardened ground as he approached the edge of the ledge, hands resting loosely on his hips.

The view still caught him every time.

Starsky stepped past him, squinting into the gold-drenched valley below, where the last of the light pooled in the treetops like spilled honey. Then he turned, that crooked grin breaking across his face.

“A view and a room at the Ritz.”

Hutch laughed, his breath catching in his chest like it always did when Starsky looked at him like that, like the world was big and wide but still full of reasons to smile.

Starsky walked back over, easy and close, and wrapped his arms around Hutch’s waist, pulling him in. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just to get me on my own, y’know.”

“I didn’t,” Hutch said softly, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched. His voice dropped lower. “I just wanted you to see it.”

Then he kissed him as Starsky melted into it with a contented hum, fingers curling against Hutch’s back.

For a moment, there was only the two of them, and the hush of the wind threading through the trees above.

Starsky turned back toward the edge, looking down, while Hutch stayed with him, huddled against his back, nuzzling Starsky’s neck. The Kingdom lay below them, nearly lost in shadow now. Pines stretched out like a sea, dark and still. Even the dam was just a faint mark in an otherwise perfect view.

For a moment, there was only the two of them, and the hush of the wind threading through the trees above. No ticking clock, no hoist to plan, no looming dam or men in suits. Just breath, and warmth, and the faint creak of pine overhead.

Starsky turned slowly back toward the edge, gaze sweeping out over the drop. Hutch stayed close, not letting go, just pressed in behind him, arms still wrapped loosely around his middle, chin brushing against Starsky’s shoulder as he leaned in, nuzzling gently at the curve of his neck. Starsky tilted his head and let him.

Hutch closed his eyes for a second, breathing in deeply. Starsky smelled like cold air, smoke, and the last of the soap from their tin basin. Alive. Solid.

“I used to come up here alone,” Hutch murmured, voice low against Starsky’s ear. “After the war. When things got too close… too loud.”

Starsky didn’t speak, but he reached up and rested his hand over Hutch’s arm, grounding them both.

Hutch held him tighter. “Never brought anyone here before.”

Starsky turned his head just enough for their cheeks to brush. “I’m glad you did.”

The moment hovered there, still and soft, until Starsky’s stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl.

Hutch laughed, low and warm, and pressed one last kiss against the edge of Starsky’s jaw. “Guess I should feed you.”

“That might be a good idea,” Starsky muttered, already grinning.

Hutch stepped to the fire pit and crouched, brushing aside the old ash and stacking dry wood with practiced ease. The cold air bit at his knuckles, but he didn’t mind. He struck a match, cupped it against the wind, and fed it into the kindling. It caught quickly, flames licking up through the dry twigs with a satisfying snap and hiss.

While the fire built, he crossed to the edge of the lean-to where a low pile of rocks had been carefully stacked under an overhang. Snow was packed between the gaps, his makeshift cooler. He brushed aside the top layer and pulled out two venison tenderloin steaks, cold and firm to the touch. He carried them back to the fire just as Starsky crouched down beside him, boots scuffing the edge of the circle. His eyes lit with curiosity.

“You planned this.”

Hutch didn’t look up right away, just unwrapped the meat and set it onto a flat iron plate over the flames. “Told you. Wanted to share it.”

Starsky nudged his knee playfully. “You bring wine and a record player, too?”

“Nope. Just you and the stars.”

Starsky grinned, then sat back on his heels. “Then it’s perfect.”

The fire crackled and flared, throwing orange light across their faces as dusk deepened. The steaks sizzled, fat hissing as they hit the coals, the smell curling up into the cold air. They ate right off the tin plates, working quickly and quietly with forks and knives. No talk for a while, just the fire, the meat, and Moses lying nearby, watching with lazy eyes, ears twitching now and then at the wind.

By the time they’d finished, the sun had slipped behind the peaks, leaving a soft blue afterglow along the horizon, like the sky had remembered its gentler side. The wind shifted, colder now, and Hutch moved around the lean-to, pulling out an old burlap sack filled with cloth wraps and storing heat stones. He knelt by the fire and laid a few of the smoother rocks near the coals, turning them carefully with his gloved hands.

When they were warm through, he wrapped them and tucked them beneath the thick bedding laid out on the platform inside the shelter. The wood creaked faintly under his weight as he adjusted the blankets.

Before he could step back, Moses trotted over and, with no hesitation whatsoever, climbed onto the platform and plopped down squarely over one of the warm bundles, curling into a perfect, smug circle.

Starsky chuckled behind him. “He knows a good thing when he sees it.”

Hutch glanced back, lips twitching. “Takes after you.”

They cleaned up what was left, plates scraped and rinsed with melted snow, scraps buried well off the ledge, the rest tossed to Moses, who finished them without hesitation. By the time they were done, the fire had burned low, reduced to a steady glow of embers that cast a faint red shimmer across their boots. With the flames quiet, the sky opened above them, clear and wide, the mountains outlined in black, their jagged edges cutting into a diamond spill of scattered stars.

Below, the world disappeared into black. Trees folded into one another.

And so did they.

Their kisses were slow, unhurried. Familiar. Hutch felt it deep in his chest, the quiet press of mouths, the heat blooming beneath the surface. Starsky’s hand slid up to his neck, thumb brushing gently along his jaw, tracing the curve of bone like he meant to memorize it.

Hutch cupped the back of Starsky’s head, pulled him in closer, the weight of him solid, steady. The blankets rustled around them, warm from the fire-heated stones tucked beneath. Their breathing grew quieter, deeper, moving in rhythm.

Fingers slipped beneath the shirt fabric. Buttons gave way, one after another, until the flannel opened under Starsky’s touch, and cool air kissed Hutch’s skin. There was nothing rushed. No fumbling. Just the sure ease of hands that knew where to go, because they’d already chosen each other long before this night.

Hutch tugged at Starsky’s own shirt, sliding it off his shoulders. The layers fell softly around them. Then, slowly and carefully, the pants were eased down and folded away, leaving nothing but skin and warmth and the hush of the mountain air.

Starsky drew the blankets back over them, breath warm against Hutch’s throat. He didn’t speak, and neither did Hutch. Words didn’t belong here, not when they had the stars above, the silence around them, and each other.

Outside, the embers glowed low in the pit. Moses lay nearby, curled and dozing, the occasional twitch of a paw the only sign of dreams.

Later, when the full moon had climbed high, casting a blue-white glow across the clearing and through the open front of the lean-to. Hutch shifted beneath the covers and blinked awake, the cool hush of night brushing his skin. He eased himself up without waking Starsky, and replaced the heat stones with fresh ones from beside the hearth, and tucked them back into place beneath the bedding.

When he turned back, he stilled completely.

Starsky lay facing the open sky, one arm tucked under his head, bare shoulders bathed in moonlight. His skin glowed pale, almost translucent, the light catching in the fine lines of his collarbone and casting delicate shadows across his ribs. His curls shimmered silver at the edges, and for a breathless moment, Hutch could only stare. He looked like something not quite of this world, like a creature that stepped out of some forgotten dream or a wandering spirit caught in the light. A Midsummer Night’s Dream, made flesh. Unreal. Too beautiful to reach for, too sacred to speak over. Hutch drew in a breath, slow and quiet, and climbed back in beside him, gently wrapping arms around and pulling Starsky close, not wanting to break the spell.

Chapter 44

The sky was a deep, unbroken blue, not a cloud in sight, clear and sharp in the thin air. The peaks of the mountains rose above like stone sentinels, closer at this elevation but still beyond reach, their slopes dusted with the last of the high-country snow. An eagle soared high above the nearest ridge, wings stretched wide to ride the thermals rising from the sunlit slope. It circled once in silence, then drifted out over the valley, effortless and weightless in the still morning air. Below, the trees were dark and dense, folding into the ridgelines until they vanished into the far distance, the whole world laid bare beneath a sky that felt endless.

The sun had just cleared the eastern ridge, casting long rays across the ledge and warming the rock underfoot. It slipped into the lean-to, warming the floorboards and catching the edge of the blanket as Starsky stirred awake. He blinked against the light, stretched under the covers, and turned his head to find Hutch still asleep beside him, lying closest to the open edge of the shelter. The position wasn’t accidental. Hutch had put himself between Starsky and the world outside, just like he had since their first night together. He hadn’t said why. Didn’t need to. It was in the way he’d bedded down facing the open air, boots tucked near the flap, arm half-exposed in the cold. A quiet readiness, even in sleep.

The sun caught Hutch’s hair, pale at the ends from weeks outside, and touched the tan on his skin that had deepened in the long days of labor. His face was calm, his breathing steady, and in that quiet, Starsky saw something unguarded in him. He didn’t reach for him, just watched, memorizing the shape of his rest, the curve of his shoulder under the blanket, the soft rise and fall of his chest. Moses was curled near the platform’s edge, tail tucked under his nose, ears twitching faintly in sleep. The fire had long gone to ash. All around them, the mountain held its breath, and Starsky let the stillness settle deep in his chest.

The morning would come on slowly. And for once, that was just fine.

——-

The sun was already high by the time Hutch stirred beside him, stretching with a low sound and blinking at the bright sky above the ledge. Starsky shifted, leaned over, and kissed him, and what followed was slow, warm, and unhurried. The kind of intimacy built on days of silence and sun. They moved together in the warmth of morning, the last of the fire’s heat in the stones below them and the sun pouring over the rocks. When they finally dressed, the air had grown warmer, with a pine-scented, sharp quality.

Once they reached the Kingdom again, Hutch and Starsky took time to tend to the barn. Their horses were unsaddled, blankets shaken out, and tack stacked neatly for the next trip out. With the chores finished, they headed into the cabin and set a kettle to heat on the stove, filling the washtub in the corner with just enough hot water to take the edge off the chill. They stripped down to the waist, passing the soap and cloth between them. Steam drifted in the slanted light through the cabin window, and the room smelled faintly of pine soap and woodsmoke. Neither of them talked much, just the occasional brush of a hand or quiet smile passed between them.

Once clean, Starsky ducked over to the shelves and gathered the bag of charges, wire coils, the plunger, and batteries used for Huggy’s survey shots, tucking the gear neatly beneath the saddle straps outside. With the barn doors latched behind them and Moses at their heels, the two men mounted up and turned toward Come Lucky, the sun already climbing steadily toward midday along the saddle trail.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached the Garrett place, the light slanting low over the hills. Kathy met them on the porch, and Hutch could see in her face that something had shifted. While Starsky unbuckled Moses’ lead rope, Kathy crouched to scratch behind the dog’s ears, murmuring to him softly.

“We’ll pick him up once the rigs are in the Kingdom,” Hutch said.

“Don’t worry,” Kathy replied with a small smile. “He’ll be fine here.”

Inside, over coffee, Kathy filled them in. Come Lucky was changing; new huts were going up, some rough pine structures slapped together with whatever was on hand, while others were clean, prefab boxes hauled in from the mills, with shipping stencils still visible. Even the old shacks were being patched and painted, with windows replaced and roofs repaired. The biggest change was the hiring of a full-time town doctor, brought in by Gunther and Trevedian. Although there was no official notice, it was clear she was being pushed out. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes when she said, “Guess it didn’t help I’ve been seen talking to you two.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Hutch said.

She shrugged. “It’s all right. Gives me a chance to head up to the Kingdom. Doubt you two’ve had a proper meal since you got there.”

Starsky leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Well, today’s your lucky day. There’s a vacancy for a cook-general, if you want it. Comes with a cot, mountain air, and the occasional mule for company. We’re also short a nurse, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Kathy snorted. “What, already sick of Hutch’s cooking?”

Starsky jabbed a thumb toward himself. “Please. We’d have starved if I wasn’t doing all of it.”

Hutch raised an eyebrow but said nothing, choosing instead to meet Kathy’s gaze. “The offer stands. You’re welcome up there.”

Her smile softened. “I will. I’ll bring Moses too, so you don’t have to come down for him. When are you hauling the rigs in?”

“Three days,” Hutch said. “The fifth. We’re headed to Trevedian’s now, to negotiate a toll on the hoist.”

“You think he’ll agree?”

Starsky answered first. “Probably not. But it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“And if not?”

“We’ll get them up there one way or another,” Hutch said.

Kathy gave them both a sharp and knowing look. “You’re planning something, aren’t you? You had that same look in France, Hutch, when you were up to something. What about you, Starsky? You think you can handle what he’s about to do.”

“I can handle myself,” Starsky said. “Army, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember you said as such …still.”

Hutch stood and picked up his hat. “The less you know, Kath, the better. Trust me.”

She nodded slowly. “Just… be careful. Both of you.”

“Always,” he said. “We’ll see you in the Kingdom on the fifth.”

They said their goodbyes and rode out, heading for Come Lucky. As they reached the edge of town, Starsky looked around. Kathy hadn’t been exaggerating. The ghost town wasn’t a ghost anymore. For the first time since he’d arrived, they could ride straight up the main street without weaving around washouts or broken beams. The dried mud from the old flumes had hardened into a cracked crust, little eddies of dust curling around their horses’ legs. It was nearing midday. A few old-timers sat outside the Golden Calf, nursing beers and watching the street. They looked at him and Hutch as they passed—curious, not hostile. The dam was going ahead. Come Lucky was waking up.

Mac was behind his desk when they found him, bent over a ledger with his steel-rimmed glasses halfway down his nose. He looked up when they stepped in, eyes narrowing slightly. “Getting tired of living up in the Kingdom?” he asked.

Starsky shook his head. “No, just came down to see if there was any mail for us.”

Mac reached into one of the pigeonholes behind the desk and pulled out a single envelope. “Telegram came in earlier. Nothing else.”

Starsky opened it while Hutch stepped up beside him, reading over his shoulder. It was from Huggy. “Results perfect. Have seen Keogh. He will be at CrossHatch as arranged. Returning immediately. Arriving Come Lucky Tuesday Morning.”

“That’s tomorrow,” Starsky said.

Hutch’s voice was quiet but direct. “Where will we find Trevedian, Mac?”

Mac scratched at his beard. “Maybe in his office, but most days he’s up at the hoist.”

“Does he sleep up at the camp?” Starsky asked.

“No. He’ll be back in town by evening.”

Hutch gave a short nod. “Fine. If you see him, tell him we’re looking for him.”

Mac stared at Starsky with a puzzled frown. “What would you be wanting him for?”

Starsky offered a faint smile. “Just tell him I’d like to have a word with him.”

Outside, the heat of the sun pressed down as they stepped off the walkway and back toward their horses. Hutch leaned against Goliath’s saddle, arms folded.

Starsky looked up the street. “Where now? Should we go see Trevedian at the hoist?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said. “We can get to the trail there, just off the road to the dam.”

They were about to mount up when Starsky spotted a familiar truck parked beside Trevedian’s office. He pointed. “That his?”

Hutch followed his gaze. “Looks like it.”

They exchanged a glance, then turned, leaving the horses tied as they walked toward the office door.

The office of the Trevedian Transport Company had been expanded by knocking down the partition at the back. There was a second desk, now, with more filing cabinets, a field telephone, and an assistant with sleek black hair who wore high-heeled cowboy boots, tight jeans, and a fancy Western shirt. Starsky stepped in behind Hutch and scanned the room, noting every change, every posture. Trevedian was on the phone with someone in Keithley, from the sound of it, but froze when he caught sight of them. Surprise flickered across his face before he motioned them toward the chairs in front of his desk. He hung up and leaned back, attempting a casual tone.

“Well, what can I do for you boys?” he asked. “Huggy want to get his trucks out, is that it?”

“No,” Starsky said flatly. “Other way around. I want to get some trucks in.”

Trevedian squinted at him, like the sun was too bright or the request didn’t make sense. “How do you mean?”

“What’s the going rate on your hoist per load?” Starsky asked.

“Depends on the nature of the load,” Trevedian said, voice cautious.

“What’s the trouble, boys?” he added, narrowing his eyes. “Running short of supplies?”

“No trouble,” Starsky replied. “I want to know what you’ll charge to hoist a drilling rig up to the Kingdom.”

Trevedian blinked. “A drilling rig?” His eyes widened before his fist slammed down on the desk. “What the hell do you take me for, Starsky? No drilling rig’s going up Thunder Creek.”

Hutch, calm as ever, glanced over at Starsky and said, “Take note of that, will you?” Then he turned his attention back to Trevedian. “Now, about this rig. I understand that the road up Thunder Creek runs through your property and that the hoist is jointly owned and operated by you and James McClellan. Naturally, we’re willing to pay a toll for the transport of equipment. So, would you be good enough to quote your rate?”

Trevedian scoffed. “You’re not serious. It’s private. The road, the hoist, both of them.”

A new voice cut in from the side. “It’s being operated for the Gunther Mining Company,” Nicky said, stepping out from behind a side door. His sneer was automatic, as if just seeing Starsky put a bad taste in his mouth. “You know that, Davey. And if you think Trevedian’s gonna haul some damn rig up to the Kingdom…” he leaned forward now, eyes cold. “What’s the real game here? Why a rig?”

Starsky didn’t blink. “We’re drilling a well.”

Nicky echoed him mockingly. “A well? What, you think you struck oil with grandpa’s ghost whispering in your ear?” His tone was cutting, full of contempt. “I already told you. I was gonna make sure you didn’t get a rig up to the Kingdom.”

Hutch ignored him completely, addressing Trevedian. “Huggy’s done a second check on his original survey,” he said evenly.

Trevedian raised a brow. “And?”

“There’s ample evidence it was tampered with,” Hutch went on. “Dobey reviewed the seismograms. There’s a well-defined anticline. That’s enough to justify a test well.”

Trevedian leaned forward, laughing without humor. “And you think I’m going to haul a rig up there for you?”

Starsky didn’t flinch. “We’re not asking for favors. Trevedian. Just a rate.”

“Yeah? Well, there isn’t one. Not for you, Davey.” Nicky jabbed a finger in Starsky’s direction. “You want it up there so bad? Pack it on muleback.”

“Good idea, Nicky.” Trevedian added. “And you know what, gentleman? I’ll even give you full permission to hike it up the pony trail. Considering part of it is on my land. Free of charge, even. That’s generous, isn’t it?”

Hutch straightened, still unbothered. “I’d prefer you give a quote.”

Nicky laughed. “Prefer? You trying to be funny?”

“So, is that a yes or no? Nicky.” Starsky asked

“Of course it’s a no,” Nicky snapped.

Starsky and Hutch traded a glance. Hutch then turned to Trevedian, eyes cool. “That’s all I needed to know.” He tipped his hat to the two men. “Trevedian. Nicky.”

They turned to leave, but Hutch paused in the doorway. He looked back over his shoulder at Trevedian and finally, Nicky.

“Oh, by the way. You’re aware that the original road up Thunder Creek was constructed in 1939 by the WPA? Your improvements don’t change the fact that it’s still a public road.”

That landed like a hammer. Nicky’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came. Trevedian’s face had gone still.

“And tell me,” Hutch added, voice calm, eyes sharp, “Are you acting on Gunther’s instructions in putting a guard on it? Holding up private transport?”

Neither man answered. The silence was its own kind of confession.

“Fine,” Hutch said. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

They left without another word.

Chapter 45

After they left Trevedian’s office, Hutch and Starsky walked in silence back up the dusty street toward the Golden Calf. The sun was high, the heat pressing down on them, but Hutch barely felt it. When they reached the horses, he paused beside Goliath, resting a hand on the saddle without swinging up. His eyes flicked toward Trevedian’s office. Sure enough, Nicky was leaning against the porch rail, cigarette in hand, watching them with a narrowed glare.

Hutch looked down at the saddle, jaw tight. If they couldn’t get the trucks up to the Kingdom, they were finished. The whole plan would unravel. And if sneaking them through under the cover of darkness didn’t work, what then? He thought of the letter he’d sent to his friend at the Courier. Gunther and Trevedian weren’t playing by the rules anymore. Why should he?

Starsky noticed. “What’s wrong, Hutch?”

Hutch looked at him for a moment, really looked at the man who’d fought his way back from a death sentence, who was finally starting to live again. If this failed, it would crush him. Hutch saw it plain. Decision made, he turned from the saddle toward the “Pic Ax.”

“I’m gonna make a phone call,” he said over his shoulder.

Starsky scrambled after him.

They found Mac still in his office, the place dim and dusty with the smell of old papers and tobacco. Hutch stepped up to the desk.

“Can I use your phone?”

“Aye,” Mac said, pushing it toward him. “Would it be something private?” He stood, already backing off.

“No, it’s all right,” Hutch said. “There’s nothing private about this.”

He picked up the phone and placed a long-distance call, giving the number for the Courier and requesting the editor by name. Starsky hovered nearby, close enough to hear but saying nothing. When he let out a soft, surprised sound, Hutch glanced up and gave him a small, amused smile. Of course Starsky had figured it out. When the operator finally patched the call through, nearly half an hour had crawled by. As Hutch greeted the editor, Starsky leaned in and rested lightly against him, listening in.

“Did Harold Dobey let you have his final report on Joshua’s Kingdom?” Hutch asked.

“Yes,” the editor said. “And a fellow called Huggy came in with the whole story of the original survey. Who am I speaking with?”

“Kenneth Hutchinson. You might remember me as Roger Hutchinson’s grandson.”

“I do, Mr. Hutchinson. We ran that story you tipped us on pretty much in full.”

“Thank you. I’m here with David Starsky, Joshua Debrin’s heir.”

“I see. Do you have something more for me?”

Hutch brought him up to date: Trevedian’s refusal to allow the rig up Thunder Creek, the blockade. When he finished, the editor let out a low whistle.

“Makes a dandy little story. Private enterprise versus big business, huh? No pun intended, but a real David and Goliath story. Well, Mr. Hutchinson, Mr. Starsky, this won’t be the first time we’ve backed the small operator.”

“You’re going to back us, then?”

“Oh, sure. It’s in the national interest. What are you planning to do about the rig?”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ve got it taken care of.”

“I see. Well, go easy on that. We don’t want to back anyone who steps outside the law.”

“We’re not,” Hutch said flatly. “It’s Gunther and Trevedian who’ve crossed the line.”

“Fair enough. So long as nobody gets hurt…”

“Nobody will.”

“Fine. If you bring in a well, let us know. We’d like to send someone up to see for themselves, if that’s all right.”

“Anytime. Thanks for your help.”

He hung up. The office was quiet.

Starsky clapped him on the back, eyes wide with pride and something more. Mac cleared his throat.

“So ye’re going to drill?”

Starsky said, “I suppose your son wouldn’t take the responsibility of getting the rig up there?”

“Jamie’ll not help you, I’m afraid,” Mac said, packing tobacco into his pipe and avoiding their eyes.

“No,” Starsky muttered. “I didn’t think so.” He looked at Hutch, who picked it up smoothly.

“Trevedian will ask what we’re up to. No harm in telling him I called the Courier. But I’d appreciate it if you’d forget that bit about taking matters into my own hands.”

Starsky added, “Will you do that?”

Mac gave them a wintry smile. “Aye. I’ll not spoil your game, whatever it is. But don’t do anything foolish, lads. My advice, though you won’t take it, is to forget the Kingdom. Sell out, go home, Mr. Starsky. But that’s no advice a young man listens to. Maybe I’m just getting old.” He held out his hand. “Good luck to you.”

They shook hands, paid for the call, and stepped back into the afternoon heat.

As they rode down Come Lucky’s main street, Hutch was aware of faces watching them from cabin windows. Nicky was gone, but through Trevedian’s open office door, he saw the man on the phone, frowning. At the lake shore, gophers scattered at their approach, tiny sentinels disappearing with warning squeaks. A truck rumbled past, kicking up white dust that hung in the air. Then silence. Summer held the Rockies in its palm.

Starsky asked, “We waiting down here for Huggy?”

Hutch nodded. “We’ll camp by the creek tonight. And we’ll set those charges.”

“Moving everything up?”

“Yeah, I think we should. Trivedian, will hear about that phone call. One way or the other.”

“And if we go now, we’ll still be ahead of the game.”

“Exactly.”

They made a quick stop to see Kathy, asking her to meet them at Thunder Creek in the morning when Huggy was due to arrive, rather than in three days. Then they rode out and found a quiet spot near the water. The meal they cooked was simple, their talk quieter still. Afterward, they stretched out in the afternoon sun for a short rest, letting the warmth soak into their bones. When they saddled up again, the shadows under the trees had grown long and blue. By the time they reached the bend that hid the road gate, the light was beginning to fade. They slipped into the timber, keeping low and silent. The forest was thin, and through gaps in the trees, they caught brief flashes of the guard shack below. Half a mile past it, they rejoined the road without a word.

The surface was dry, rutted, and patched with fresh gravel. Hutch pointed out the shallow-hung telephone lines, which could be reached easily from the top of a truck.

They rode on, passing black pools where beavers worked, coyotes skimming the trees, mule deer shifting in the brush. But Hutch’s thoughts stayed locked on logistics. Twice, they ducked into the woods as trucks passed. Eventually, they found what they’d come for.

The road climbed steeply along a valley wall, then curved sharply to avoid a rocky shoulder. A shortcut trail led up the face, and they forced the horses to the top. From a rocky platform, they looked straight up the valley to Solomon’s Judgment, the white peaks glowing red in the sunset.

A half-mile on, the road carved around a black-streaked outcrop. Hutch waited for a passing truck to clear, then approached the rock face, examining it with a tight throat. This was the spot. Starsky told him about, when he’d come up his first day here. If the holes were still there…

They were. Starsky found the first, a round shot hole. Then two more. They tested them with a whittled stick: two went deep, one shallow. Starsky pulled the rucksack and got to work. Charges went in, wires trailing. Wet earth sealed the holes. A tree branch marked the spot.

Further on, they came to a log bridge over a stream. Road crews had reinforced the nearby turnoff and cleared space for trucks. Starsky rigged the bridge with charges and tucked the wires safely out of sight.

“Okay, Starsk,” Hutch said. “That’s the lot.”

They turned back. The valley below was dark now, but the sky still held light.

By the time they returned to camp, it was past nine. They cooked another meal, voices low by the fire, listening to Thunder Creek tumble down toward the lake. Hutch was tired but steady. So far, everything had gone to plan. But as they wrapped themselves in blankets, reviewing their moves and the hours ahead, Hutch wondered if it would be enough. Whether their luck would hold. Whether he was creating something he couldn’t contain.

They were counting on shock, on speed. On one shot at turning the tables.

Chapter 46

The morning broke under a low ceiling of mist. Everything felt wet and quiet. But by the time they finished breakfast, the sun had burned through, and for a while, the sky was wide and blue. Then the clouds started forming again, thick thunderheads piling up in the west, dark and heavy with promise.

Huggy arrived around two, riding in with Bill and Don. They’d picked up his horse in Come Lucky on the way, and Kathy, along with Moses, came with them.

Huggy dismounted, handed off his reins, and pulled a folded copy of the Courier from his coat. “Front page,” he said, grinning.

Starsky took it. The headline ran the length of the page, Battle Over Campbell’s Kingdom, with a half-page spread inside about Joshua, the land, and oil. Dobey’s name showed up more than once. Huggy and Dobey had also spoken to a few scouts from the big companies, and the old legend about Rocky Mountain oil was picking up steam.

But that wasn’t the big news.

“Keogh’s already at Crosshatch,” Huggy said. “Staying at the hotel there. Just needs your word to move.”

Starsky lifted his eyes to the mountains. Thunderclouds swelled behind Solomon’s Judgment, bruising the sky.

“What’s the weather doing tonight?” he asked.

“Radio said Rain,” Bill said without looking up.

Huggy didn’t answer. He walked to the edge of the clearing and stared up-valley. A long moment passed. “Snow,” he said finally. “Wind’s from the east.”

Starsky felt a chill. “Snow?”

Might be even better.

“You bring the phone gear I asked for?”

“In my pack.” Huggy dropped to a knee and pulled open one of his saddlebags. He handed Starsky a bundle of instruments wrapped in oilskin.

“What are you two planning?” Kathy asked, crossing her arms.

He hesitated for half a second, then said, “Like we said last night. We’re gonna get Keogh and his trucks up tonight. How long do you think that will take?”

Hutch stepped forward. “Six, seven hours from Crosshatch,” he added. “If the snow’s heavy, they could bog down. He’s hauling some serious weight.”

“We’ll risk it,” Starsky said.

They saddled up and rode out, skirting the highway past the turn for Come Lucky until they found a stretch hemmed in by trees. The telephone lines ran close here, nearly brushing the fir branches.

Starsky handed the reins off to Hutch and Huggy, then scaled the nearest tree, climbing until the wires were within reach. He clipped on, headset snug. Static filled his ears. Then Trevedian’s voice came on the line, and he was talking to someone at Keithley Creek.

Starsky waited. When the line cleared, he rang the exchange and was put through to the Crosshatch Hotel, where he asked for Keogh.

It only rang once before Keogh’s gruff voice came across the line. Hutch and he had been afraid Keogh might not be ready to move, but when Starsky asked him how soon he could get started…

“Whenever you say,” Keogh answered. “Gear’s stowed, tanks are full. Just need to fire up.”

Starsky exhaled. “Can you make the entrance to the creek by eleven-thirty tonight?”

“Could get there sooner if you like.”

“Don’t. I need you dead on eleven-thirty. Timing matters. What’s your watch say?”

“Two twenty-eight.”

Starsky adjusted his own watch. “Good. Now listen carefully. Keep moving, avoid any dam trucks, and as you get close, only the lead truck keeps its lights on. Stay bunched. We’ll meet you where the timber starts. If we’re not there, pull back to Hydraulic and wait. Something’ll have gone wrong.”

“Copy that,” Keogh said. “But, how are you planning to pull this off?”

“Don’t have time,” Starsky said, and cut the line before he could talk himself out of it. He unhooked the clips, twisted the wires back into place to make them look untouched, and climbed down. His legs ached by the time his boots hit dirt.

Hutch rode up, steady and unreadable. Huggy came up behind.

“Where’d you learn to tap wires?” Huggy asked, eyeing the gear.

“The war,” Starsky said with a shrug.

Hutch gave him a sidelong look. “Was that before or after you walked half of Africa on your own?”

Starsky grinned. “You’re mixing stories, Hutch. That was Italy. Completely different continent.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Of course it was.”

Kathy laughed. “Are his stories as true as yours, Hutch?”

Hutch glanced at her. “You were there for most of mine. You tell me.”

“True,” she said, chuckling.

Starsky added, quieter, mostly to Hutch. “Still… funny the things you think you’ll never need again.”

“Yeah.” Hutch agreed, then checked his watch. “Alright. We should get moving.”

Starsky nodded. “Kathy, take Moses, Bill, and Don, head back to the Kingdom. Dan and Bill, get close to the ramp on the Kingdom side. Help with unloading and directing the trucks. If everything goes smoothly, the first truck should come off around half past one.”

She gave him a long look. “You’re not telling me everything about what you two are going to do.”

“No,” Hutch said, gently but firmly.

They said their goodbyes and rode away.

Starsky, Hutch, and Huggy returned to the creek camp from the night before. They barely spoke. They ate a little. Rested.

Every so often, one of them glanced at a watch. The hands crept toward zero hour, moving slowly and steadily. The air was heavy with the coming storm, and something else. Not dread. Not fear.

Just… the weight of what was coming.

At twenty to eleven, they began to ready themselves, gathered quietly around the blackened hearth where a few faint wisps of smoke still curled from the earlier fire. The night pressed in around them, thick, silent, starless. Clouds had rolled in and stayed. A cold wind crept down the valley, threading through their jackets and raising gooseflesh on Starsky’s arms.

Starsky nudged a piece of char with his boot and looked toward Huggy. “What about your snow?”

“It’ll come,” Huggy said without looking up.

“When?” Hutch asked.

Something brushed against Starsky’s cheek, cool and light. He tilted his head, watching a second flake spiral down through the beam of his torch. “It’s here now,” he muttered. The wind carried more flurries into the clearing, whispering along the pine needles.

“Gonna be cold up by the dam,” Huggy added. “If we get there.”

He saw Hutch glance at his watch, and without thinking, he mirrored the movement. Ten forty-five. Starsky met Hutch’s eye and gave a small nod. Time.

Hutch turned to Huggy, voice low and deliberate. “Get on your horse. Ride up to the bend before the gate. Leave your horse in the timber, move in quietly so you can watch the guard hut. Now listen close, at eleven-fifteen the guard’s gonna get a call. That call should send him up the road toward the hoist, on foot. If he’s not gone by eleven twenty-five, get your horse and ride back down to warn us.”

“And if he does leave?” Huggy asked.

“Wait till he’s out of earshot,” Starsky said, “then open the gate and block it open. Get your horse and tail him. Quiet. Use the trail about a mile up, the one that cuts over a bluff. If he takes it, we need to know. If he keeps to the road, we need to know that too.”

Hutch added, “Wait there for us. Let us know what he did and when. Once we’ve passed, ride back down, collect the extra horses, and get partway up the pony trail to the Kingdom. We’ll meet you there tomorrow.”

“If we’re not there by the time you make camp,” Starsky said, “take the horses back. Don’t wait.”

Huggy repeated back the instructions, careful and focused. Starsky handed over the rifle they’d kept packed, and Hutch double-checked the time against Huggy’s watch. Huggy slung the rifle and gave them both a nod.

“Good luck,” he said, swinging into the saddle. “And see you don’t make me come down again. I’m real curious now to see a rig operating up there.” He grinned and rode out, the crunch of hoofbeats softening into the dark.

“Ready?” Hutch asked.

Starsky looked at his watch. Five to eleven. He muttered under his breath and turned away, restless. It was happening. It was really happening.

Hutch caught his arm. “It’ll be alright.”

Starsky turned back, caught a faint glint in Hutch’s eyes. The way they reflected the night made him wonder if the man could actually see in the dark. All that blond hair under his hat would’ve made him glow like a beacon if it weren’t covered. Hutch’s voice was steady, but Starsky could hear the tightness in it. Maybe he was trying to convince both of them. Maybe that was fine.

He nodded, and they moved to check their horses, tugging the lead ropes one last time to make sure they were secure. Then he reached into the pack and pulled out his revolver. Next to him, he watched Hutch do the same. He didn’t expect to need it, none of them did, but his hands needed something to do. The grip felt strange in his palm, heavy and distant, like a relic. He hadn’t picked up his gun since the war, and it had been weeks since he’d touched anything but a rifle, and that mostly for hunting.

He rechecked his watch. Eleven sharp.

“Come on,” he said. “Time we were moving.”

As they made their way up toward the road, a sweep of headlights cut through the dark off to their right. Starsky and Hutch halted, watching the beams creep closer, now sharp against the trees, which were coated in a fine crust of snow. Starsky pressed his watch to his ear, heart thumping, afraid for a second that it had stopped—that this was Keogh’s convoy arriving too soon. But then a single truck rumbled past, giving them a fleeting glimpse of the road climbing through the timber, the surface already whitening under the flurry blowing through the trees.

Moments later, Starsky was halfway up a fir tree pressed close to the telephone line. The testing box hung from his neck. He clipped onto the wires, his eyes flicking to the time. At exactly eleven-fifteen, he reached into the pack and pulled out the pliers, snipping both wires close to his clips. He wound the handle of the receiver in one long ring. No answer. He tried again. Then a crackled voice in his ears: “Valley guard.”

Starsky held the mouthpiece away and barked low, deepening his voice. “Trevedian here. I’ve had a report…”

A second voice broke in. “Butler, Slide Camp. What’s the trouble?”

“Get off the line, Butler! I’m talking to Valley guard. Valley guard?”

“Yes, Mr. Trevedian.”

“There’s been a report of rockfalls a couple miles up. Go investigate. Just past the first overhang after the hairpin.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker to send a truck down from camp?”

“I’m not sending a truck down in this weather on a vague report,” Starsky snapped. “You’re nearest. Take the shortcut.”

“But Mr. Trevedian, there’s a truck already gone up. He’ll report if he sees…”

“Stop making excuses. Get moving. That’s an order. Take the shortcut, it’ll save you fifteen minutes.”

He slammed the receiver down, gripping the tree hard as adrenaline buzzed through him. His legs shook under him, and he had to hold still until the trembling passed. He lifted the receiver again, hesitated, then listened. Nothing. Dead line. Neither the guard nor the camp operator dared call back.

At last, he checked his watch. Eleven twenty-three. The guard should be out of range by now.

“You get rid of him?” Hutch called from below.

Starsky climbed down, branches brushing snow from his shoulders. “I think so. If Huggy’s not here in five minutes, we’ll know.”

Chapter 47

They waited in silence. Hutch could barely see Starsky beside him in the dark. The wind murmured through the firs above, stirring their snow-draped limbs. Snow fell steadily and softly, making almost no sound but for the hush it laid on the world. Behind them, he could hear the faint rush of water, Thunder Creek cutting its way through the valley.

Hutch rechecked his watch. The minute hand edged closer to the half-hour mark. Nerves tightened in his stomach.

A truck might’ve broken down. The snow might’ve drifted in deeper near Keithley Creek. Or maybe the whole convoy had gotten bogged down.

Suddenly, Starsky’s hand gripped Hutch’s arm. Above the now-familiar sounds of water, wind, and snow, he thought he heard a steady, distant murmur, like the rattle of tanks in a parallel valley. The sound steadily grew, and then a beam of light glowed yellow through the curtain of snow. The light increased steadily until they could see each other’s faces and the shape of the trees around them. Two eyes suddenly thrust the black dots of the snow aside, and an instant later, the hulking shape of a diesel truck showed in the murk and panted to a stop. Hutch glanced at his watch.

Eleven-thirty, on the nose.

“That you, Keogh?” Starsky called.

“Sure, it’s me,” came the answer. Keogh leaned out of the cab. “Who’d you think it was?”

Hutch motioned for Starsky to climb up in the truck’s cab next to Keogh, as he swung himself onto the driver’s side step.

“All your trucks behind you?” Hutch asked.

“Yeah. I checked five miles back. What now? What’s the plan?”

“Get going as fast as we can,” Starsky said.

The driver moved to shift gears, but Keogh reached out to stop him.

“Before we go any farther, I need to know what I’m walking into,” he said firmly. “Six trucks, six men. I’m responsible for all of ’em.”

Starsky bristled. “For Christ’s sake… ” The adrenaline was fizzing in his blood. He hadn’t felt like this since his days in North Africa, where survival hung by a thread. Or Sicily, where a Nazi ambush could be around any corner.

Hutch cut in before things could escalate. He steadied his breath. “Get moving,” he said, voice level but firm. “We’re on split timing through this section. You’re already thirty seconds behind schedule. If you can’t make that up, then this whole run from CrossHatch was for nothing.”

Starsky backed him up. “We can only do this once, Keogh. You miss it, it’s wasted.”

Keogh looked between them, reading the tension, then nodded. “All right,” he said. He signaled the driver.

The diesel roared. Snow leapt from the trees as the truck rumbled forward, trees sliding past on either side.

“I see you cut the telephone wires,” Keogh said over the roar of the engine.

“That’s why we can’t do it again,” Hutch replied. “We’re banking on confusion. Starsky’s been impersonating Trevedian on the line. That enough for you?”

Another pause. Then Keogh gave a slow nod. “All right. You boys’ve got something cooking. If the gate’s open like you say, I’ll keep my mouth shut and follow your lead.”

As they rounded the bend, Hutch searched the shadows for Huggy. Nothing. Then, there it was, the gate swung wide, and the guard hut was dark and empty.

So far, so good.

“Can you manage on sidelights?” he shouted to the driver.

For answer, the driver switched off the headlights. Darkness swallowed the road at once, the world collapsing into shadow. Snow beat against the windshield with rhythmic insistence, clicking like bones beneath the wipers. The dashboard glowed dimly, a cold blue wash across the cab. Hutch could feel the sudden absence of visibility like a weight against his chest.

Then the beams flared on again, stabbing into the whirling white. “Too dangerous,” the driver muttered, gripping the wheel tighter.

Hutch leaned out from the running board, blinking into the snow-choked wind. The gusts stung his cheeks and dragged at his coat as he turned to look behind them. Through the slanted wall of snowfall, he caught the shimmer of headlights from the convoy trailing them, five sets, faint but steady, their beams broken and scattered by the thick curtain of flurries.

He counted. One, two… five.

A pity about the headlamps: the glow would give them away if anyone were watching from up the mountain. But it couldn’t be helped. If they couldn’t see the road, they’d never make it.

He glanced at his watch.

Eleven thirty-six.

They were slipping behind schedule, and the margin for error on this run was almost nothing.

The guard should be on the shortcut by now, boots crunching through fresh snow in the dark, fooled by Starsky’s voice on the line. Hutch exhaled slowly, his breath curling out white. Everything depended on the timing of the whole operation. One glitch, one slip, and the whole damned plan would come down just like the ridge they were planning to bring down behind them.

The road narrowed and climbed. The trucks groaned around the tight bends, their tires barely clearing the switchbacks. At the fourth bend, they had to make a slight adjustment, but then they were through. The trees thinned. The cliffside loomed. Snow scoured the headlights.

Then a figure emerged from the dark, ghostly atop a horse, snow covering man and mount alike.

The driver eased up. “Hutch? Starsky?” Huggy’s voice called.

Hutch leaned forward. “It’s okay?”

“He’s on the trail,” Huggy shouted. “Started up at eleven thirty-three.”

Hutch raised a hand. “Good. See you at the Kingdom.”

Huggy’s “Good luck!” faded into the night as they turned into the next bend.

The first hairpin had Hutch sweating. These trucks were bigger than anything Trevedian’s men were using. If they wedged into a corner, it was over. But the driver handled it like a pro, scraping through with inches to spare.

The next turns came more easily, and they were over the top and running out to the cliff where the overhang was.

“Now listen, Keogh,” Hutch called as the road straightened. “Starsky and I are jumping off soon. You’ll come to swamp ground ahead, look for a spot where the road flattens and turns off into the brush. Park there. Trees’ll give you cover. All vehicles nose out—no lights, no talking, no smoking. I’ll bring the last truck in myself. If you can radio him, give the driver a heads up?”

Keogh nodded. “Another phone stunt?”

“That’s right.”

The cliff loomed again, black and massive against the swirling snow. The truck groaned around the final bend, the tires grinding into the icy ruts, then straightened onto the long, narrow run toward the marsh. Ahead, the road widened slightly where the causeway began, just enough room to make the turnoff. Keogh slowed the truck to a crawl and then to a stop.

Hutch let go of the step and dropped lightly to the snow-packed ground. His boots crunched softly in the silence that followed. The diesel rumbled back into motion, lights slicing forward through the snowfall, its hulking form shrinking into the dark as it moved off again.

Three.

Four.

Five.

At Hutch’s signal, the sixth truck slowed. He stepped forward and swung up onto the running board just as the engine of the big oil tanker settled into idle.

The driver gave him a wary glance, tight-jawed, uncertain, one hand resting near the dash like he wasn’t sure whether to hit the lights or the horn. The cab interior glowed faintly, the dash lights flickering on his face.

“Hello there, neighbor,” Hutch said. “I’m Hutch, he’s Starsky.”

Hutch nodded toward the passenger side, where Starsky grinned through the window from the running board.

“We just dropped off Keogh’s rig. He radioed ahead, right?”

“Yeah.” The driver reached for the ignition and killed the engine. “What now?”

Starsky opened the passenger door. “We’re rear guard. The others’ll be waiting about a mile up.”

The driver gave a short nod.

“Sit tight for ten minutes, then we’ll move,” Hutch added.

Once the driver acknowledged with a thumbs-up, Hutch dropped down from the step and circled to the back of the truck, where Starsky was already waiting. Snow gathered on his shoulders as he unshouldered his pack and crouched beside the tailgate. Carefully, he unzipped the flap and started pulling out the detonation gear, batteries, plunger, and the tightly coiled wire, setting each piece out on the ground.

The snow was thicker now, falling in a dense curtain that blurred the road behind them and muffled every step. Each footfall disappeared into the soft hush of fresh drifts. Hutch’s torch beam barely punched through the white, lighting only the storm directly in front of them. The world had narrowed to that small cone of vision, spinning flakes and shadow.

He found the cliff face by touch, cold rock slick with snow, and Starsky moved up behind him without a word. Together, they groped forward until they found the branch. It was frozen stiff, iced over, still wedged where they’d left it, marking the shot holes.

The wires were buried, but still there.

Hutch crouched. His gloves were damp with meltwater as he brushed the snow aside, fingers going numb. He began the connections by feel more than sight, clipping the leads with stiff hands. Starsky was behind him, unspooling the line, the coil whispering out across the white.

At the far end of the run, Hutch hooked the wires to the battery box. He checked each connection, then stepped back. His breath fogged between them. Around them, the dark felt thicker, the snow muffling even the wind now. The silence pressed in.

He hesitated.

Had he wired it right? Was the charge set? Would it fire? What if it didn’t?

He looked over at Starsky. The other man didn’t speak, just gave a nod.

Hutch knelt, braced himself, and drove the plunger down.

The valley erupted.

The blast tore through the mountainside with a roar that shook the sky. Rock and snow thundered down. Trees cracked, splitting like gunshots in the night. Debris hailed from the dark, striking the ground in dull, sodden thuds. A boulder the size of a man’s head slammed into the road not ten feet from them.

Then, suddenly, silence.

Nothing but the hiss of settling snow and the faint rustle of broken branches shifting under the weight of what had just come down.

Chapter 48

Starsky straightened, heart still pounding, and jogged toward the blasted overhang. “That was great,” he called, grinning at the wreckage, then jogged toward the blasted overhang. Beneath the adrenaline, a surge of satisfaction curled in his chest.

It had worked.

Hutch came up beside him, flashlight beam swinging. “I just hope it doesn’t draw too much attention,” he said flatly.

Starsky grinned sideways at him. “That’s what it’s supposed to do, right?”

“Yeah.”

The light swept over the destruction, stone and splintered timber piled across the road, snow churned to filthy heaps. The cliff face was simply… gone, spilled outward into the void beyond.

Perfect.

Hutch bent, tugging the wires loose and winding them over his arm. Starsky fell in beside him, the sharp cold biting at his lungs as they made their way back to the truck.

The driver was already standing in the road, staring toward the fall. “For Chrissakes. What was that?”

Starsky flashed him a wide, careless grin. “Just blocking the road behind us.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Can you pull your truck over so he can reach those telephone wires?”

The wires sagged loosely in the snow, making them awkward to reach, but Starsky climbed up with the telephone gear, clipped on, and began ringing.

“Butler, Slide Camp, here,” the voice crackled. “What’s going on? I’ve been trying to…”

Starsky held the mouthpiece away from his face and bellowed, “Listen, Butler! There’s been an accident. That cliff face…it’s fallen…”

“I can’t hear you. Speak up. The line’s bad.”

“Probably because it’s down,” Starsky shouted back.

“I’ve been trying to ring you. That truck just got in. The driver says there’s no sign of any falls.”

“To hell with the truck. Listen, damn you…can you hear me?”

“Yes. Is that Mr. Trevedian?”

“Yes. Now pay attention. The cliff’s fallen and buried one of our trucks. You got that?”

“Yes.”

“How many men in camp?”

“Including everybody?”

“Including every goddamn soul.”

“About fifty-three, I guess.”

“How many trucks?”

“Four… no, five…counting the one that just arrived.”

“Good. Now, rustle up every man in the camp. All the digging gear you’ve got. Load them into the trucks and get down here fast. We need that road cleared by morning. There’s a driver buried under there somewhere. No cooks or clerks hiding in the kitchen, I want everyone. The men guarding the hoist, every man. And don’t think I won’t know if any are left behind. I’ll have a roll call. This is an emergency.”

“Where are you speaking from?” Butler’s voice carried a note of doubt. “I’ve been trying to ring…”

“For Christ’s sake, just get moving. I want the whole lot of you down here in half an hour. I’ll be working up with my men from the other, ”

Starsky yanked the clips free, heat prickling at the back of his neck despite the cold. His shoulders ached from tension. Would Butler actually bring everyone, or half-ass it with a single truck? Everything hinged on whether the man feared Trevedian enough. Starsky was betting big on that reputation for ruthlessness.

He stepped down from the truck, boots sinking into soft snow. The adrenaline was starting to ebb, leaving his legs heavy. Hutch caught him around the waist when he stumbled.

“Okay,” Starsky murmured. “Let’s go join the others.”

Starsky climbed into the truck first, sliding over to the middle so Hutch could take the spot by the window, before stashing their equipment at their feet. The driver was staring at them, his face pale and stiff in the glow from the dash. He flicked on the headlights, and the outside world became nothing but a wall of drifting white. Starsky wondered if anyone would be fool enough to try coming down through this.

The heavy diesel coughed, then roared. The tanker eased around the hill’s curve, down the straight stretch toward the swamp ground. Across the hardcore, Keogh emerged from the snow like a ghost, arms moving in tight signals. The driver followed his hand, backing the tanker alongside the others.

The sudden blackness when the lights went out made his voice sound sharper. He was at Hutch’s door in an instant, gripping his arm, his face drawn tight in the faint light. “What was that noise?” Keogh asked as soon as the engine cut.

“Got a cigarette?” Hutch asked, calm as anything.

Keogh lit one for him, then waited.

“There’s been a bit of a fall,” Starsky said, his voice flat now that the adrenaline was bleeding away.

Keogh’s eyes dropped to the gear on the cab floor. “You mean you’ve blown the road?”

“That’s about it,” Hutch said, getting out. Starsky followed, leaning on the bumper beside him. The warmth from Hutch’s body pressing against his seeped through Staraky’s coat.

“But Christ,” Keogh muttered, “that’s a criminal offense. State police…”

“We’ll cross that bridge when, and if it happens,” Hutch interrupted.

“Besides, it won’t be easy to prove.” Starsky cut in.

“I should’ve made you tell me your plan—”

“There wasn’t time.” his temper flared before Starsky could stop it. “What’d you think we were gonna do? Ask Trevedian real polite to let us through? Hutch told him it was a public highway. He laughed in our faces.”

They locked eyes, Keogh glaring, Starsky holding his ground.

“It had to be done,” Hutch said evenly. No hesitation. Starsky loved him for that. Once Hutch decided something was necessary, it was just a fact.

“I’ve phoned the camp,” Starsky went on. “We wait until they’re all down at the fall.”

“And then we blow up the camp, I suppose?” Keogh’s sarcasm was brittle.

“No. Just a bridge,” Hutch said. Then, looking from Keogh, and pointedly to Starsky, “Better get some rest. Long night ahead.”

Keogh hesitated, then nodded. “Guess you’re right.”

Half an hour later, the first truck passed, ghost shapes of men in the back hunched against the storm. Another followed, then another, vanishing into the murk as quickly as they appeared. A branch cracked under snowload and crashed across one of the beds. Two more trucks were due. Minutes stretched.

Starsky climbed down and went to Keogh’s rig. “We’ll risk it. Hutch and I will keep riding in the last truck. Stop about a mile past the bridge. As soon as we’ve blown the bridge, Hutch will go with you, Keogh in the first truck. And I will take the last. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The line of trucks moved out, taillights glowing red in the swirl. The hill ahead was short and steep, but the lead truck slewed, wheels spinning. For a moment, Starsky thought they were stuck, but the tires bit down and dragged forward. The bridge came next, snow-packed logs muffling the sound of the wheels.

A hundred yards past, Hutch signaled the driver to stop. The two men got out and went back to the bridge. Starsky stood watch while Hutch fixed the charge. The blast this time was sharp and quick, swallowed fast by the storm. When Starsky checked, the bridge was a heap of timber. No drop worth killing over, just enough to stop anything trying to follow.

They climbed back in and rolled on until the faint red glow of the convoy’s tail light appeared. The lead truck idled, engines breathing in the dark. Hutch ran forward, leaving Starsky in the last truck, watching the storm close in behind them.

Chapter 49

Hutch ran up to the leading truck, leaving Starsky to bring up the rear. Keogh glanced at him from the corner of his eye as Hutch settled into the cab, but kept his mouth shut. Fine by Hutch, there was too much running through his own head to make small talk. The driver shifted the gears, and the engine’s grind filled the silence as they climbed the long drag toward the camp.

It was twelve-forty when the lights of a hut blinked through the falling snow. More lights appeared as they crept across the camp road.

“Do you reckon they’ve all gone down in those trucks?” Keogh asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the monotony.

“I don’t know,” Hutch said. “I hope so.”

Almost clear of the camp, a man darted into the road, waving frantically.

“Shit,” Hutch swore under his breath.

“What do we do now?” Keogh muttered. “Ignore him?”

Hutch’s gut tightened. “You’ll have to pull up.” His feet and hands were cold, the kind of cold that came from inside. Something was wrong. Two men joined the first. Then three. The road filled with them.

“Switch the dashboard light off,” Hutch said. As Keogh complied, Hutch leaned into the dark and flicked his torch on, hitting them full in the eyes. “What the hell are you boys doing up here? Didn’t you get Trevedian’s orders? Every man is wanted down the trail. There’s been a bad fall. One of our trucks is buried.”

A tall, gangling man with a battered nose stepped forward. “We only got here yesterday. We heard some sort of commotion going on, and then the trucks pulled out. They must have forgotten about us, I guess. We didn’t know what in hell was going on. We’d just about decided to take one of the trucks and go down to find out. We thought maybe they were scared of another slide.”

“Well, you’d better get down there as fast as you can. It’s an emergency call. Trevedian wants everybody down there.”

“Then why didn’t you boys stay there?”

“We had to clear the road,” Hutch said without pause. “Besides, he wasn’t risking this stuff. It has got to be up at the top and ready to start operating tomorrow. Anybody on the hoist?”

“I don’t know,” the man said. “We’re new here.”

“Well, if you’re new here, you’d better look lively and get down the road. Trevedian’s a bad man to fall out with.”

The man’s shoulders twitched before he covered it with a smirk. “Tough, eh? Well, nobody ain’t going to get tough with me.”

The rest began drifting back toward their hut. Hutch waved the driver forward. They rolled into the trees and down the slope toward the slide.

A pale glow ahead sharpened into an arc light high in a pine, joined by others until the snowlit clearing blazed. The cable housing stood in the middle, concrete walls sharp against the white. A rifle-toting figure stepped out.

“Hell, Butler hadn’t collected the guard,” Hutch muttered as he dropped from the cab. Slamming the door shut, he heard boots crunch behind him, Starsky jogging up from the last truck. Snow flecked Starsky’s cap and shoulders, and there was that quick flash of his grin before he looked past Hutch to the armed man.

Hutch explained that he needed the hoist, but the guard cut him off, asking for a pass.

“Don’t be a Goddam fool, man,” Hutch said sharply. “Trevedian’s down at the fall, trying to clear it. How in hell would he issue passes? Can you work the motor?”

The man shook his head.

“Well, probably one of my men can handle it,” Starsky offered, voice calm but eyes flicking toward Hutch in that subtle check-in they both used.

“Nobody’s allowed to touch the engine except the hoist men.” The guard said

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Hutch snapped. “This isn’t routine. This is an emergency. Don’t you know what’s happened?”

The guard shook his head again.

Hutch leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to make the lie sound heavier. “Better keep this under your hat. Nobody’s supposed to know. There’s a bad crack in the dam’s foundations. They think the cliff face may be moving. We’ve got to drill and find out what the strata underneath is, and we’ve got to do it damned quick.”

Starsky stepped in as well, his voice lowered. “Christ, man, what do you think we’re doing up here when one of our own trucks is buried under a fall? We wanted to stay and help dig him out. But Trevedian wouldn’t let us. He said it was more important to get our trucks up on schedule.”

The man wavered, looking between them, doubt showing in the slack of his mouth. “You wait here,” he said at last, retreating into the housing.

Keogh came over, his breath frosting in the light. Through the open doorway, Hutch could see the guard working the telephone crank again and again.

“What’s going to happen?” Keogh asked.

“It’ll work out,” Starsky said. Hutch could hear the steadying tone, meant for Keogh, maybe for him too.

“Well, no rough stuff,” Keogh warned. “We’ve done about what, ten thousand worth of damage already tonight?”

“They’d have a job to prove we did it,” Hutch said.

“Maybe. But if you try pulling a gun on this guy…”

“We’re not that much of a fool.”

The guard reappeared. “I can’t get any reply.” His voice was small now.

“What did you expect?” Hutch growled. “There’s a million tons of rock down on the road, and the line’s under it. In any case, Trevedian’s at the fall, not in his office.”

Figures emerged into the glare, the battered-nose man leading.

“What’s the trouble?” Starsky asked, turning to the newest arrivals.

“No keys in the trucks. What do we do now?”

They were muffled in fur jackets and windbreakers, picks and shovels in hand.

Hutch hesitated. The snow thickened, and as much as they wanted to get rid of them, Hutch didn’t dare risk one of the trucks.

“Are you just labourers, or have any of you been taken on as engineers on the draw works of the hoist here?” Starsky asked suddenly. Hutch caught the flicker of calculation in his partner’s eyes, reading his thoughts and taking the shot.

It landed.

One man stepped forward. “I can. I’m to replace an engineer who is sick. I was shown how it works yesterday.”

“Get in there and get the engine started,” Hutch said.

The little Italian hurried into the housing. Hutch turned on the guard. “There. Does that satisfy you? Goddam it, you’d think that piece of machinery was some new atomic weapon.”

“But my orders…”

“Damn your orders!” Hutch grabbed his coat, shaking him hard enough to rattle the rifle on his shoulder. “It’s just a diesel engine. And this stuff has got to be up there first thing. Because of your blasted Trevedian and this bloody dam, we’re up here instead of helping dig out one of our pals. I wish to God we’d never been given the job. But it’s a thousand bucks a day this outfit costs, and there’ll be hell to pay if we’re not up there on schedule, snow or no snow.”

Hutch shoved the guard back and swung toward the rest of the men. The snowflakes blew sideways under the floodlight, silver against the dark. “You, stay here and help load the trucks.” His voice cut clean through the wind.

“Garry!” He called to Keogh, the name sharp enough to turn heads. First names only; if anyone repeated them later, it wouldn’t mean anything. And when they figured it out, they’d already be back in The Kingdom.

Keogh didn’t answer right away. He stood there, studying Hutch, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. Then he gave a slow nod.

“Get your first truck onto the staging,” Hutch ordered. “These men will help you load and lash everything down. I’ll ride up with the first load and handle the offloading. David—” his eyes flicked to Starsky, “you stick with Garry and come up with the last truck. Don’t waste time.”

Starsky grinned, the kind of grin that said more than words. Hutch returned, brief and sharp, and then faced the silent group of men. “Any of you cook?”

A rotund man stepped forward. “I can.”

“All right. You get up to the cookhouse. I want hot chow for all of us in two hours’ time. Okay?”

“Sure, mister. I can do it.”

“See that it’s hot,” Hutch said. “That’s all I care about.”

The pilot motor was already running. The little Italian glanced out and grinned at him. Hutch gave a thumbs up and jogged to the first truck, the snow crunching like static in his ears.

Chapter 50

The guard’s rifle caught the light as Hutch got in his face, and Starsky felt the old twist in his gut. One bad call here and this whole thing, Joshua’s dream, his grandfather’s land, every miserable mile of road they’d fought to get here, would go right into Trevedian’s lap.

Hutch was all sharp edges, voice like the wind cutting sideways through the floodlight. “It’s just a diesel engine. And this stuff has got to be up there first thing. Because of your blasted Trevedian and this bloody dam, we’re up here instead of helping dig out one of our pals.”

Starsky didn’t move. If he stepped in, he’d tip his hand. And Hutch had that look, the one that meant he wasn’t asking for backup, he was warning the other guy he was already losing. Still, Starsky kept his weight forward, ready to close the distance if the rifle came up.

When Hutch shoved the man back, Starsky let out the breath he’d been holding. The snow was falling harder now, silver in the beam from the floodlight. Hutch’s orders snapped clean in the cold: “You, stay here and help load the trucks… Garry!”

Keogh’s eyes lingered on Hutch, that hint of amusement there like he knew more than he’d ever say. He nodded slow. “Get your first truck onto the staging.”

Then Hutch turned to Starsky. “David, you stick with Garry and come up with the last truck. Don’t waste time.” His gaze caught Starsky’s and held. There was more in it than orders. He was saying I need you whole when you get up there. Don’t burn yourself out now.

Starsky grinned back, because that was easier than admitting he was already running on fumes. The truth was, every step of this job felt like he was gambling with more than his own skin. If they failed here, it wouldn’t just be money or pride, it’d be the last nail in the coffin of the Kingdom. Joshua’s fight would end under Trevedian’s cement.

The snow kept piling against the housing walls, drifting higher with every gust. Inside, the diesel throbbed through the floor, steady but impatient, like it was daring them to stall. Starsky stayed close to the heat of the engine, not for the warmth, though he told himself that’s why, but because the roar gave him a kind of shelter. Nobody could lean in and start asking questions over it.

Keogh’s men moved in and out, their shoulders powdered white, boots crunching on the frozen boards. Starsky caught the guard’s eyes once, narrowed, pale, still not convinced, but he kept his rifle slung instead of leveled. That counted for something. Hutch was already up there, threading himself into the plan, and the longer Starsky waited down here the more it felt like he’d been left with nothing but the clock to fight.

Every time the hoist started turning, he glanced at his watch, counting how long before it slowed again. Each departure was a little victory. Each arrival was one step closer to the endgame. But the space between those moments was where the doubt lived. Suppose Butler caught wind of them. Suppose he sent a truckload of his own men down for “supplies” before the last loads made it up. The bridge would stop them if it were still down. Starsky kept seeing them working fast in the dark, patching it just enough to roll over and come looking.

The snow thickened outside the housing windows, smearing the floodlights into a dull glow. One of Keogh’s drivers passed him on his way to the staging, his face tight under the fur of his hood. Starsky told him to switch on his cab lights, make it “just like a road,” but the man’s hands still shook on the ladder. Couldn’t blame him. Heights never bothered Starsky in a city, but a cable in a blizzard over nothing? That was a whole different category.

By four o’clock, the sixth truck was loading. Starsky’s chest had that wired-tight feeling, part cold, part the kind of waiting you do when you know you’ll either be clear in an hour or in a fight. Keogh caught him watching the road into darkness and didn’t have to ask why. They both knew the risk window was narrowing, but not fast enough for Starsky’s liking.

When the last truck finally rolled onto the staging, the relief almost made him dizzy. Keogh and Starsky climbed up beside the driver. The shout came, the cable jerked, and they were moving.

The cage lurched under his boots as the cable pulled tautly. His hands locked on the seat, fingers stiff inside his gloves. The diesel roared, and the truck shuddered forward until the road ended in midair and they were swinging over the void.

Snow whipped past, streaking white against the black drop beneath. He told himself not to look down, so naturally his eyes slid to the edge, just a blur of darkness with nothing in it but his imagination. Every creak of the cable sounded too loud, too final.

He kept thinking about Butler’s men. Starsky pictured a truck’s headlights cutting through the storm, catching them halfway up, trapped in this cage with no cover, nothing between them and a bullet except the thin metal walls.

Keogh muttered something about looking foolish if they caught them here. Starsky’s barked “shut up” came out harsher than he meant, but the last thing he needed was his own fear echoed back to him. His stomach felt like it was crawling upward, the way it used to before the start of an action, not the thrill kind of anticipation, but the kind where the stakes are high enough to hurt.

He thought of Hutch at the top, already in the thick of it. If things went sideways, Hutch would be the one to stall, to bluff, to take the hit while Starsky was still swinging in the dark. And if it all fell apart now, the Kingdom would stay nothing but a dream, a patch of land Trevedian could bleed dry while Joshua’s name rotted in the snow.

The pylon loomed up suddenly, ghostlike in the blizzard. They slid past it, the wind rattling the cage hard enough to make the frame shiver. Over the lip, the motion slowed. Starsky’s breath came shallow. The bump of the cage docking felt like hitting solid ground after being adrift too long.

Figures swarmed in, blurred shapes through the snow. Ropes loosened, voices shouted. They crawled the truck off the staging area, its tires spinning once before catching. The snow up here was deeper, heavier, it felt like pushing through wet cement. Starsky’s boots hit the ground, and the cold knifed straight through his socks. The dam loomed somewhere out in the white, but he couldn’t see it. All he could see was the breath steaming off men’s faces, the blur of movement as lashings were thrown loose.

“Well, that’s the lot, I guess,” he heard Hutch say from somewhere next to him. “You’re in the Kingdom now, Keogh, rig and all.”

Starsky didn’t hear what Keogh answered. The pounding in his ears drowned everything but the realization that they’d made it. They were in. And for the first time all night, he let himself believe they might just pull this off.

That’s when the adrenaline gave out. It didn’t taper; it dropped, clean and sudden, like the last line in a cut rope. His knees sagged. He tried to straighten up, but his body had already filed the paperwork to quit.

Hutch’s arm locked around him. Starsky caught a glimpse of his face, snow melting in his hair, eyes sharp and still cataloguing everything even as he kept him upright. Hutch didn’t say it out loud, but the message was clear: You made it. You’re done. Let me take it from here.

He blinked, and the next thing he knew, the world was swaying. For a heartbeat, he thought he was back in the war, and his unit had been ambushed. But then the sway was steady, rhythmic, filtered through the fog in his brain. The smell of hot oil filled his head. He forced his eyes open and saw the dull glow of an oil gauge, realized he was propped against Hutch’s shoulder, snow blurring the windshield ahead.

“You’re okay, Starsk.” Hutch’s voice was level, but there was that undercurrent again, concern wrapped so tight it came out flat.

Starsky tried to answer, but it came out as noise. His brain kept playing catch-up, flicking between the fact that the rig was here, safe in the Kingdom, and the echo of all the ways they could have lost it on that cable. The Kingdom had been one cable snap, one suspicious guard, one bad gust away from slipping right back into Trevedian’s pocket.

They stopped once to put chains on the tires. He remembered the metal clink, Hutch leaning down into the snow, his breath rising in the dark. Then the cabin door closed, and the heater’s blast made his eyelids heavy.

After that, it was soup, hot enough to burn, someone steadying his wrist so he didn’t spill, and the sound of men’s voices, pitched high with victory. The words blurred. He clung to the one that mattered: they’d done it. The drill was here.

When he woke again, it was daylight, the bed warm under him, and Hutch’s grin was the first thing he saw. Hutch was saying the rig would be up before nightfall. Starsky believed him. By morning of the next day, the steel tower was in place, the draw works tightening down, the kelly in its housing.

The dam loomed less than a mile away. Starsky stood with Hutch, Keogh, and Boy, all of them watching.

“We’ll have to mount a guard,” Starsky said.

Huggy wiped sweat from his brow. “I’m sleeping down here. Got a rifle. Four more on site. Plus, the pistols you and Hutch carry.”

Starsky nodded, eyes still fixed on the dam. “The next move’s theirs.”

Keogh chuckled. “Maybe he’s had enough. You sure fooled ’em.”

Starsky caught Hutch’s look, same as his own. They didn’t believe it. Neither Trevedian, Gunther, nor Nicky was the type to lie down quietly. But they didn’t come that day, or the next, or the next.

On the morning of Tuesday, June 9th, just a week after the rig had rolled into Thunder Valley, Keogh spudded in. Starsky stood on the platform beside Hutch, watching as the block came down and the bit was lowered into the hole. The bushing was dropped into the table, gripping the grief stem, and then, at a signal from Keogh, the platform trembled under his feet. The big diesel of the draw works roared, and the table began to turn.

They had begun drilling Joshua Number Two.

The oil rig standing and working should have been a moment to breathe. He should feel the relief he’d been chasing ever since they’d hauled the first load up through the blizzard. But the sound of the drill didn’t feel like victory; it felt like a clock starting to tick. He knew Gunther wouldn’t just shrug this off. Men like that didn’t. They watched, they waited, and they struck when you were sure they’d forgotten you.

Starsky left Hutch at the drill and walked slowly back to the ranch house, the music of the draw works filling the air, the steady churn drowning out the irritating chatter of the mixers at the dam. His boots crunched in the wet snow, but his mind kept circling the same thought: this was too easy. Too quiet.

Strangely, he felt no elation. It was as though he had sailed out of a calm and felt the threatening presence of the approaching storm. Every instinct told him they weren’t in the clear, that Hutch knew it too, and that the worst thing they could do now was start acting like the fight was over.

Chapter 51

A few days later, Starsky was sitting at the long dining room table, reading his grandfather’s journals, when he heard the patter of feet. The door was open to let in the fresh air after the day shift had gone out to work the rig and the night shift had trudged toward the barn to sleep. The room smelled faintly of coffee and wood smoke, with the hush that came after men left for their posts.

The patter came again, closer, quicker as a drumroll on the wooden floorboards. A heartbeat later, a big brown collie barreled in, barking and wagging, scattering droplets as he bounded straight for Starsky.

“Moses!” Starsky laughed, pushing him back, the dog was spattered with mud and as wet as if he’d just swum the Jordan.

Starsky stood and stepped to the door. Through the grey murk of the morning, Hutch was riding Goliath up from the trail, rain plastering his hair flat to his head and running in rivulets down his face. He’d gone down below to collect the mail and deliver some rock samples to Dobey, and from the look of him, the mountain hadn’t given up either task easily. He pulled up when he saw Starsky and sat there, grinning like he’d just won something.

Goliath drooped his head, looking about as miserable as a horse could in the weather.

“You’re gonna get sick, staying out in the rain,” Starsky called.

Hutch swung down, still grinning. “Nah. Builds character.”

“Yeah? Builds pneumonia, more like.”

“Don’t tell me a little water scares you.”

“It’s not a little water. It’s a full-body soaking. And it’s cold. And it’s miserable. And it, ” Starsky broke off, scowling at a rivulet running down his collar. “See? Even talking about it’s contagious.”

Hutch laughed, brushing rain off his sleeve as he dismounted Goliath. “City boy like you ought to be grateful. Out here, we call this hydration.”

“Out here, you’re all nuts,” Starsky muttered, tugging his coat tighter. “Normal people stay indoors when the sky decides to dump a river on their heads.”

Hutch chuckled, giving Goliath a pat before fishing in his pack and handing Starsky a damp envelope. “Come on, Starsk. You survive this weather, you might even start liking it.”

Starsky shook his head, watching him head toward the barn. “Not in a million years.”

He turned the envelope over, frowning at the smudged postmark. “What’s this?”

“Something your grandfather gave me,” Hutch called back over his shoulder. “It’s from Joshua’s trial.”

Starsky stood in the doorway, the collie Moses circling his legs, tail sweeping wet arcs across the floor. He looked down at the envelope again. The postmark read New York. Inside was a thick sheaf of typewritten pages, yellowed with age but still crisp to the touch. Closing the door, Starsky took them back to the dining table and began to read, the sound of Hutch settling Goliath in the barn fading into the rain.

The pages were a newspaper report of his grandfather’s trial. Joshua Dabrins had taken the stand himself. His testimony told the story that Starsky mostly knew: the discovery of the seep, the abortive drilling in 1917, his unshaken conviction that there was oil in the Kingdom. But one section hit harder than the rest, as if it had been waiting for him in black ink all these years.

It came during cross-examination by Joshua’s counsel:

Counsel: “This well you were drilling in 1917, why did you suddenly abandon it?”

Witness: “We couldn’t go on.”

Counsel: “Why not?”

Witness: “We struck a sill of igneous rock. We were operating a cable-tool drill and it was too light for the job.”

Counsel: “At what depth was this?”

Witness: “About five thousand six hundred feet. We had to have a heavier drill and that meant more capital.”

Counsel: “And so you came to England?”

Witness: “Not at once. I tried to raise money in Canada. Then the war came . . .”

Starsky leaned back in his chair, eyes closing for a moment as the number slammed into him. Five thousand six hundred. Their own geophysical survey had shown an anticline at 5,500. His stomach tightened. The anticline wasn’t a promising pocket of oil; it was the same damn sill of igneous rock his grandfather had hit more than thirty years ago.

God, what a fool he’d been not to get hold of this case account before starting to drill. Why hadn’t Joshua mentioned it in his progress report? Probably afraid of discouraging him. The old man had carried the weight of belief alone, and now Starsky was shouldering it blind.

He pushed back from the table and crossed to the window, staring out over the green sweep of alfalfa toward the rig. The drill stood against the gray sky, working steadily, unaware it might be biting into a dead end. His mind kept circling the same question: what the hell was he going to do now? But the truth was, there wasn’t anything to do. It hadn’t stopped Joshua from trying again.

———-

Hutch came out of the bedroom, pulling on a clean shirt, the fabric sticking faintly to his still-damp skin. He worked the buttons as his gaze settled on Starsky. The other man’s shoulders were squared like he was bracing against more than the view outside. Hutch slowed, studying him. There was a stiffness to Starsky’s stance, the kind that spoke of bad news, and Hutch could almost see the weight of it pressing down between his shoulder blades.

He knew what put that tension in his friend’s shoulders. He had read the transcripts days ago before he left the ranch to head back to The Kingdom. He didn’t need Starsky to tell him what was in them; he could see it written across his partner’s face now, the way his jaw worked as if chewing something that wouldn’t go down.

Hutch shifted his weight, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “You read what it said, the papers?”

Starsky turned his head, the corner of his mouth tightening. “Court transcripts from the trial, yeah.”

There was a pause, the kind that had more in it than the words so far. Hutch watched him closely, catching the way Starsky’s fingers still rested on the back of the chair like he needed the grounding.

“It’s the same sill,” Starsky said finally. “Same depth, same rock. Thirty years, and we’re just… hitting it again.”

Hutch nodded once, not out of agreement so much as to say I know . He’d known since the first page, and still, here they were, running a million-dollar bit into the ground like stubbornness alone could chew through igneous.

“It didn’t stop him,” Hutch said.

Starsky let out a slow breath, his reflection faint in the glass. “Yeah. And look how that turned out.”

Hutch opened his mouth to answer, but the door swung in on a gust of damp air. Kathy came first, shaking the drizzle from her shoulders, Huggy right behind her with his hat pulled low. They stopped a few steps in, reading the room without needing the details.

“What’s wrong?” Kathy asked.

Starsky looked over at him. Hutch met his eyes, and the decision passed between them without words. Not now.

He crossed to the table, folded the transcript with deliberate precision, and slid it back into the envelope. The paper felt heavier than it should, like it carried more than just old testimony. He slipped it out of sight.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Yeah,” Starsky added, voice a little too light. “Just the rain.”

Kathy hesitated, as if weighing whether to press, but let it go. Huggy lingered a beat longer before heading toward the stove. The familiar kitchen sounds resumed, boots on wood, the rattle of enamel mugs, but Hutch could still feel the charge between himself and Starsky, the kind you don’t break by speaking.

That night, the stars were out and the air had lost its bite. The second shift was on, and Hutch and Starsky walked down to the rig, where the place was lit up like a Christmas tree, with lights strung as high as the derrickman’s platform. They talked about anything but the transcripts, keeping their voices low.

On the platform, the table turned slowly and steadily, the block inching down, the bit chewing through rock two hundred feet below. The screen rattled under their boots as the mud returned from the hole, spitting out rock chips into the sump. Huggy stood beside the driller.

“What are you making now?” Hutch shouted.

“About eight feet an hour.”

Hutch ran the numbers in his head. Two hundred feet a day. “Then, twenty-five days, call it a month, should put us on top of the anticline?”

Huggy nodded. “If we can keep this rate up.”

They stayed until the shutdown at midnight. The crews worked two ten-hour shifts and closed down from midnight to four. It was the most the men could take and still keep the pace day after day. Hutch and Starsky switched off guarding the rig, Moses serving as their four-legged backup.

The days settled into a rhythm. June dragged into July. Each morning added two more lengths of drill pipe. The heat swelled by noon, the nights softened, and snow became a rare visitor. Morning sun meant thunderheads by midday, a drumroll of storms, and sudden rain slicking the grass. In between, the alfalfa thickened, and the Kingdom bloomed with lupins, tiger lilies, and flowers Hutch didn’t have names for.

Trevedian stayed away. The dam roared ahead day and night. When they rode over after dark, the line between Joshua’s land and his was barbed wire and rifles. Guards on the hoist and the dam itself, dogs pacing the fence line.

The isolation pressed in slowly and quietly. The drill might be eating deeper toward the anticline, but in the back of Hutch’s mind, and in Starsky’s too, though he never said it, was the sense they were boxed in. The radio was their only string to the outside world, and when it died, the Kingdom became a closed box. Hutch wouldn’t have minded if it were just him. But moods were contagious. Sometimes he’d find Starsky standing still, eyes fixed on the dam, like he could see something moving on the other side.

Gunther couldn’t ignore them forever. He couldn’t afford to let them bring in a well. And Trevedian and Nicky, men like that, didn’t vanish. They waited. Hutch could feel it.

And then the blow fell.

Chapter 52

It was July 4th. Huggy had left that morning, riding down to deliver more drilling samples to Dobey along with the mail. The weather had been sour all day, and by the time Starsky and Hutch came on watch at midnight, the valley was getting worked over by half a gale. The wind drove a mix of sleet, rain, and the occasional hard rattle of hail against the rig’s steel legs. Snow even tried to muscle in now and then.

Starsky had layered on every scrap of clothing he could find, but the east wind still cut through. Moses stuck close at their heels, the dog’s coat plastered with wet. Both men carried sidearms, the leather straps already slick from the damp.

The shift on duty powered down the draw works, and the clatter of the drill wound to a stop. The rig’s steady vibration faded, leaving only the strange, low moan of wind threading through the steel struts. As the diesel engine coughed out, the lights blinked and died, and blackness closed over them. Torches sparked to life in the crew’s hands, casting quick, thin shadows before the men called out their goodnights. Four hunched shapes followed the line of markers toward the ranch house until the sleet swallowed them whole.

Then it was just Starsky, Hutch, Moses, and the dark.

The change from noisy, pounding activity to empty silence came so fast it left Starsky’s ears straining for anything at all. Even the dam was hidden, no lights, no metallic rattle drifting up on the wind. Downwind, the mixers were quiet. The only sound was the wind itself, whistling and groaning like the bones of the mountain had turned into an instrument.

They made the usual circuit of the trucks parked near the rig. It was routine, but Starsky kept his flashlight beam low and narrow. The cold had him moving fast. Moses was restless, pacing ahead and circling back, nails clicking against the metal catwalk. Whether the dog had caught a scent, felt a shift in the air, or was just plain fed up with the weather, Starsky couldn’t tell.

They finished the check and climbed back up onto the platform. For a while, they paced, boots thudding against the boards, breath fogging in the torchlight. Eventually, they gave in to the meager shelter of the crew hut tucked at the rear of the platform, a crude box with a bench and little else. Hutch lit a cigarette, smoke curling around the dim glow of his flashlight. Every so often, he got up, opened the door, and stared out into the storm.

Time moved slowly. The dog never settled, shifting and standing again, ears flicking toward the dark. Starsky tried to tell himself it was just the wind making him jumpy, but the cold had a way of making a man believe in signs.

It was about two-thirty, and he had just peered out to see it snowing hard. As he closed the door, Moses suddenly cocked his head on one side and gave a low growl.

The next moment, he leapt for the door. Hutch opened it, and the dog shot through, Hutch following into the dark. Starsky heard his partner shouting, then the crack of gunfire, and somewhere in it the high, pained yelping of the dog. He went for the door, and at that instant there was a great roar of flame, a whoof of hot air that seemed to fling back the snow and seared his eyes with the sudden, blistering light.

Two more explosions came in quick succession, shaking the rig beneath his boots and hurling great gobs of flaming fuel high into the night. In the lurid glare of one of those liquid torches, he saw Hutch crouched by one of the vehicles, firing at something further away.

Then a shadow moved toward Hutch through the driving snow. It straightened, stepped into the light, and Starsky saw Nicky.

“Nicky!” The name tore out of his throat before he knew he’d said it, a warning and a curse in one. His hand was already on his gun, bringing it up. Hutch turned at the sound, too late.

The flash from Nicky’s gun split the night. Hutch jerked and went down hard. Starsky fired without thought, each shot cracking into the storm as he emptied the magazine. Figures broke away, retreating into the snow, and then the pool of flame that had lit them guttered out, leaving only the red smear of firelight through the blizzard.

Starsky was already off the platform, skidding down the ladder and stumbling through snowdrifts to where Hutch lay. A bullet had furrowed his shoulder; blood was already soaking through. Starsky shrugged out of his jacket and ripped off his shirt, pressing it hard against the wound. Hutch groaned, his eyes flickering open, breath harsh in the cold air.

Kathy was suddenly there, barking orders, her men lifting Hutch to carry him toward the house. Starsky stayed where he was for a moment, the world around him flaring and dying as the last of the flames burned low. The two tankers were now blackened skeletons, twisted against the night, their outlines barely visible except where a few pieces of metal still glowed dull red.

Pulling his jacket back on, he made a quick circuit of the remaining vehicles with Keogh, checking for anything smoldering. Wisps of smoke rose from the wreckage, but there was no danger of further fire; the snow was already settling thick over the twisted frames, hissing as it met the heat.

Only then did he follow the others back toward the cabin, Moses trailing stiffly behind. The attack had been aimed at the one thing that could stop them in their tracks. Without fuel, the drilling was dead. And like the time they’d blown up the road, it would be nearly impossible to prove in a court of law.

Inside, he went straight to the bedroom. Kathy met him at the door.

“He’s sleeping,” she said. “I’ve given him a sedative. It’s just a flesh wound. The bone’s not broken. He’ll be all right.”

She squeezed his shoulder and left. Starsky sank into the chair by the bed and stayed there, watching Hutch breathe in the dim light, listening to the wind batter against the walls, and feeling the weight of the night settle in.

Starsky spent half the night watching over Hutch, listening to the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing in the dim light. The sedative had knocked him under, but every now and then he’d shift or murmur, his face tightening with some dream Starsky couldn’t reach. Outside, the wind dragged against the walls and rattled loose bits of siding like a hand shaking a tin cup. He tried not to think about the snow burying the twisted frames of the tankers, or the way Nicky had looked in that brief flare of firelight, face half-shadowed, gun steady, like none of the years between them had mattered.

When exhaustion finally caught up, he pulled the blankets tight around Hutch and moved to the platform under the window. Hutch had rigged it up “for appearances,” he’d said with that crooked grin, but Starsky laughed morbidly at the thought now as he lay down, boots still on, staring at the ceiling until sleep took him in uneven patches.

By the time he came out to the dining room the next morning, the place was already warm with voices and the smell of coffee. Keogh, Huggy, and Kathy sat at the table with a couple of the men. Their faces turned toward him as he came in.

Kathy’s eyes searched his first. “How’s Hutch?”

“Still sleeping,” Starsky said, voice low, the answer feeling too small for the question.

He poured himself a coffee and dropped into a chair. Kathy disappeared for a moment, came back with an armload of logs, and built the fire into a blazing inferno.

“Hungry?”

“Yes.”

A plate of bacon and fried potatoes landed in front of him. She sat opposite, watching as he picked up his fork. Moses padded in, moving stiffly, and planted himself beside Starsky, resting his head on Starsky’s knee. The dog’s eyes said enough: sorry I didn’t get the bastard for you.

Starsky scratched his head, then pushed the plate toward him. Moses fell on it like he’d been starved.

Suddenly, Starsky didn’t want it anyway. He just sat there, watching the dog clean the plate, hearing the faint tick of snowmelt dripping from the eaves outside.

From down the table, Keogh exhaled smoke through his nose. “Well, I hope the insurance company pays up, that’s all. Might’ve been worse, I guess. The whole rig could’ve gone.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice half muttering to himself. “We’re down just over four thousand two hundred. The rig tank was filled yesterday, probably two hundred gallons left. That gets us to about forty-five hundred. With luck, we only need another seven hundred gallons. Say a thousand.”

He looked up at Starsky then, like dragging himself back from somewhere. “Any idea how we’ll get a thousand gallons of fuel up here?”

“We’ll have to bring it in by the pony trail,” Starsky said.

Keogh grunted. “Hmm. Twenty gallons to a pony; that means fifty ponies. You know where you can get fifty ponies? That’s a thousand bucks, and I’m broke. You gonna raise a thousand bucks? Maybe ask Roger Hutchinson for the cash.”

Starsky didn’t answer. He didn’t have one. Keogh’s big frame seemed to sag, the firelight showing lines on his face that Starsky hadn’t noticed before.

Finally, Keogh stood, voice carrying again. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get the rig going.”

Starsky watched him walk out with the others. A moment later, the clatter of the drill started up, the sound thin and mechanical against the weight of the mountains.

They could keep it turning for just over a week.

Then it’d all go quiet.

Chapter 53

A few days later, tired of lying around, Hutch came out of the bedroom expecting to see Starsky at the table, coffee cup in hand, maybe pretending to read the paper while thinking about a dozen other things. The chair was empty.

His shoulder gave a dull throb when he reached for the coffeepot, a reminder of the grazing hit from the other night. It wasn’t bad enough to slow him much, but the muscles were tight, the skin stretched hot under the bandage. He’d felt worse, but it was enough to keep him aware of it with every movement.

Moses padded in from the barn, shook the damp out of his coat, and gave a short, purposeful whine. Hutch frowned. The dog’s ears were forward, eyes fixed toward the door. Without waiting for an answer, Moses turned and trotted back the way he’d come.

“What’s the matter with you?” Hutch muttered, but Moses was already turning toward the door again, nails clicking against the plank floor. Hutch followed him across the room and down the narrow passageway, the boards cold under his boots, the smell of damp hay drifting in from ahead.

Inside, Starsky was bent over Patches, cinching the saddle tight.

“What are you doing?” Hutch asked.

Starsky straightened, the leather strap still in his hands. “Need to get a message to Huggy. See if he can arrange with your grandfather to pack the fuel up for us.”

“You’re going alone?”

“Yes, and you’re staying here.”

Hutch walked away without another word and came back a few minutes later dressed for the trail, coat buttoned and scarf looped at his throat. As he tugged on his gloves, he muttered a few choice curses under his breath about thick-skulled men who didn’t know when to quit. There was no way in hell he was going to let Starsky ride down into Come Lucky alone.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Starsky glared at him when Hutch walked back into the barn, boots crunching on the packed earth. “There’s no point in you coming with me. You’re hurt.”

Hutch didn’t bother slowing. He crossed to the tack rack, pulling down his saddle blanket with one hand and wincing as the other tugged at the bad shoulder. “You don’t know these mountains like I do,” he said. “Not enough to ride down alone.”

Starsky swung around, his expression tight. “We’ve made several trips since we’ve been up here.”

“Right,” Hutch said, settling the blanket over his horse’s back, “but never alone.”

Starsky opened his mouth to answer, but whatever he saw in Hutch’s face stopped him. The ache in Hutch’s shoulder was nothing next to the thought of Starsky riding down alone. A knot sat low in his gut and wouldn’t loosen. Without a word, he left a note for Keogh and led the horses into the mist.

They rode in silence, the timber pressing close, the trail a shadowed tunnel under the damp, cold air. Near the top, the horses balked at icy patches, forcing them to dismount. The cold bit through Hutch’s scarf, each breath hanging in the air.

Then the wind shifted. The mist swirled, parting to show the Kingdom below, the blackened trucks, the rig, and then the whole mountainside. Ahead lay the Saddle and the dark rise of Solomon’s Judgment. Lucky the mist cleared; that trail could kill a man even in good weather.

By the time they dropped back into timber, it was near ten. Hutch called a rest, and they sat on a fallen log to eat biscuits and cheese. His shoulder burned under his coat, but what gnawed at him more was the truth, without fuel, success was still as far away as ever, and he cursed himself for not seeing how Trevedian would strike

Hutch broke the silence. “What do you plan to do when we get down into Come Lucky?” His tone was even, but the question was a test, he already suspected the answer.

Starsky looked up, surprised. “Phone Huggy. Or maybe you call your grandfather.”

Hutch nodded slightly. “Where are you going to call from?”

“The Rusted Pic-Ax, of course. Mac will…” Starsky stopped when Hutch chuckled. It wasn’t a warm laugh; it was half bitter, half contemptuous.

“What’s the matter?” Starsky asked.

“Don’t you understand what we did when we blew the Thunder Valley road? You’d get battered to pulp if you went into Come Lucky now.”

“Who by…Trevedian?”

“Of course not. By the boys we fooled. You actually got some of them to help you load the trucks onto the hoist, didn’t you?” Hutch said, watching Starsky’s expression shift. “Trevedian was pretty sarcastic when he hauled them over the coals for being such mutts. If any of those boys got their hands on you…us.” He tossed the water from his cup and stood. “It was bad enough when I went down last. Had to come in after dark, stay at the Garrets, and leave before dawn.”

“Shit,” Starsky muttered, heat creeping into his voice. “And you didn’t think maybe to tell me about this?”

“Up until those trucks blew two days ago, it didn’t matter,” Hutch shot back. “You weren’t coming down the mountain.”

“So what?” Starsky stepped toward him. “You figured I’d just sit up here safe while you walked into that mess alone?”

“I figured you’d use your head,” Hutch said, sharp now. “But you’re still naïve enough to think this is only about the Kingdom. It’s not—it’s about pride, money, and payback. And those boys would be happy to deliver all three, right to your teeth.”

Starsky’s jaw tightened. “Maybe I’m not as naïve as you think. Maybe I just don’t like being kept in the dark while you’re out there making decisions for both of us.”

“I wasn’t making decisions for both of us. I was keeping you alive.”

“That’s the same damn thing,” Starsky snapped. “And if you think I’m the type to sit back while you take the hits, you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Hutch’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the muscle in his cheek ticking. For a second, neither of them moved.

Hutch exhaled hard, the fight seeming to drain out of him. “Look, we need to get a hold of Huggy and get oil up here. We’ll have to ride into Keithley and phone from there.”

Starsky grunted, heading for his horse. “Nearest phone’s at the Pic-Ax. That’s where I’m going.”

Hutch didn’t argue. He knew by now that it would be a wasted effort. He just shrugged, swung into the saddle, and said flatly, “I’ll pick up the pieces.”

The sun was sharp and bright as they rode up the hill toward Come Lucky. The door to Trevedian’s office stood open. Trevedian must have seen them coming; as they drew level, he stepped into the doorway, cigar in hand, leaning against the jamb like he owned the street. His skin was the deep brown of polished mahogany, contrasting with the crisp white of his nylon shirt, the flash of scarlet braces catching the light. He didn’t speak, just watched them with a faint smile that told Hutch he’d been waiting.

The street was deserted, quiet as if the whole town had gone up to work on the dam. At the back of the Pic-Ax, they tied their horses. Pauline’s eyes widened when they entered, but before either man could speak, there was the scrape of a chair, and James McClellan came storming toward them, his face drawn into a scowl.

“I’ve been wanting to have a word with you, Starsky, for a long time,” he said, fists clenched.

Hutch stepped into his path, pressing a hand to McClellan’s chest. “Was it you or Nicky, or both, who set fire to our trucks?”

McClellan stopped dead. “What’s that? You trying to swing something…”

“We’re not swinging anything on you,” Starsky cut in. “Just asking, were you in on it?”

“In on what?” His voice was tight.

“There’s about two thousand gallons of fuel gone, two trucks, and gunfire,” Hutch said. “You’re lucky no one was killed.” He turned toward the office. “Mind if I use the phone?”

“You brought it on yourself,” McClellan snapped. “Call the police, and Trevedian will tell them what you did.”

“We’re not phoning the police,” Starsky said to him. “We’re calling for more fuel.”

The office was empty. They put through a personal call to Hutch’s grandfather. His grandfather was asleep, but Huggy came on. Hutch told him about what happened and what they needed. Huggy said he would talk to Dobey and Roger. And call him back.

By the time the connection ended, fatigue was pressing down hard. The sleepless night and the deep, dragging ache in his shoulder were catching up with him. They drifted into the kitchen, which stood quiet and empty. Hutch eased into the chair by the stove, letting the heat work on his bones, while Starsky dropped into a seat at the small table.

Somewhere between one breath and the next, Hutch’s eyes slid shut. The low hum of the building and the faint smell of woodsmoke wrapped around him, pulling him under.

Pauline’s voice woke him up an hour later. She stood next to him, a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of bacon and eggs in the other.

“You didn’t have to bother Pauly.”

“I know Hutch.” She answered, pacing the cup and plates in front of him.

“Where’s Starsky?” he asked, rubbing the grit from his eyes.

“He went to see the Garretts. Said he’d be back in thirty minutes or so.” She studied him, her dark eyes intent. “You look tired.”

“I am,” Hutch admitted, his voice low. “Rough couple of nights.”

She nodded slowly, as if weighing something, then leaned in just enough for her words to drop in tone. “You shouldn’t stay here. It’s dangerous for you and for Mr. Starsky. There are people watching. People who are angry about what happened at the Thunder Valley road.”

Hutch felt the prickle between his shoulders sharpen into a steady knot. “You don’t think I could take’em,” he said, trying for lightness but hearing the frustration in his own voice.

Pauline didn’t flinch. “Joke all you want, Hutch. But if Trevedian’s men come… You won’t have time to mount up.”

Before he could answer, the back door creaked and Starsky stepped in, eyes sharp and jaw tight. “We have to go, Hutch. You were right, here’s a bunch of men coming up from the bunkhouse. My bet is, Trevedian sent them.

When Hutch started to protest about Huggy calling them back. Pauline offered to take Hutch’s call for him. He told her what to say to Huggy, thanked her, and followed Starsky out the back to the street.

They had just reached the horses when a dozen men rounded the corner, Nicky at the front. He moved with a swaggering purpose, cigar gone now, fists loose at his sides.

“That’s him!” Nicky bellowed, voice cutting across the street. “That’s the bastard!”

The men surged after him, boots pounding on the packed dirt. They were almost on Hutch and Starsky as the two swung into their saddles. Hutch dug his heels in, driving forward, but as they pushed through the mob, Nicky spat an insult, sharp and ugly, meant for Hutch alone.

Starsky reined in hard. Color flared in his face, and before Hutch could tell him to ride on, he wheeled his horse back toward Nicky.

“Say that again,” Starsky demanded, voice low and dangerous.

Nicky hesitated, glancing at the men behind him, then repeated the word with deliberate malice.

Before Hutch could react, Starsky spurred forward. His horse slammed into Nicky full-on, knocking him back into the men behind him. The mob wavered but surged again, a knot of bodies closing over Starsky.

Hutch didn’t think; he moved. He was off his horse in a heartbeat, shoving through the nearest man, his hand going for his colt. He drew and fired into the ground at the closest set of boots. The crack of the shot ripped through the air, the sound bouncing off the buildings and scattering a couple of horses tied nearby. Dirt spat up in a sharp spray, and the men nearest him froze.

Hutch held the gun steady, his eyes locked on the ones still crowding Starsky. “Let him up,” he said, voice like stone. Nicky was nowhere in sight.

They hesitated, then loosened their grip. Starsky staggered free, brushing dust from his coat, his face still flushed with anger.

“You all right?” Hutch asked, without taking his eyes or the gun off the men.

“Yeah,” Starsky said, breath rough.

“Good. Then get on your horse.” Hutch levelled the weapon at the bunch standing in the street. “Now get back to Trevedian. And tell him next time we won’t be so nice.”

They backed away, their bravado gone, and Hutch slipped the pistol back into its holster. Without another word, he swung into the saddle, and together they rode out of Come Lucky.

Chapter 54

They stopped a little way into the woods, making sure no one saw where they left the road. They ate the last biscuits in silence, then, as night closed in, hobbled the horses and cut across the road, skirting along the hillside. Hutch led them on a detour, bringing them back into Come Lucky from above and down to the Garrett House.

The two Miss Garrets welcomed them with breathless excitement. They had heard about the morning’s events, and to them, the pair’s nocturnal arrival and the idea of sheltering them from a gang of dangerous men, was pure Victorian melodrama. Naomi Garret, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, spoke in whispers, clearly thrilled. Ruth Garret, more practical, checked the door bolts, fetched food and coffee, and tried hard to keep a matter-of-fact air. To Starsky, it felt a little like a game, but the reality was still there, as plain as the blackened trucks in the Kingdom that morning.

After they’d eaten, Pauline arrived with word that Huggy would meet them at Roger’s office the following evening. She also brought other news: a stranger had turned up at the Golden Calf, a newspaperman, buying Mac drinks and pumping him for information about the Kingdom. Starsky guessed the articles were starting to stir interest.

That night, they slept in their usual room, though it felt like years since they’d last been there. Under the eaves, he and Hutch lay together, turning over the problem of how to haul enough fuel up to the Kingdom. By morning, before the sun rose, they were in Hutch’s truck heading down the mountain.

When they met Huggy at Roger’s office, He explained that yes, Hutch’s grandfather would cover the expenses, but while horses were easy to hire, finding them with proper packing gear would take almost a week. Once they were aware of the situation, they called farmers along the valley. By the end of it, they had twenty-six animals corralled at a homestead west of Beaver Dam Lake, about an hour below Come Lucky.

On July 15, they moved the animals to the mouth of Thunder Creek and met the truck bringing their containers. Packing the first 500 gallons up to the Kingdom took over twenty-four hours, stopping every four hours to rest the animals. The weather was foul, thunderstorms, mist, and blinding hail on the Saddle’s slopes, but Hutch seemed able to smell the trail through it all.

When they reached the Kingdom, the welcome was electric. The rig had been idle for three days, and Kathy later told Starsky that if they hadn’t arrived when they did, Keogh would have called Trevedian to haul it down. An oil company scout had also just arrived, lifting their spirits further.

With the fuel in, the rig roared back to life.

Two days later, another 500 gallons were brought up, and a Courier reporter joined them. By then, the drill had passed 5,000 feet and was making twelve feet an hour through soft rock. They now had enough fuel to reach nearly 6,000 feet at that rate.

As July drew to a close, the suspense grew unbearable. Early on, there had been questions at each shift change, but soon no one wanted to ask; one look at the crew’s faces told the story. Progress slowed in quartzite, and the mood turned heavy. Fuel was dwindling, and the dam was almost complete. Hutch and Starsky sometimes rode up to watch the final sluices go in. From higher up, they could see work starting on the power station below. By August’s first week, only a small section of the dam remained, and word spread that Gunther planned to start flooding immediately to run a pilot plant in winter.

The drill was at 5,500 feet. Keogh was restless, and so was the crew, who had been stuck in the Kingdom for nearly two months. There was no joking now. Four of the men started a poker school out of boredom. Starsky tried to break it up, but without liquor or women, there was little else to do. Tension finally snapped, one of Keogh’s men smashed a finger in the draw works, lucky not to lose his arm. Kathy patched him up, but the damage to morale couldn’t be mended.

Just after nine on the morning of August 5th, they pulled pipe for what everyone hoped might be the last time. The depth was five thousand four hundred and ninety feet. Down on the rig, the whole crew waited, and Starsky stood there with Hutch, a sick knot of apprehension in his gut.

At two-fifteen, they pulled the pipe again. Another sixty-foot length was added, the drill going back down section by section until the counter marked five thousand five hundred and fifty feet. Those not on shift drifted toward the ranch house. The meal they shared was a silent, tense affair.

Starsky couldn’t stand it any longer. He and Hutch drew Keogh aside.

“Suppose we don’t strike the anticline exactly where we expect to,” Starsky said. “What depth are you willing to drill to?”

Keogh’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know. The boys are getting restive.”

Hutch spoke. “Will you give it a margin of two thousand feet?”

Keogh stared. “Two thousand? That’s nearly a fortnight’s drilling. It’d take us right up to the date they finish the dam, and we don’t have the fuel.”

“I can pack more up,” Starsky offered.

Keogh narrowed his eyes. “There’s something on your mind. What is it?”

“I just want to know the margin of error you’re willing to give it.”

Keogh hesitated, then said, “All right. I’ll drill until we’ve used what’s already up here. Four more days. That’ll take us past six thousand.”

“That’s not enough,” Hutch argued.

Keogh grabbed his arm. “See here, Hutch, the boys wouldn’t stand for it.”

“For God’s sake,” Starsky broke in. “You’ve been drilling here for two months. Are you going to throw that away for the sake of another fortnight?”

“And risk losing my rig when they flood the place? We’ve all had about as much as we can take. I’ve lost two trucks, no one’s earning their keep. If we don’t bring in a well…”

The door banged open. Clif, one of the drillers, came in with a wild look in his eyes.

“What is it?” Keogh asked.

“We’re in new country,” Clif said.

“The anticline?” Starsky asked, but even as he spoke, he knew it wasn’t. Hutch knew too. The look on Clif’s face said it all, they’d hit the sill.

“Rock hard as granite. Wore a bit out in an hour. For God’s sake, let’s get out before we’re broke.”

“How much in the last hour?” Keogh asked.

“Two feet. The boys want to know if we should stop drilling.”

Clif’s voice took on a bitter edge. “You’re throwing away good bits and wearing out the rig for nothing.”

Keogh turned to Hutch and Starsky. “Well, what do you say?”

“It’s the same formation that stopped Joshua’s rig,” Hutch said. “If you get through this…”

“At two feet an hour?” Clif laughed without humor. “We could be a month drilling through. And we all know we’re not going to bring in…”

“How do you know?” Starsky cut in sharply.

“You ask Huggy. If you can find him.”

Starsky blinked. “What do you mean?” He’d assumed Huggy was on a supply run.

Clif smirked. “Gone four days. Off into the mountains to brood over Joshua’s folly. Thought the anticline was next, didn’t expect igneous country this deep.” He gripped Starsky’s arm. “In my opinion, Huggy doesn’t know enough geophysics to plot a gopher hole. And Dobey? His office is right next to Gunther’s. Figure it out.”

He turned to Keogh. “The boys want to haul out.”

Keogh rubbed his jaw. “I wonder how thick this sill is. Most I’ve seen are one to two hundred feet.”

“That’s four days’ drilling,” Clif said. “And you think oil-bearing country’s right under a volcanic intrusion?”

Keogh nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right.” He started for the door. “I’ll come have a look. Coming, Starsky? Hutch?”

Starsky shook his head. He and Hutch stood in silence as they left, anger and bitterness clawing inside him.

“I’m sorry, Starsky,” Hutch said, hand on his arm.

“Why the hell didn’t Huggy have the guts to tell me himself?” Starsky snapped.

“Huggy’s sensitive.”

“Sensitive? He’s a moral coward. Instead of backing us and rousing this bunch of defeatists, he runs off to sulk.”

“That’s a rotten thing to say.” Hutch’s cheeks flushed.

“If you think so much of him, go nurse his pride.”

Hutch opened his mouth, closed it, and left without a word.

Starsky went to their room and dropped onto the bed hard enough to make the frame creak. Rolled over, arm flung across his eyes like he could block the whole damn day out. This wasn’t Huggy’s fault. Or Keogh’s. Or even Hutch’s. They’d all taken their shot. You couldn’t expect anyone to keep drilling when they’d burned through hope. But knowing that didn’t make it sting any less.

The anger was still hot when Hutch came in. He didn’t say anything as the man closed and latched the door and just sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” Starsky said after a moment, the words tasting like grit. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Hutch’s hand slid into his hair. Starsky caught it before he could think better of it, fingers clamping down like he was holding on against a riptide. He gave a hard pull, dragging Hutch down into him, then rolled with him until he was on top, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee. Somewhere in that tangle, coats came half-off, scarves slipping, buttons giving way under impatient hands. Solid. Real. And dammit if it didn’t cut through everything, the fight, the failure, the Kingdom, until the only thing that mattered was this. He kissed Hutch’s lips, his hair, holding him close, and felt Hutch do the same. The frantic edge bled out of it, slowing into the steady press of warmth, the rise and fall of breath.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to let go. But the thought of the rig and the men waiting down there seeped in like cold air through a crack in the wall. He decided then that he could give up Joshua’s dream, but he knew he wasn’t giving up on Hutch. Starsky eased back, pulling in a steady breath, then pushed himself upright. He dressed quickly, ignoring the bite of cold that rushed in where Hutch’s warmth had been.

“I have to go down to the rig,” he said.

“I know. I’ll come with you.”

“No. I’d rather go alone. I want to talk to them.”

When he got there, he knew by the expression on their faces it wasn’t the moment. They were sitting in the hut, the rig silent. Angry, bitter, not with the sting of an argument, but with the heavy finality of defeat.

Chapter 55

The decision to quit was taken the following morning. And as if on cue, Trevedian and Nicky Starsky walked in while they were still gathered around the breakfast table. The conversation died. The silence turned sharp. Hutch saw Keogh’s big hand curl into a fist, Clif half-rising from his chair. Trevedian must have read the hostility in the room because he kept the door open behind him and didn’t step far inside. Nicky, on the other hand, seemed unmoved by the tension. He crossed the room without hesitation, his dark eyes sweeping over the bitterness and anger before locking squarely on Starsky.

“I’ve brought some papers for you, Davey,” Nicky said, his voice smooth but edged, and with a flick of his wrist tossed a folded summons onto the table.

Starsky picked it up. Hutch wondered why Nicky had bothered to haul it all the way up here himself, right up until Starsky read it. Whatever was in those lines hit hard; Hutch saw it in the way his partner’s face tightened, the light in his eyes dimming. When Starsky handed it across to him, Hutch knew it wasn’t good before he even looked down at the page.

—–

You are hereby notified that Nicholas Starsky has commenced civil proceedings against David Starsky in the Superior Court, alleging the fraudulent acquisition of mineral rights to the property known as the Kingdom, said rights having been previously mortgaged to Roger Hutchinson and subsequently reconveyed to David Starsky. Plaintiff further asserts, as a lawful co-heir to the estate of Joshua Debrins, a claim to no less than one-half of the appraised value of said mineral rights and the underlying land.

——

By the time Hutch looked up, Nicky was still standing there, watching his brother like he’d already won. And Hutch could see why he’d made the trip in person; this wasn’t just about money. It was about humiliation. It was personal. Delivering the blow himself, standing in the wreckage to make sure Starsky felt every inch of it. The old family poison was right there in the set of Nicky’s mouth, the faint curl of satisfaction at the edges.

Hutch felt the urge to get between them, to block the look Nicky was giving, but he stayed put. Starsky didn’t need a shield; what he needed was to choose his ground. And this fight, Hutch knew, wasn’t going to be won with a gun or a fist.

Hutch looked up at Trevedian. “You know the contents, of course?”

He hesitated, but there was no point in his denying it. “Yes,” he said. There was a note of satisfaction in his voice, though he tried to conceal it. Hutch wondered which of Keogh’s boys kept him informed about what was happening on the rig.

The timing was too good for it to be a coincidence.

“What is it?” Kathy asked.

Starsky passed her the summons. It went from hand to hand, faces tightening as they read. Hutch knew what it meant: the end of any hope of convincing them to drill deeper. With the mineral rights themselves in dispute, the ground had been cut away from under their feet. And yet…

“So they’re gonna drag this to court,” Keogh said flatly.

“It’ll be settled quickly. Nick has no claim,” Starsky said, staring hard at his younger brother.

Keogh shook his head. “Sure, that’s what you say now. Wait until you see what witnesses are willing to say in the box. I’m sorry, Starsky, but it looks like they’re gonna put you through the mincer.”

Nicky grinned. “Gunther told me to give you a message.”

“Go on,” Starsky said

“Settle the whole business out of court. Sell the Kingdom, and Gunther’ll give you the fifty grand he originally offered,” Nicky said, voice just shy of smug.

Starsky stared at him. “You came all the way up here to play errand boy?”

Nicky’s mouth twitched. “I came to save you, Davey. Keep you from bankrupting yourself in a fight you can’t win.”

Starsky gave a short, derisive laugh. “That’s rich. You never cared about me before, or anyone but yourself, Nicky. Don’t start pretending now.” He straightened in his chair, his voice even but edged. “I will win. What I can’t do is sell out to Gunther.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Nicky shot back. “You think hanging on to this pile of rock makes you some kind of hero? It’ll break you.”

“It’s mine,” Starsky said, the words clipped, final.

Nicky leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice. “Half of it’s mine, whether you like it or not.”

Before Starsky could answer, Keogh’s voice split the tension like a whip crack. “Two thousand dollars a vehicle! You must be crazy.”

Hutch turned in his chair and saw Keogh had Trevedian boxed on one side. Trevedian was smiling, one of those slow, deliberate smiles that didn’t reach his eyes. “If you want to get your trucks down,” he said, “that’s what it’s going to cost you.”

Keogh’s jaw tightened. Hutch saw the muscles in his arms bunch under the shirt. “You know damn well I couldn’t pay it. I’m broke. We’re all broke.” He stepped toward Trevedian, steady but dangerous. “Now then, suppose you quote me a proper price for the use of the hoist.”

Trevedian edged back toward the open door. Through the window behind him, Hutch caught sight of three men waiting outside, Trevedian’s, no doubt. Keogh had seen them too; his voice stayed level, but the strain was there. “For God’s sake, be reasonable, Trevedian.”

“Reasonable!” Trevedian barked out a laugh. “I’m only getting back what it cost us to repair the road after you’d been through.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Keogh said.

“No?” Trevedian leaned forward slightly, his round head tucked between his shoulders, voice hard as gravel. “Just a coincidence your trucks were in the Kingdom by the time we cleared the rubble from that fall. Okay. You didn’t use the hoist. You had nothing to do with blocking the road. I suppose you’ll tell me you packed the whole damned outfit up the pony trail. Well, pack ’em down the same way if you don’t like my terms. See which costs you more in the end.”

Then Trevedian’s eyes slid past Keogh and landed squarely on Starsky. “What will I tell Gunther?”

The room went still. Hutch felt every gaze shift toward Starsky, everyone’s except Keogh, whose anger had him coiled and ready to spring. Hutch was half afraid he’d launch himself at Trevedian right then and there.

“Well?” Trevedian pressed.

—-

Starsky felt every eye on him. They were all staring at him. Not Trevedian, not Nicky, him. Waiting for his answer like a jury that had already reached a verdict. Starsky could feel the weight of it pressing in, heavy as the log walls around them. The stove hissed in the corner, but the heat didn’t seem to touch him. The air in the room had gone thick and stale, full of damp wool, old coffee, and the faint iron tang of the rig grease clinging to air.

His brother stood there like he owned the place, and Trevedian had that fixed half-smile, the one that said he’d already calculated how the day was going to go. Starsky could feel Hutch’s presence beside him, steady, watchful, but he didn’t look his way. This was his ground to hold, and he wasn’t about to let anyone see him waver.

Every inch of him wanted to tell them all to go to hell. The Kingdom wasn’t just a pile of rock. It was Joshua’s dream, and somewhere along the way it had become his too, though he’d never admit that to anyone in this room.

He met his brother’s eyes and said, “Tell him I’m going to seek and enforce an injunction to stop him from flooding the Kingdom. And let him know that if he doesn’t want to bleed more money, he’d better shut down the dam and the power station until the courts decide.”

For a second, Nicky just blinked at him, like the words didn’t fit in his head. Then his brows drew tight. “You’re crazy, Davey. You don’t have the dough to start something like this. Even with Roger Hutchinson’s money behind you.”

“I do.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nicky snapped. “No court’s going to stall a project like this for a patch of useless ground. You don’t get what you’re up against. This dam’s going to open a whole mining industry, feed power to…”

“I know exactly what I’m up against. Little brother.” His voice cut across his brother’s, sharper than he meant, but he didn’t pull it back. The pulse in his neck was pounding, and his hands curled into fists before he realized it. “You all are a bunch of crooks who don’t blink at falsifying surveys, torching tankers, trespassing on land that isn’t theirs, stealing what they can’t buy, and trying to bully the rest out with lawyers. I hadn’t planned on taking it to court, but if Gunther wants it that way, fine. Tell him I’m fighting for every inch of this ground. Tell him what we’ve proved with the drilling, plus Dobey’s evidence, will stand in any court. And by the time he’s finished his dam, I’ll have a producing well up here. Now get out.”

Trevedian’s expression flickered, something caught between confusion and calculation. Nicky’s stare stayed hard, but there was a crack in it now, a tiny hesitation he couldn’t quite hide.

“Then why does Keogh want to get his trucks down?” Nicky asked.

“Because we’re just about through here,” Starsky said quickly. “Now get the hell out and tell Gunther the gloves are off.”

Nicky’s mouth opened, like there was more to say, but Keogh was already moving toward him, hands low, fingers curled in that way that promised trouble. The others shifted in closer. Trevedian took one last look around the room, then ducked through the open door. Nicky followed, the sound of their boots on the porch boards fading into the cold morning air.

For a moment, nobody moved. The room felt thick with the echo of his own words, as if even the walls were holding their breath. Then Keogh stepped forward and clasped Starsky’s hand in a firm, almost crushing grip.

“By God, I got to hand it to you,” he said.

Starsky dragged a hand down his face, the weariness settling into his bones now that the fight, at least for this moment, was over. “It was all bluff,” he admitted, his voice flat.

Keogh frowned. “How do you mean? Aren’t you going to fight ’em?”

“Yes, of course I’m going to fight them.” The answer came without hesitation, but it felt heavier in his mouth than it should have. Somewhere behind it all was the unwelcome knowledge that he’d have to go back down the mountain to do it.

“Did you really mean you’d got a backer? Do you think Mr. Hutchinson will help?” Clif asked.

Starsky looked across at Hutch. Hutch’s answering nod was steady, no second thoughts in it. Then Starsky turned to Kathy. “Would you make us up a parcel of food?”

She paused, studying him for a moment before nodding.

Starsky shifted back toward Keogh. “You’re willing to go on drilling?”

Keogh glanced at his crew, and a slow grin spread across his face. “And why not, eh, boys? We go on drilling till we have to swim for it. That right?”

A chorus of agreement broke out, rough voices echoing in the timber walls. “We’re right with you, Starsky,” one of them called, and there was a gleam in Keogh’s eyes that made Starsky’s chest tighten. “I’d sure like to get even with that bastard.”

But just as quickly, the gleam faded. “There’s one or two things, though. We’ve only got fuel for four more days of drilling. We’re getting short of food up here, too. There’s a whole lot of things we need.”

“I know,” Starsky said. “Make out a list of your requirements for another month. We’ll get hold of Huggy…”

A Shadow filled the doorway, and there Huggy was.

“I’ll hire the pack animals we had before,” Huggy said, stepping in without ceremony. “We’ll have them corralled at Wessels Farm on the other side of Beaver Dam Lake in three days’ time.”

Starsky looked at him. “You heard?”

Huggy nodded, his voice turning flinty. “Like Keogh said, I ain’t letting that bastard plow us under.”

Hutch crossed over and clapped Huggy on the back. “I’ll wire the money to you at Keithley.”

Keogh came over and gripped Starsky’s shoulder, the pressure of his hand warm and solid. “You look like you weren’t strong enough to hold your own against a puff of wind. But by God, you’re tougher than I am.”

He turned toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, boys. Let’s get the rig….”

Keogh’s call to action snapped the air taut again, his men pushing back from the table in a scrape of chair legs and boot heels. The energy in the room shifted from talk to motion, and for a moment, Starsky just stood there, feeling it roll around him like a current. Outside, the morning light was thin and sharp, cutting across the snow-patched ground. The wind carried the faint grind of the rig still cooling from the night shift and the distant creak of the hoist in its frame.

Chapter 56

By the following day, they were back in the city, only to be met at every corner by headlines blaring from newsstands. Gunther’s Dam Nearing Completion. The front page carried a brief news item, but the real sting was inside, an entire feature article devoted to the project, its “benefits,” and the “visionary” men behind it. There was no mention of the drilling in the Kingdom, only a single, passing line in the news piece. It was like they didn’t exist. The sense of impotence hit him at the outset, a dull, grinding weight in his chest.

He felt like he’d been battering his head against a brick wall, and the wall was laughing.

In that mood, they had met Hutch’s grandfather. Together with Hutch’s and Roger’s funds, they arranged for the necessary money to be sent to Huggy, then went on to see Hutch’s lawyers. That was where the real blow landed. The case they had come to court for had been dropped. When Starsky asked if it was because of his threat to seek an injunction, the lawyer shook his head. No injunction had been filed, and then, with the patient finality of a man explaining the inevitable, he told Starsky why.

“Three weeks ago, the Legislature enacted an emergency measure authorizing the finishing of the dam, declaring it necessary for the public welfare. Including funds. Such authorization remains in effect until repealed by subsequent legislative act.”

Starsky sat through the explanation. An act of repeal could take months or even years. The lawyer made it clear that his only real hope was to bring in a producing well before the flooding began. If he could do that, the scale of compensation the courts would have to award would make the project too costly for Gunther’s company to finish.

The office door had barely shut behind us when Hutch swore under his breath. “God dammit.” He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “That’s why Nick and Trevedian were so smug when they met with us. They already knew the Legislature had handed Gunther the whole game on a silver platter.”

Starsky glanced sideways at him. “Yeah. They were just waiting for us to catch up.”

They drove back to the ranch in silence, the weight of the morning pressing down like the heat. The trip had been a waste. Worse than a waste, it had shown us just how far Gunther’s shadow reached.

Starsky finally broke it, voice low and tight. “What was the point of them meeting with us at the Kingdom? If they knew they’d already won, if they had the authority in their pocket, why bother?”

“To rattle us,” Hutch said without hesitation. “See if we’d buckle. Your brother knows you, or thinks he does. He knew you’d come here, find out for yourself, and then crumble.”

Starsky snorted. “Yeah, well, Nicky’s never been as smart as he thinks he is. And I’m not in the habit of rolling over just because somebody flashes a piece of paper.” He glanced at Hutch. “Just how far does Gunther’s reach go, if he can pay off a bunch of politicians to ram that order through?”

Hutch’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Further than we can see from here. That emergency measure didn’t just happen overnight. He’s been greasing palms for months, maybe longer. By the time we got wind of it, the ink was already dry.”

Starsky watched the mountains sliding past the window, their jagged lines cutting into the blue. “So what… you’re saying we’re done before we start?”

“I’m saying,” Hutch replied, “the legal road’s blocked. But that’s not the only road. He’s counting on us to fold now that the Legislature’s on his side. If we can bring in a producing well before the Kingdom floods, we hit him where it hurts, his pocketbook. Like the lawyer said, make it too expensive to finish the job.”

Starsky shifted in his seat, letting the silence stretch. “That’s one hell of a gamble.”

“It’s the only play we’ve got,” Hutch said. “And if we’re going to take it, we can’t waste a day. The Fuel, food, and supplies are all set to keep that drill turning.”

The anger in Starsky’s chest settled into something colder. “Then we’d better make sure Gunther feels every inch we fight him for.”

——

They’d decided to leave the next day. Hutch had floated the idea of meeting with the Courier Journal’s editor, Jeff Long, on the way back from the lawyer. But Starsky had waved it off. The paper had dropped the drilling story weeks ago, and he wasn’t interested in wasting time trying to rekindle it. Still, they’d called Dobey, and somewhere between that call and the afternoon, word must have gotten around. While they were still at the lawyer’s office, Jeff had rung and invited them to dinner.

The meeting was at the beer parlor Hutch had brought him to on the first day they’d met in February, cold and sharp outside, the day Hutch had decided, for some reason, Starsky couldn’t explain, to throw in with him. That night they’d sat in a corner booth, strangers bound only by a name and a problem. Now, months later, he was walking into the same place with Hutch at his side, not as strangers but as partners, and not with one problem but a mountain of them.

So much had happened since then, it felt like another lifetime.

Back then, he’d been a man ready to hole up on his grandfather’s land and fade away without a fight. That man wouldn’t have believed this moment, stepping into a private room of the parlor to find Jeff Long waiting with another man.

Jeff Long stood as they came in, his smile quick and practiced. “Hutch, been a while.”

“Too long,” Hutch said easily, “Jeff, this is Dave Starsky.”

His handshake was firm, the kind that said he’d already made up his mind about whether you were worth his time. Starsky noticed the way his partner’s eyes flicked to the other man at the table, a sharp-looking fellow in a well-cut suit who’d risen as well, a small smile on his face like he was sizing them up.

“Bill Mercer,” Long said, gesturing toward the man. “CBS News.”

“Pleasure,” Starsky said, shaking the man’s hand. His grip was cooler, more deliberate, as if he were cataloging every detail.

“Gentlemen,” Mercer said, “I hear you’ve got a fight worth hearing about. And seeing.” He tapped the magazine lying open on the table, a copy of People, glossy under the overhead light. The headline read OIL VERSUS ELECTRICITY, and Starsky’s gaze caught on the byline.

“Hal Whitby,” Hutch said, picking it up. “I know him. Brought him up to the Kingdom myself. He and another fellow…Name” He paused, looking at the ceiling, thinking, “Barnes.. that’s it, Grant Barnes, a photographer. They were with me when we found Joshua’s body.”

“That’s why I called you,” Long said, settling back into his chair. “The piece is already moving through the wires. People are talking about oil again, and not just in Texas. We thought it might be time to put a face on it, your face.”

They set the radio interview for the following day, the CBS man eager to strike while Whitby’s article still had ink on it. The sudden interest in what they were doing put a new edge in the air, a faint lift in everyone’s voices over dinner. Starsky wouldn’t have called it hope, not yet, but it was enough to make him feel less like he was swinging blind.

They recorded the broadcast the next afternoon. The city studio smelled faintly of hot wires and stale coffee, and the headphones pinched just enough to be irritating. Starsky spoke steadily into the mic, aware of Hutch just off to his right, listening. It wasn’t the same defiant energy he’d carried in the Kingdom, where adrenaline and proximity to the fight had kept him pushing forward. Now, facing the reality of legal deadlines and political roadblocks, he found his bravado was slipping. He kept his tone firm, but in the back of his mind, he was already measuring the other path, what the courts might grant him if they couldn’t stop Gunther in time, and how far that would go for him, for Hutch, and even for Hutch’s grandfather, despite their claims it wasn’t about money.

Both in the broadcast and later in the article, he hammered out for the Courier Journal, they made their position clear: they were drilling in the same igneous country that had halted Joshua’s first rig, and if they were given just a few more weeks, they had every reason to believe they’d bring in a well. It was part strategy, part stubbornness, forcing the conversation back to the fact that they weren’t done yet, no matter how far along Gunther’s dam might be.

Chapter 57

The interview paid off faster than Hutch had expected. The morning after the broadcast, Acheson drove out to his grandfather’s ranch. He came into the room pale and stiff, the look of a man on an errand he didn’t much like. Gunther had sent him with an offer for Starsky: one hundred thousand dollars, straight out.

Hutch saw the way Starsky’s eyes caught on the number. Temptation flickered there, and he couldn’t deny feeling it himself. That much money would settle the accounts, pay the men, and let them walk away with something to show for the fight. But then Acheson added, “Of course, in view of the publicity you’ve been getting, we’ll require a statement that you are now of the opinion Campbell was wrong and there’s no oil in that area of the Rockies.”

Hutch’s voice sharpened. “And if he doesn’t make the statement?”

“Then I’m instructed to withdraw the offer.”

Hutch turned away, crossing to the window. Beyond the glass, the horse paddocks lay quiet in the late-summer heat, fence rails throwing long shadows over the dry grass. That statement would brand Joshua Debrins, Starsky’s grandfather, a liar and a cheat. It would undo everything they’d fought for in the past months. It would be, he thought grimly, a final act of cowardice.

Starsky’s tone was flat, almost businesslike. “Would Trevedian agree to free transportation of all vehicles and personnel down by the hoist and over the Thunder Valley road?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll think about it.”

Acheson checked his watch. “You’ll have to think fast. This offer’s open until midday.”

“What’s the hurry?” Hutch asked.

“Gunther wants to be rid of the whole business.”

When Acheson left, Starsky began pacing, back and forth across the room like a caged thing. They went over the choice again and again, weighing their unwillingness to admit defeat against their need to repay the men who had stood with them.

Margorie stepped in with a telegram. Hutch took it, saw the Keithley postmark, and felt his gut tighten. He tore the envelope open, eyes scanning the single sheet. As the words sank in, a slow, unstoppable grin spread across his face.

Without speaking, he moved toward the desk and reached for the phone.

Starsky, still pacing, stopped short. “What is it?”

Hutch lifted a hand, cutting him off, eyes never leaving the page. “Operator. Acheson three-five-six, please,” he said into the receiver. Then, as the line began to click through, he held the telegram out for Starsky to read.

“Through sill at fifty-eight hundred. Drilling ten per hour. Everyone optimistic. Second consignment fuel on way — Huggy.” Starsky let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be—”

The lawyer came on the line. “Acheson,” Hutch said, voice edged with satisfaction. “Half a million dollars wouldn’t buy the Kingdom now. We’re in the clear and drilling ten feet an hour. You knew that damn well, didn’t you? Well, you can tell Gunther it’s going to cost him a fortune to flood the Kingdom.”

He slammed the receiver down before Acheson could answer.

The bastards had known. They’d seen it in the speed of the travelling block on the rig, and they’d tried to buy them out before word reached Keithley.

He looked at Starsky. The two of them grinned like fools, and then Starsky pulled him into a quick, rough hug. They were still laughing when Starsky called Jeff Long, telling him the whole story, how they’d been offered a hundred thousand, and how Gunther’s men had known all along they were through the sill.

Jeff asked when they were leaving. Starsky said the next day. Before they hung up, Jeff asked if Hal Whitby could go along. The young man was in town and wanted to be there “when history was made.” Jeff’s words, not theirs.

“Of course,” Hutch said.

The race was on.

—–

By the next night, they were bunked down at the Garretts, having come in under cover of darkness. Early the following morning, before the sun rose, they rode out. When they emerged from the cottonwoods, the peaks of Solomon’s Judgment stood ahead, black against the paling sky. Hutch reined in Goliath and sat for a moment, letting the sight fix in his mind. Somewhere up there, the drill was clattering, the travelling block lowering foot by foot.

Whitby let out a low whistle. “Lot different than when I was here last.”

Hutch glanced over, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah. Back then, it was just wind and rock and a busted rig. Now it’s a fight.”

Starsky shifted in his saddle, looking toward the high ridge. “And we’re still in it.”

The three of them sat there for a moment, the stillness broken only by the creak of leather and the faint rumble of water from the creek below. Then Hutch shook the reins and nudged Goliath forward, leading them toward the pass.

A sudden flash caught his eye—sunlight glancing off glass far up the valley. A lorry on the Thunder Creek road. Then another. And another. Dam materials, bound for the hoist.

“Seems a lot more traffic on that road now,” Starsky said.

Hutch nodded, unwilling to dwell on it. Already it was the fifteenth. Completion was supposed to be on the twentieth. Five days.

The climb took them through thick timber, the air cooling as the peaks rose ahead.

Thunderheads were building when they reached the timberline, the granite walls now cold and grey. Lightning forked across the summits, thunder rolling back through the valleys. Then came the hail—sheets of it rattling off hats and slickers—before a freak shaft of sunlight broke through as they crossed the Saddle.

An hour later, Moses’ bark echoed across the yard as they rode up to the ranch house. Kathy came in as they unsaddled, her eyes bright in the dim of the stable. Hutch gripped her arms, feeling the tremor of excitement in her.

“Have we brought in a well?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The boys are working shifts around the clock now. They’re determined, if it’s there, they’ll get down to it.” Her voice was tight, and when they stepped into the sunlight, he saw the tiredness in her face.

“What are they down to now?” Starsky asked.

“Six thousand four hundred.”

“Let’s go down to the rig,” Hutch said. “I’ve got mail for them, and a lot of newspapers.”

Kathy’s gaze shifted to the man standing quietly behind Starsky. “You going to introduce me?”

“This is Hal Whitby,” Starsky said. “He’s a reporter, Jeff Long sent him up.”

Whitby smiled politely, tipping his hat. “Mam.”

Kathy returned the smile. “Well, you came at the right time. They’ve nearly finished the dam,” Kathy said, nodding toward the valley. “Working at it like beavers. A week ago they took on fifty extra men.”

“When do they expect to complete it?” Starsky asked.

“In two days’ time.”

Two days. Hutch turned to Whitbyt. “You hear that? Two days.”

Whitby’s smile thinned. “It’ll be quite a race.”

——-

After putting the horses up, they made their way toward the rig. No one spoke. Across the deep grass came the steady clatter of steel on steel, the sound carrying clean on the still mountain air. To Hutch, it was almost music—but something was missing. His eyes went to the cleft between the peaks of Solomon’s Judgment.

“What’s happened to the cement mixers?” he asked.

“They stopped yesterday.” Kathy’s hand came up and gripped his arm. “They’ve finished concreting.”

He began to tell her about the sudden rush of publicity and the interview down below, but the words felt hollow. At the Kingdom, only one thing mattered: if there was oil, would they reach it in time?

The strain he’d seen in Kathy’s face was stamped into every man on the rig. They were pulling pipe when the trio arrived, Keogh working the draw works, Huggy acting as derrickman.

“Where are the others?” Starsky asked Kathy.

“Sleeping. I told you, they’re working round the clock now.”

As soon as the bit was changed and the drill started again, the whole crew drifted over, scanning the bundle of papers and letters they had brought, passing headlines from hand to hand. Whitby moved among them, peppering questions, while Hutch stood back, studying the quick, jerky way they spoke, the dark hollows under their eyes. Fatigue and hope, both strung tight, seemed to charge the air around the rig.

“Did you see Dobey?” Keogh came over, voice flat and clipped.

Hutch nodded.

“What did he say?”

“He’s been over the seismograms again. Thinks we’ll strike around seven thousand, or not at all.”

Keogh wiped the back of his wrist across his forehead. “We’ll be at seven thousand the day after tomorrow.”

“Have you taken a core sample since you got clear of the sill?”

“Yeah. I don’t know much about geology, but it looked like Devonian to me.”

“We’ll just have to make it,” Hutch said.

“Oh, sure. We’ll make it.” But Keogh’s tone carried no conviction. His face looked beaten, the lines deepened by hard sunlight.

Starsky came up beside Hutch. “Seen anything of Trevedian or Nick?”

“No. But he’s got a man posted on top of that buttress, watching us through glasses. If either bastard comes down here…” Keogh’s gaze went toward the dam. “I wish to God we had a geologist. If we strike, it could be gas—and we’ll blow the rig to hell.”

“If you do strike,” Hutch told him, “you won’t need to worry about the rig.”

“It’s not the rig I’m worried about,” Keogh shot back. “It’s the crew.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Never drilled a well without knowing what was going on underneath.”

The brittle edge in his manner matched what Hutch saw in every man’s posture. Nine men to keep the rig running twenty-four hours a day. Four to a shift. It meant that by evening, Hutch, Starsky, and Whitby were drafted in.

Fortunately for Starsky and Whitby, the soft ground meant their inexperience wasn’t tested, the pipe was only pulled every other day, and the roughnecks mostly stood by until the travelling block came down to the turntable, adding another length. Hutch, Starsky, and Keogh worked the eight-to-midnight shift, caught a few hours of sleep, then were shaken awake at four to do it all again. By the time they came off duty at midnight, they shared a thin dinner and collapsed into their bunks, Starsky had begun to understand the kind of strain the others had been under.

Chapter 58

Starsky and Hutch had barely been asleep an hour when a knock sounded on their door.

“Hutch.” Kathy’s voice came through the wood.

Hutch rolled out of bed while Starsky blinked at the ceiling, trying to figure out what hour it was.

“Starsky’s brother is here,” Kathy said when Hutch cracked the door. “Wants to speak with him.”

That got him upright. “Nicky?”

By the time he pulled on his boots and made it to the main room, Nick was standing with a county deputy, as if he owned the place. Kathy was there, and so were Hal Whitby and Keogh, the latter holding a sheet of paper like it had teeth.

“Gunther’s just served us with notice to quit,” Keogh said, shoving it into Hutch’s hand.

Starsky leaned over his shoulder, reading fast. The words punched through the sleep-fog: flooding after the 18th of August, Gunther Company letterhead, Peter Trevedian’s signature.

Hutch didn’t bother hiding the edge in his voice. “The dam’s complete, is it?”

Nick gave a little shrug. “Just about.”

“When are you closing the sluice gates?”

“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after. Soon as we’re ready.” He turned to the deputy. “Well, Eddie, you’ve seen the note delivered. Anything you want to say?”

The deputy shook his head, looking at Starsky now. “You’ve read the notice. As of ten tomorrow morning, Gunther’s got the right to flood this area. From then on, they’re not responsible for any loss of equipment.”

“Meaning the rig,” Starsky said flatly.

The deputy gave him a look that was half apology, half resignation. “That’s right.”

The drilling crew had drifted in to listen, silent and watchful. Starsky could feel their thoughts—two and a half months working for nothing but the gamble, and now maybe losing the whole shot.

Nick must’ve felt it too, because his voice turned cautious. “Well, I guess we’d better get going.”

The deputy nodded. They both left, and the air in the room stayed heavy. No one moved until Keogh muttered, “Better get some sleep, boys. Some of you are on in an hour and a half.”

Hal Whitby asked the question everyone was thinking. “Any chance of bringing in a well between now and ten tomorrow?”

Keogh spun on him. “If I knew that, you think we’d be standing here like steers in the slaughterhouse?” He stormed out toward the bunkhouse.

When Starsky and Hutch went on shift at noon, the drill was down to six thousand six hundred and twenty-two feet. Four hours later, they’d managed another forty-three feet. The heat was savage, sweat soaking his shirt by the time they added another length of pipe.

Hutch stood outside after, staring toward the dam. Starsky followed his gaze. The place was dead quiet, no machinery, no movement, just that glint of glass from the buttress where they knew somebody was watching.

“I don’t like it,” Huggy said, coming up behind them.

“What don’t you like?” Hutch asked.

“Feels like foul weather. Mountains burnin’ in the heat, no thunderheads. It’s…” Huggy cut himself off, shook his head, and walked away.

Starsky didn’t like it either. Sleep didn’t come easily, the air too thick, the nerves too wound.

That night at dinner, nobody had much to say. They sat listening for any change in the rig’s rhythm, the kind that meant they’d hit pay dirt. Nothing came.

By midnight, when they returned to their shift, Kathy was standing by the stable, looking up at the moon. They stood with her for a moment.

There was a ring around the moon, a dampness in the heat.

“Something’s gotta break soon,” Kathy whispered. “I can’t stand this suspense any longer.”

“It’ll be over tomorrow,” Hutch told her. “One way or the other.”

She nodded, then went back to her bed.

At the rig, Keogh worked the draw works, and Hutch worked in the derrick. Starsky sat on the bench beside Huggy, feeling the drill’s vibration through the steel.

“Odd how the moon’s shining on the ground below the dam,” Keogh said.

“Mist rising,” Huggy guessed.

“Maybe… looks like water to me.”

A breath of wind touched Starsky’s cheek. “What’s that beyond Solomon’s Judgment?” Starsky asked. “Looks like a cloud.”

They all stared toward the peaks. The sky beyond was black, starless. The wind picked up, cooler now.

“It’s the storm,” Huggy said.

The first thing Starsky heard was the change in the draw works’ diesel—something different, a sluggish drag that deepened the engine’s tone. Hutch shouted, Garry’s voice roared for the mud pump, and then everything broke loose.

“Run, everyone off the platform.” Hutch’s voice cut through the pounding in Starsky’s ears.

Huggy yelled, “God! We’ve struck it!” and they were all scrambling, boots hammering the ladder, leaping for the ground. Starsky’s feet hit boggy earth that sucked at his steps. He stumbled, caught hard by Hutch’s grip, then the sting of cold water hit his face. For a heartbeat, he thought they’d reached the stream, until he saw the others stop, all of them staring back at the rig.

The grief stem was rising, slow and terrible, pushing the travelling block higher until it hung at the crown. Then, with a shriek of tearing steel, the whole rig lifted clear of the ground, hung there, and toppled in a crash that seemed to shake the Kingdom. The draw works, suddenly freed, spun themselves into a mad clatter.

The clouds broke for a minute, and in the brilliant moonlight, it looked unreal, like a trick of the eye. Starsky turned with the others, transfixed, as the pipe began to squeeze out of the ground, slow at first, like toothpaste from a tube. For one suspended moment, it writhed and twisted in the air like some great steel snake. Then the roar came, like a hundred express trains, and the length blasted clear.

A heavy hand clamped his shoulder. Keogh’s face, pale in the flarelight, loomed close. “Well, we struck it.” His voice shook.

Starsky swallowed. “You mean oil?”

“We’ve struck gas. Oil’s down there too, I’d bet.”

Hutch’s smile caught in the shadows, the kind that warmed his face even in the silver wash of moonlight. “Doesn’t look like it’s done your rig much good,” he said, and Starsky heard the dry humor under it, the easy jab meant for Keogh. They both knew the wreck didn’t matter now.

Keogh laughed then, high, unsteady, giddy. “To hell with the rig. We proved there’s oil in the Kingdom.”

The first drop hit cold on Starsky’s cheek, but the second came harder, and by the time he looked up, the sky had opened. Sheets of water poured down, drumming on the twisted wreck of the rig, splattering against their boots, running in rivulets through the mud. The flarelight turned each drop to silver, the whole scene glowing like some wild dream.

Keogh’s laughter was still ringing in his ears, high and half-mad, and suddenly it was contagious. Huggy whooped, throwing his arms up to the sky. Hutch pounded Keogh on the back, both of them soaked to the skin in seconds.

Starsky tipped his head back, letting the rain stream over his face. He felt Hutch’s hand grip his arm, solid, warm, grounding, and then they were all shouting over the roar of the storm.

Someone started spinning in the mud, boots kicking up spray, and the next thing Starsky knew, he was grinning like an idiot, stomping through puddles, the grit and fatigue washed clean for just a heartbeat.

Hutch grabbed him in a dripping bear hug. “We did it!” he bellowed over the rain. “We proved it!”

Starsky laughed, breathless, the sound torn away by the downpour. “Yeah…we did.” He stepped back and looked at Hutch, who was standing with his hair plastered to his head, water running down his jaw, but smiling, a real smile this time, not the grim, tight one from the past couple of days.

For a few minutes, the wrecked rig didn’t matter. Trevedian’s deadline didn’t matter. The Kingdom was alive under their feet, and the rain felt like it was baptizing the whole mountain.

Chapter 59

Somehow, they made it back to the ranch-house, stumbling through blinding rain and wind, lightning flaring over the peaks, and thunder rolling so close it felt like the ground itself shook.

No one was up. The place had the silent, abandoned air of a house left to the weather. They stripped down, built a fire, and huddled close with a bottle of rye Huggy had dug up. There was no point in waking the others; the storm was too heavy to let anyone see the well, and it was madness to try leading them out in it. The heat from the fire seeped into their bones, and the whisky dulled the edge of their exhaustion; eventually, they drifted off where they sat or lay. Hutch ended up stretched out on the floor under the table, while Starsky made it to the nearby couch.

When Starsky’s eyes finally closed, the last thing he thought was that everything would be all right now. The oil was there. His grandfather’s belief had been right all along. His own fight had been worth it.

It was Kathy who woke them. She came in buzzing with excitement, shaking Starsky until his eyes opened. He felt leaden with fatigue, and when his gaze landed on Hutch, still lying on the floor, his hair mussed, his expression sour, something about it struck him as absurd. He batted at Kathy’s hand and tried to burrow back into the pillow.

“Quick, something’s happened,” she urged.

“I know,” Hutch mumbled without lifting his head. “Didn’t wake you because of the storm.”

“No, you’re not listening,” Kathy cut in, sharper now. “Something is wrong.”

The urgency in her voice finally broke through the fog in Starsky’s brain. He pushed himself upright, reached for his coat, and glanced at Hutch. The blond was already dragging himself to his feet, the last scraps of sleep clinging stubbornly to him. Without another word, they followed Kathy toward the front door.

Starsky didn’t know what he’d expected it to look like by daylight, but when he reached the window and looked out across the Kingdom, grey and rain-swept, his breath caught. The sight hit like a punch.

There was no sign of the gas flare. No sign they’d ever drilled there or that a rig had stood on that ground. Beyond the barns, water stretched in a wide, churning sheet all the way to the mountain slopes on the far side. The Kingdom, his Kingdom, was half drowned. Wind tore across the surface, ploughing it into waves and flecking the crests with white.

A sick heaviness pulled at his chest. “Oh, God,” he whispered, dropping his head into his arms.

Beside him, Hutch’s breath hissed out between his teeth. Then, without a word, he crossed the room in three long strides, wrenched the door open, and stepped out onto the porch. The wind caught his coat and snapped it around his legs, rain pelting him in cold, needling sheets. He stood there for a long moment, shoulders squared against the gale, staring toward the water as if he could hold it back by sheer will.

When he finally looked over at Starsky through the open doorway, there was no disbelief left, only a hard, tight anger that matched the storm.

—-

Hal Whitby did his best to picture the well blowing in the way Starsky and Hutch described, but Starsky could see he wasn’t convinced. It wasn’t that Hal thought they were crooks inventing a story to back up something they knew wasn’t true; it was more that he understood how tightly wound they all were. In that state, a man could see something that hadn’t happened at all. Hal kept his voice polite as they went over every detail, but every so often he’d cut in with, “Yeah, I know, but I’ve got to convince my editor,” or, “Sure, I believe you, but show me something concrete so I can prove it really happened.”

Concrete proof was the one thing they didn’t have. Soaked to the skin, they trudged the new shoreline of the lake, scanning for the telltale slick of oil. They stood at the spot where the rig had been, searching for gas bubbles rising to the surface of the water. But the wind drove little whitecaps across the surface, and even through binoculars, there was nothing to see. The memory of that gas jet flaring against the night sky faded with each passing hour, until even those who’d witnessed it began to wonder if it had been real.

Keogh stood there in the rain, cursing steadily, the water streaming down his lined face in a way that made it look like he was crying. They huddled in a tight knot at the edge of the sudden lake, faces as gray as the low clouds shrouding the mountains across the water. Exhaustion and despair clung to them like the wet clothes on their backs. Starsky thought they looked like a shipwrecked crew, half-drowned, battered, and barely upright.

“If only they’d waited until the time they said,” Huggy murmured.

“They could see it blow in the same as we did,” Keogh said, turning toward Starsky. “Remember the water we hit when we got clear of the rig? And that moonlight on it? They were flooding even then, flooding right up to the rig, just in case. And when they saw it go…” He gave a sharp shrug, bitterness hard in his voice. “God dammit. One more day. That’s all it would’ve taken.”

“Our only shot now,” Hutch cut in, “is to make ’em drain the Kingdom. Any independent judge could tell at a glance we struck oil-bearing ground.”

“How?” Hal asked.

“How? By the way the pipe’s bent, you fool. By the way, the rig’s smashed.” Keogh’s voice was high and taut, the strain pulling his words tight. “Come on, let’s go have a word with the bastards.”

Hutch cut in before the momentum carried Keogh too far. “No,” he said evenly, meeting Starsky’s eyes over Keogh’s shoulder. “Just the two of us will go.”

Starsky understood without needing an explanation. They didn’t need a whole crew stomping up there, not with tempers already on a hair trigger.

Keogh’s jaw flexed, but Hutch’s tone left no room for argument. “All right,” Starsky said, glancing back at him, “but we do it without throwing the first punch.”

Hutch gave a short nod, jaw set, the faintest hint of a wry twist to his mouth. “That’s the plan,” he said quietly, though they both knew how quickly plans had a way of changing.

They saddled two horses and set off along the lakeshore, riding under the black bulk of the buttress and across slick rock outcrops. The wind whipped at their coats, bringing the smell of wet stone and silt. As they neared the dam, a small knot of figures came into view at the water’s edge. Nicky stood in the center, sharp-eyed and watchful, with the deputy from the day before beside him, and two men with rifles slung over their shoulders.

For a long moment, Hutch and Starsky sat on their horses, the wind snapping at their coats, staring at the group as the group stared back. Starsky could see the tightness in Hutch’s jaw, the heat building behind his eyes.

“What the hell do you mean by drowning the rig?” Hutch’s voice cracked the air like a whip. “You gave us till ten this morning.”

“My warning referred to the house and buildings.” Nicky glanced at his watch, unhurried. “It’s now nine-twenty. You’ve got forty minutes to get clear of the buildings.”

Starsky leaned forward in the saddle, his voice sharp. “What right did you have to flood before…”

“You could have moved the rig beforehand, Davey,” Nicky cut in, cool as ever. “Since you didn’t, I’ve no doubt the courts will include the value in your compensation.”

Starsky turned to the deputy. “Were you up here last night when they began flooding?”

The man shook his head. “No. I came up this morning in case there was trouble.”

“Well, there’s going to be plenty of trouble,” Hutch said, his voice low and dangerous. “You realise you’ve drowned an oil well. We struck it at approximately two-fifteen this morning.”

Nicky laughed dismissively. “That’s a mighty good story, boys.”

“You know damn well it’s true,” Starsky shot back. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t see it from here.”

“I didn’t see anything.” Nicky turned to his men. “Did you?” They both shook their heads, obedient as dogs. “They were with me when I followed orders to close the sluices,” he added with a thin smile. “We were watching to make sure you got clear of the water. Saw nothing unusual.”

Starsky’s temper broke. “By God, you crooked little liar, don’t ever let me get my hands on you or I’ll wring your neck.”

“It seems I was right to have police protection.” Nicky glanced at his watch again. “Better get your things clear of the ranch buildings, Davey. I’m going to finish flooding.” He turned away, the deputy falling in beside him.

“Just a minute,” Hutch called after them. “What time did you get up here?”

“Eight o’clock,” the deputy replied without slowing.

“And you weren’t here when the order to flood was given?”

“No. Mr. Trevedian didn’t expect any trouble until this morning.”

“You mean he was ready to handle it himself during the night?” Starsky pressed.

The deputy shrugged. “My orders were to be here at eight.”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed. “Are you here as an official of the county sheriff, or did the company hire you as a watchdog?”

“Both,” the deputy said tersely.

“I see. In other words, you take your orders from Trevedian.” Hutch gave a curt nod. “That’s all I needed to know.” He turned his horse toward the lake. “We’re wasting our time here,” he told Starsky. “This’ll have to be fought in the courts.”

—-

When they got back to the ranch-house, the news hit like another blow. The water was rising again. Someone had driven a stake into the lake’s edge, and even as they stood there, the line of wet crept past it. Within minutes, the stake stood several feet out in the shallows.

After that, there was no time to brood. Everyone turned to salvaging what they could. Huggy’s trucks were loaded with gear and whatever could be pried loose from the house and barns, the tires groaning under the weight. Kathy and Hutch found an old wagon in the shed, got the team harnessed, and between them managed to haul out a heap of Joshua’s things, what little of his life the flood hadn’t yet claimed.

When the rain finally eased and a pale, watery sun broke through, they’d set up camp in the shelter of the trees. The fire burned low and steady, the steam from their mugs of tea curling into the damp air. From there, they watched the lake stretch itself farther and farther, creeping up to the ends of the barns, its thin, grasping fingers slipping around the back of the ranch house.

By midday, the home Joshua had built with his own hands stood a quarter mile out in open water. The wind ran hard across the surface, chopping it white and restless. For five miles in every direction, there was nothing left but water.

The Kingdom was gone.

Chapter 60

Hutch didn’t know if it was the months of strain catching up or the body’s surrender after losing everything, but Starsky looked emptied out, like something vital had slipped away. They made a bed for him in the back of Huggy’s instrument truck, layering what blankets they had until it was at least tolerably comfortable. Starsky drifted into a shallow, uneasy half-sleep, stirring now and then to mumble something, take a sip of water, or answer a question without opening his eyes. Hutch stayed close, sitting on the tailgate through most of the night.

The moon was bright enough to silver the world, and when Hutch turned his head, he could see across the drowned Kingdom. The water gleamed in cold light. Where the ranch house had stood, Joshua’s house, there was nothing. It was gone as though it had never been, the last trace of the man who’d raised Hutch swallowed without ceremony.

By morning, Kathy and Hutch agreed to stay another day to give Starsky a chance to rest. He was better, but only in the barest sense, still bone-tired, sleeping in snatches, the fight in him dulled. Huggy went up to the dam, called Trevedian from the control room, and returned with orders: the trucks were to be at the hoist by midday the next day.

When Hutch told Starsky, something in him seemed to fold in on itself. He didn’t argue, didn’t curse, just lay back and closed his eyes. Hutch tried to reassure him, discussing the lawyers, the compensation, and the way the courts would handle it, but the words felt thin even in his own mouth. They both knew this was the end of the Kingdom, and that the rest would be decided in a courtroom that smelled of dust and paper.

Hal tried to lift the mood, insisting he could whip up public outrage. “Joshua’s grandson, sick, no roof over his head because of these bastards… Don’t worry. Gunther’ll have half the continent on his back when I’m done. And I’ve got pictures, before the flooding, and from last November.”

The next morning, they started for the dam. The lake had forced them into the rough country at the foot of the mountains. In places, they had to heave boulders out of the way; in others, the timber came right down to the water’s edge, and they spent an hour hacking a path wide enough for the trucks. Starsky began the trip in the instrument truck, but before long, he got out and mounted his horse, saying the jolting was harder on him than the miles on horseback.

It was well after midday when their group rounded the base of the buttress and pulled up at the barbed wire. Not a soul was in sight on the dam or around the concrete hoist housing. The place looked dead, still as a photograph.

They waited a while, blowing the truck’s horns and calling out into the heat. Nothing answered but the echo off the rock. At last, they found a join in the wire, rolled it back, and drove through. Hutch had stowed every rifle out of sight under a heap of bedding, the revolver heavy in his pocket. The drillers, worn down and sour, carried the kind of mood that could turn bad fast, and the last thing he wanted was for this to turn into gunplay.

They rattled up to the cable terminal. Still no one. The sun beat down off the concrete, baking the smell of wet stone and steel into the air. Huggy went down the concrete steps into the bowels of the dam while the rest of them stood on the flat top, squinting at the still, glaring lake. It lay pressed against the wall of the dam, the surface a dull, metallic sheen. On the far side, Thunder Valley dropped away into shadow so deep it looked bottomless.

Starsky shifted his weight, uneasy. There was something about the silence here that didn’t feel natural, as if the whole place were holding its breath.

A minute later, Huggy climbed back up, frowning. “Not a soul down there,” he said. “And all the sluices are wide open.”

Hutch’s head came up at that, eyes narrowing against the sun. “Wide open?”

“Every last one,” Huggy said, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Hutch didn’t answer Huggy right away, his gaze still fixed on the quiet lake straining against the dam. When he finally looked at Starsky, his jaw was set. “This isn’t right,” he said. “Something’s off here. Way off.”

Starsky asked, “Isn’t there a phone down in the control room?”

Huggy nodded grimly. “Tried it. No one picked up. Felt dead.”

They stood there in a tight knot, voices low, weighing their next move. The sun bore down, heat bouncing off the concrete in waves.

Garry broke the stillness. “Well, the cage is here. Might as well start loading the first truck.”

They all agreed, and Huggy turned toward the instrument truck. At that moment, there was a sharp crack of splintering stone that split the air. A roar followed, low at first, then rising, mixed with a faint, panicked shout.

From the side of the cleft, a man clawed his way upward, moving fast and wild-eyed. Hutch recognized him as one of the dam engineers. Behind him came two guards and another engineer, all three running flat-out toward them. Their faces were bloodless, their expressions carved from fear.

“What happened?” Starsky shouted to the men as they stopped in front of them.

“The dam!” the first man yelled back, breath ragged. “There’s a crack, it’s leaking! The whole thing could give any minute!” His voice pitched high, carrying the raw edge of terror.

The words seemed to hang in the hot air. For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

“Can’t you drop the pressure?” Hutch asked.

“Gates are already wide open,” the man shot back.

“Have you warned the crews down below?” Starsky demanded.

The engineer shook his head, almost wringing his hands. “No, the phone line was cut in that storm two nights ago. There are nearly a hundred men on the slide where the powerhouse is going in. If it goes…” He didn’t finish.

“What about the cable house phone?” Hutch cut in.

“Yes, yes, but…” The man’s voice faltered. “I don’t think there’s anyone in the lower housing until six tonight.”

The group broke into a dozen voices at once, questions and curses tangling in the air. Hutch didn’t join in. His gaze had gone back to the lake, six miles of water, two hundred feet deep in the center. If that wall gave way, the flood would hit like a hammer from the sky, and nothing in its path would stand. Looking up at the dam, it seemed solid enough, an unbroken sweep of concrete stretching clean across the cleft, smooth and strong as if it could hold back an ocean.

The engineers were already scrambling down to see the damage. Hutch went after them, Starsky slithering down beside him. From halfway up the dam, they could see it clearly: a fifty-foot jet of water blasting from a jagged tear midway down the face, the spray catching the sunlight in a ghostly shimmer. Around the rupture, deep cracks spidered through the surface, bleeding water in steady, seeping streams. Below, the sluice gates roared, adding their force to the outflow.

Hutch leaned close, shouting into Starsky’s ear over the deafening thunder. “It’s that cement they used when they built it, old stock, already breaking down. The damn fools!”

They turned from the sight, the weight of it sitting cold in Hutch’s chest, when one of the engineers who’d gone to call down to the bottom hoist came sliding down from the hoist house. His face was pale, and his voice was raw. “There’s nobody there,” he gasped.

“Then go down and warn them,” Hutch fired back.

The man’s reply was almost a scream. “There’s nobody down there! No one’s answering the telephone, there’s no one to work the engine!”

——

Starsky kept glancing up toward the hoist, remembering that night he and Hutch had gone over the cradle together, checking for any kind of safety rig that could bring the cage down if the engine died. Back then, it had been just a precaution. Now it felt like the only thing between them and disaster.

“How long before this dam goes?” Starsky asked the engineer.

“I don’t know. It could go any minute… or maybe hold until we drain the lake.”

“It won’t do that. Look.” Hutch was leaning over the edge, pointing. The great thundering jet of brownish water was wider now than it had been minutes ago, throwing spray into the sunlight.

Starsky’s stomach knotted. “Why isn’t anyone doing something about the boys down below?”

“What can we do?” the engineer shot back, voice sharp with panic. “We’ve no phone, no way to reach them.”

Starsky saw Hutch moving along the ridge, already sizing up the fastest way to the hoist. “Come on,” Starsky called, and together they climbed the side of the cleft toward the cradle. He climbed in after Hutch.

“Hand me that bit of timber, Starsk,” Hutch said once they climbed into the cage.

Starsky passed it up, watching as Hutch swung it against the locking pins. Metal clanged, each pin dropping to the floor until the last one fell away. Starsky’s hand was already curled tight around the brake lever, waiting.

Hutch glanced at him. “Okay, let’s go.”

Starsky nodded and eased back on the brake. The cable slid free with a hiss, the cage jolting hard as it caught the line. Steel shuddered as the suspension cable groaned under the weight. It crept forward, metal grinding into the gorge, then picked up speed.

A thin breath of wind rose to meet them as they moved out over open space, the hoist platform already shrinking behind into the heat haze. For a moment, it reminded him of the roller coasters at Coney Island, those long, rattling climbs followed by the lurch into open air, the rails humming under the cars, the sense of hanging for just a breath before the drop. Only this time, there was no painted track, no laughing crowd, and the fall waiting below wasn’t make-believe.

The dam lay off to their right, the wall now starred with cracks, the brown water spouting high and furious from the rent. Starsky couldn’t look at it for long without imagining the whole thing tearing wide open, an avalanche of water thundering through, screaming past just under their feet before dropping in a monstrous fall over the lip of the fault.

Chapter 61

Starsky’s knuckles were white on the brake lever, the cable thrumming under his grip as the hoist cage crept toward the pylon. The drop beyond was a sheer, sun-baked cliff, the valley spilling wide and deep like a wound.

Hutch leaned out, scanning the slopes. “There, past those rocks. You can just make out the slide.”

Starsky saw it then, a scatter of ant-sized men working in the glare, shovels flashing. “If that dam goes, they’re right in the path.”

“Ease her past the pylon,” Hutch said, bracing a hand on the frame.

Starsky inched the rope forward. The cradle tipped, sliding them toward open air. The steel groaned, the suspension cable singing under the weight. His stomach tightened, every muscle screaming to hold them back. The only thing between them and a thousand feet of nothing was the crude brake in his hand.

“Steady,” Hutch muttered. “We’ve got to get close enough that they can hear.”

Starsky swallowed hard, forced his grip to loosen, and the cage slid free of the cliff. The wind rose to meet them, hot and resinous from the pines below.

He leaned forward and bellowed, “Get to higher ground! Back to the camp!”

Faces turned upward, pale in the sun. Some shaded their eyes, others just stared.

Hutch cupped his hands and roared, “The dam’s breaking! Move!” His voice cracked off the rock walls, but still no rush of panic, just men looking, then turning back to their work.

“Either they don’t believe us,” Starsky said, jaw tight, “or they’re deaf.”

“Then we tell ’em up close,” Hutch shot back.

Starsky eased off the brake, letting the cage drop faster until the heat from the rocks slapped their faces and the smell of pine closed in. They slid into the housing with a jolt, both men out in the same instant, pounding up the road toward the trucks.

A driver looked up from his load as Starsky swung onto the running board. “Get this rig back to base camp!” he shouted, leaning on the horn. “The dam’s going, get everyone out!”

Hutch was already waving his arms, shouting to the men higher on the slide. “You want to die down here? Move!”

This time, the crews started to shift, the first ripple of urgency breaking the stillness of the sun-baked slope.

Then Nick was there. He came striding out from between two trucks, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, the same sharp jaw as Starsky but set in anger. “What are you?” he bellowed at the workers. “A bunch of yellow-bellies, running for the trees ’cause my brother’s got a grudge over the Kingdom? He’s sore about us drowning that patch of dirt, so he comes down here hollering about a crack in the dam? He’s a screwball, you know that. Hell, he’s been chasing ghost oil for months.”

The workers faltered again. Nick turned on Starsky, eyes like gunmetal. “You get the hell out of here, Davey.”

Starsky’s gaze flicked up toward the peaks. The white plume spilling down the face of the fault was wider now, he was sure of it. His legs felt leaden. “Do you think I’d risk riding the hoist on the brake, leaving my friends up there, if this wasn’t real? That hole’s bigger now. Every minute…”

Hutch stepped in, voice sharp. “Move, all of you. Now.” When they still hesitated, he drew his Colt and fired a shot over their heads. The crack ricocheted off the rock walls. That broke them, men bolting in a tight knot toward the timberline.

Nick’s revolver came up almost in the same breath. The shot was sharp, close. Hutch grunted, stumbling back against a boulder, one hand clamped over his thigh as blood spread dark through the fabric.

“Hutch!” Starsky was already at his side.

“I’ve got it,” Hutch said between clenched teeth, fumbling for his belt.

“You’re bleeding bad,” Starsky muttered, ripping off his belt and cinching it high above the wound. Hutch hissed, breath hissing between his teeth, but the flow slowed under the pressure. Starsky glanced up, eyes locked on his brother. “Why, Nick

Nick didn’t lower his revolver. His voice was flat at first, but it carried the old sting of New York streets and years of bad blood. “He pulled a gun on me and my men. He was shooting at them. Self-defense.” Then his mouth curled, and the words came out like a spit of sour wine. “Besides, trespassers don’t get a free pass, Davey. Even if they are family.”

The word family had the same weight as a curse. He let it hang there before stepping closer. “You remember what that’s worth? Pop killing himself ’cause our grandfather and his crooked deals dragged him into jail? You were always too good, always trying to ‘save’ me from the next hustle.” Nick’s eyes flicked toward Hutch. “Looks like you never learned..still picking the wrong side.”

Starsky kept his voice level. “We were trying to warn you about the dam.”

“That dam’s fine,” Nick snapped. “Government engineers inspected it at every stage. We had our own men check it before we finished the job.” He shook his head hard. “I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it.” He turned to the man beside him. “We’ll try the hoist phone, see what’s going on. If that’s dead, I’m going up there myself. You run the engine for me?”

“Don’t be a fool, Nick,” Starsky said, moving in fast. He grabbed his brother’s arm and yanked him around. “Every moment you waste…”

Nick’s fist caught him in the gut, then the jaw. Starsky hit the ground hard. “Go to hell, Davey.” He spat the words, then turned away with his man in tow, running for the cable terminal. Starsky thought about raising his gun, but the moment was gone; Nick was already out of range.

Starsky pushed himself up and staggered back to Hutch, hauling him to his feet. “You’re heavier than you look,” Starsky panted. Hutch gave a short, pained laugh, leaning on him. They started toward the timber, moving in jolts, Starsky glancing back every few steps.

Then, Starsky heard it, a deep, rolling boom that didn’t belong to wind or falling rock. It was the kind of sound he’d only heard before in war, when high explosives ripped open a ridge or a shell landed too close. The air seemed to tighten a second before it hit, and then the concussion rolled through his chest.

He glanced up and froze.

The cage was halfway to the top when the mountainside above it tore open. A black seam split wide, and the dam gave way in a single, blinding instant. The pylon vanished under an exploding wall of water and shattered rock, a churning brown torrent hurled into the air as if the earth itself had ruptured. The roar was instant and deafening, rolling down the gorge like the sky collapsing in on itself. Spray burst outward in a blinding sheet, and the cliff face shuddered as tons of rock tore free.

The flood poured into the fault in a single, unstoppable surge, battering ledges into rubble, ripping trees from their roots. The cable snapped with a sound like a gunshot, the cage swinging once before it was swallowed whole.

The water came in layers, first the white-laced crest that smashed ahead of the main body, then the dense, grinding mass behind it, heavy with rock and timber. Each collision sent gouts of foam rocketing skyward. The ground under Starsky’s boots seemed to tremble with the weight of it.

“Move!” he shouted, pulling Hutch along. The air filled with grit and the sour, wet stench of pulverized earth. The valley’s walls threw the sound back at them, thunder upon thunder, a continuous roar that drowned thought.

They had nearly reached cover when the flood’s fringe reached them, a curling, foaming snarl of water and splintered trunks. Starsky wrapped an arm around Hutch’s waist and felt Hutch do the same, then the torrent hit, and the world became water, noise, and the hammering impact of debris.

The impact ripped Hutch from his arms, tore Starsky’s footing out from under him, and spun him sideways. It was like taking the full force of a demolition blast, mud, rock, and shattered timber slamming into him from every angle. The shock punched through his ribs and into his spine, leaving him weightless in a boiling chaos of water.

He kicked upward, desperate for air, lungs searing as the roar filled his skull, like the sound of a thousand shells falling at once, a barrage that never stopped. Every direction felt the same: water, darkness, crushing force. No up. No down. Just the blind need to break the surface before his chest exploded.

Something slammed into his shoulder and spun him again, the current tumbling him end over end. His ears roared, his eyes stung, and every muscle screamed for oxygen. Then, movement against his arm. Fabric. He clawed for it, fingers locking onto the soaked cloth of a jacket. He knew it had to be Hutch, believed it was with the same certainty he believed the flood would kill them if he let go.

He pulled the weight in close, locking on with both hands, refusing to release as the current battered them against jagged stone. His lungs burned white-hot, his vision flashing at the edges, but then the flood shifted, the force lessening. His boots scraped rock. He staggered to his feet, nearly toppling again as pain knifed up his right leg.

Branches whipped around them, one catching over his shoulder like a lifeline. He hooked his arm over it, bracing them both in the churning water, holding on with the grip of a man who knew a second slip would mean being carried away for good.

When awareness returned, he was lying on sodden earth, still clutching the branch with his left hand, his right hand knotted in Hutch’s jacket. Hutch was face down beside him, a jagged cut along his jaw deep enough to show bone.

Only a few yards below, Thunder Creek had become a raging cataract a thousand yards wide, the slide transformed into a monstrous series of falls and rapids. In the center of the brown, boiling rush, boulders ground their way downstream through a churn of foam, and on the fringes, timber and brush had been scoured clean to bare rock.

Starsky stared through a blur of pain at the peaks of Solomon’s Judgment, at the lake still spilling through the shattered cleft, felt the sun burning down, and passed out again.

It was pain that brought him round, voices filtering in through the haze.

“It’s his leg all right,” someone said, distant and unreal. “This one over here has been shot in the leg.”

They moved him, and he screamed as the agony ripped up his side, sparks flaring white in his head. Hours blurred into a rhythm of unconsciousness and pain, truck engines and shouting voices, the taste of brandy against his teeth, the sharp smell of ether, and finally the cold jab of a needle.

Chapter 62

When Hutch woke, he found himself in a small room where the blinds were drawn against the sunlight. The air was heavy with the faint tang of disinfectant, the quiet so absolute it seemed unreal after the roar that still echoed in his head.

There was a movement beside him, and a hand closed over his. He turned his head slowly and heavily, and saw Kathy leaning over him. Her face was pale and drawn, but her eyes warmed when she smiled.

“Hey there,” she said softly.

He tried to smile back, but the skin on his face pulled tight, making him grimace. His hand started to lift toward the ache, but Kathy caught it and gently set it back across his stomach.

“You’re safe,” she murmured, reaching for a glass on the bedside table. She helped him take a sip of water. The coolness was almost startling, and he swallowed carefully, the dryness in his mouth easing a little.

He tried to move, but his body felt leaden. His right leg was heavy and unresponsive, his chest stiff, every breath edged with pain.

“I’m in the hospital, aren’t I?” His voice was hoarse.

She nodded. “You’ve been shot in the leg; it should heal if you rest. You’ve also got a nasty cut on your face, lucky you didn’t crack your skull, and three broken ribs. The doctor says you’ll be fine in a week or two.”

The words settled slowly in his mind, rippling the edges of memory. Water hammering down. The mountainside splitting apart. A deafening roar. Nick’s face twisted in anger, and the sharp crack of a gun.

Hutch tried to thread the fragments together. “The dam…” His brow furrowed. “It was breaking. Starsky and I…” He broke off, panic flashing in his eyes. “Wait. Starsky. Where is he?”

Kathy’s expression softened. “He’s fine. Same grocery list of injuries you’ve got,” she said, tilting her head toward the other bed.

Hutch turned his head to see Starsky asleep, leg in traction, head and arm wrapped in clean bandages.

Kathy’s voice drew him back. “Rest. He’ll be here when you wake up.”

His shoulders eased, though his mind was still hazy. “Dam broke,” he murmured, the words barely more than a whisper.

She squeezed his hand gently. “That’s right. It’s over now.”

Hutch let himself sink back as Kathy kept talking, something about the rig, newspaper men, and word already spreading they’d struck oil, but it faded into the background. The only thing that stayed sharp was the image of Starsky, breathing in quiet, unbroken rhythm.

The darkness pulled him under, and this time, he didn’t fight it.

When Hutch woke again, the room was dark. The blinds let in only a faint wash of streetlight, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. He tried to push himself up, but the stab in his ribs stopped him cold, a cold sweat prickling his skin. He lay still, breathing through the pain, eyes open to the nothingness.

Somewhere far off, a train hooted, the long note drifting in. A moment later came the distant rattle of wheels on the points, fading into the night.

He turned his head. Starsky lay in the bed beside him, pale against the dim light. At first, Hutch thought he was asleep, but then the faint glint of open eyes caught him.

“You awake?” Hutch’s voice was little more than a rasp.

“Yeah.” Starsky’s reply was low, rough. “You look lousy.”

“Right back at you.” Hutch let a slight smile tug at his mouth, but Starsky didn’t return it.

Silence stretched for a while, broken only by the hum of the hospital. Then Starsky said, “I keep wondering if it was all worth it. The well. Putting all of you in danger. Maybe it would’ve been easier if I’d gone… Quick. Over before I knew it.” His tone was flat, almost matter-of-fact.

Hutch felt his jaw tighten. “You don’t mean that.”

Starsky’s gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling. “Don’t I? We’ve lost everything. Everything we were fighting for. Gone, Hutch. And I’m still on borrowed time. But while working that rig and chasing the well, I forgot about it. Felt almost… normal. But now…” His voice trailed off, heavy with something Hutch didn’t want to name.

Hutch kept his voice steady. “We got the men out. We brought in the well. That’s worth something. You’re worth something. And you’re here. That’s all I care about.”

Starsky didn’t answer right away, then the barest ghost of a smile. “Yeah,” he said finally, almost as if humoring Hutch.

The train was gone now, leaving the quiet behind. Hutch let his eyes close, but his thoughts stayed with that tired flicker of a smile, holding onto it like a promise neither of them was ready to break.

Slowly, light filtered into the room, day breaking grey and thick with cloud mist. Hutch dozed in and out, dimly aware of movement in the hospital. Before long, a nurse bustled in with two trays.

“Well, how are the great oil men this morning?” she chirped.

Hutch and Starsky just stared at her. She laughed. “What, you think anyone’s talking about the international situation in this town? It’s all you two.” She set the tray down and swung it across Hutch’s bed. “Now, both of you stay quiet and eat. Time you got some food inside you. And I mean both of you.” She leveled a stern look at Starsky, who didn’t move, eyes still fixed on the window.

“I brought the newspapers so you can read all about yourselves,” she went on. “Pictures of Joshua’s Kingdom, the discovery well, rig all twisted and broken. Dr. Graham says they’re the best tonic for you in this hospital.”

Starsky didn’t answer, so Hutch thanked her and took the newspapers.

“What day is it?” Starsky finally looked over.

Hutch sifted through the papers until he found the most recent one. “Friday. Morning edition.”

“That means the Kingdom flooded on Tuesday.” Starsky’s voice was soft. “We’ve been out a long time.”

“Not as long as you will be if you don’t eat something,” Hutch said.

Starsky’s mouth twitched. “Nag, nag, nag.”

Hutch laughed, relieved at the crack in Starsky’s gloom.

They ate breakfast together, passing papers back and forth. They all seemed to carry another angle, the disaster, the rescue, the well they’d brought in. Garry and Huggy’s interviews got whole columns, and one feature by Hal Whitby bore the headline: There’s Oil in the Rocky Mountains. Whitby credited the phrase to Joshua Debrins and made it plain the old man’s faith had been vindicated.

Starsky read it, set the paper down, and lay back with an expression Hutch hadn’t seen in weeks, contentment.

When the doctor came in later that day, he gave Hutch’s ribs and leg only a cursory check, then turned to Starsky, running through a full examination, including blood pressure, pulse, lungs, and heart.

“What’s the trouble, doc?” Hutch asked.

“Routine check-up,” the man said lightly.

It wasn’t. Not for someone with a broken leg and ribs. When the X-ray machine rolled in, Hutch knew it wasn’t routine.

“You’re wasting your time,” Starsky said. “Dr. Miller, my doc in New York, already told me the score.”

The doctor just nodded, arranging the screen and tube. “Ms. DePriest told me. She’s been caring for you these past months up in the mountains.”

“Kathy? She hasn’t been…” Starsky began, trying to turn, but the doctor’s hand pressed him back.

“Stay still, please. And I trust Ms. DePriest’s judgment,” Dr. Graham said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve seen her work, she’s an excellent nurse, and her help up in Come Lucky between my regular visits was invaluable. That was before Trevedian replaced…” he broke off, catching the sour twist of Starsky’s mouth, “Well, it doesn’t matter. Frankly, without her keeping a close eye on folks there, I’d have been dealing with a lot more emergencies than I did.”

Starsky subsided then, and the doctor turned back to the machine. When the X-rays were finished and the equipment wheeled away, Graham stepped out for a few minutes before returning, pulling a chair into the narrow space between the two beds. His gaze moved from Hutch to Starsky and back again, weighing something.

Starsky caught the hesitation. “Go on. Say whatever you’re gonna say, Hutch might as well hear it.”

The doctor nodded, settling in. “For a man given two to six months back in the spring, you’ve been remarkably active lately.”

“There didn’t seem much point conserving energy,” Starsky said dryly.

“That may be so, but there have been cures for what you have,” Graham went on. “Not often, and not ones we can explain. Sometimes it’s a shift in body chemistry, sometimes a psychological change. I don’t want to raise false hopes, but… for you to have lasted five months, living the way you have, is remarkable. It is very rare for cases like yours to last this long without decline. Without secondary anaemia or internal bleeding, that’s rare. Very rare indeed.”

Hutch saw Starsky’s mouth twitch, but no words came.

Hutch leaned in. “He’s right, Starsky. Think about it, you’ve been eating well, and instead of getting weaker, you’ve gotten stronger.”

The doctor removed his glasses, polishing them absently with the edge of his coat. “I shouldn’t have spoken before seeing the plates. But… It’s a most interesting case.” The doctor stood, smiling faintly. “I’ll be back as soon as I have a clear picture of what’s going on inside you.”

Chapter 63

Dr. Graham left, the click of the door soft against the muted hospital sounds outside. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Hutch could almost feel the words the doctor had left behind, like dust motes drifting in the air, impossible to grab, but there all the same. Spontaneous cures. More time.

Starsky lay still, staring at the ceiling. Hutch could see Graham’s words working on him, the shift from a man counting backwards to one who might have to start counting forward again. It was hope, raw and unfamiliar, and Hutch knew it could cut as sharp as any blade.

“You’re quiet,” Hutch said at last, his voice low, careful not to jar the moment.

Starsky’s gaze slid his way. “Just thinkin’.”

“That’s dangerous,” Hutch murmured, but his mouth softened into the barest curve.

Starsky didn’t take the bait, just went on, “Thinkin’ about how good it will be to not drop dead before Christmas.”

Hutch let out a slow breath. “That’d be a start.” He held Starsky’s eyes, letting his own steady the ground under him. “You’ve been too stubborn to quit, so far. Maybe the rest of you finally caught up.”

Starsky’s lip twitched. “Guess I was too busy to feel sick.”

“Oh, let’s see…” Hutch tipped his head back, pretending to count. “Too busy proving Joshua right. Fighting to bring in that well. Saving a dozen men at the power station when the dam broke.” He met Starsky’s gaze again, voice warming. “Keeping me from drowning, or getting buried under a ton of mud. Hell of a wellness plan.”

Starsky’s laugh was small but real. “Yeah, but I had help.”

Hutch smiled faintly. “Always.”

The door swung open before either of them could say more. The nurse stepped in, a brisk smile making the air in the room lighter, and held the door for Huggy. His sheepskin coat carried a faint scent of cold air and wood smoke. Garry Keogh followed, hat in hand, looking like a man who’d been working since before sunrise.

They stayed on small talk for a while, Keogh describing the new rig he was chasing and the crews he wanted to bring in, Huggy talking about the road conditions up-country and the work still being done to shore up the riverbanks. Starsky listened, stretched out in his bed, mouth curling into that faint half-smile. Hutch chimed in with a few jabs of his own, enough to keep the rhythm easy.

Keogh mentioned stopping by to see Dobey after this, to check on contracts and see how quickly they could get drilling again. They tossed ideas back and forth for twenty minutes, swapping updates, speculating on supply delays, and laughing over Huggy’s tale of a stubborn mule on a freight haul.

Then Huggy’s tone shifted. He rubbed his chin, glancing toward Starsky. “There’s the other reason we came, Starsk. The boys from the power station got together after the flood.”

Keogh picked up the thread. “A few of ’em are coming with me to clear up Joshua’s place, make it snug for winter. So they’re gonna rebuild the cabin by the ford at the entrance to Thunder Valley.”

Huggy nodded. “You know the place we camped, after the Kingdom flooded. Figured you might want it ready for when you’re back on your feet. And before the snow set in.”

Starsky blinked, caught between surprise and protest. “I couldn’t, these guys have their own lives…”

“Starsky,” Huggy cut in, voice firm, “they want to do this. It’s their way of paying you back. You couldn’t stop ’em if you tried.”

Keogh nodded once. “They’re decent men. You earned this.”

The news hung there for a second before Starsky found his voice. “That’s a hell of a thing you’re sayin’. But I don’t know…”

Huggy shook his head, his easy smile returning. “Ain’t no ‘but’ here, Starsk. They’ve already started hauling timber up from town. If you’re worried about it being charity, forget it, this is about them wanting to do right by you.”

Keogh leaned his elbows on the foot of Starsky’s bed. “They figure you’ve put in more than your share to keep that crew alive when the dam gave way, fought to bring in the well, and took a beating doing it. They want to pay you back, give you a proper home.”

Starsky glanced between them, searching for something to say. “Guess it’s already been decided then.”

“That’s the idea,” Huggy said, unbothered.

The conversation moved on from there, about what work was going to be done and how. Eventually, Huggy pushed off the wall and tipped his hat. “We’d better get moving. Plenty to do before the weather turns.”

Keogh straightened, giving Starsky’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “You just get better. Let us handle the rest.”

The two men left together, the door clicking shut behind them. Silence returned, softer now. Starsky lay back, letting the image take shape, Joshua’s cabin standing again, sunlight on the timbers, smoke curling from the chimney. He could see Hutch there, boots kicked off by the hearth, coffee in hand, looking like he belonged. The thought hit him deep, equal parts gratitude and something far more dangerous.

Hutch shifted slightly in his bed. “They mean it, you know.”

“Who?”

“Huggy. Keogh. Those men. They’re not just paying you back, they want you to stick around.” Hutch’s gaze was steady. “And so do I.”

Starsky let out a short laugh, the first real one in days. “Well, seein’ how you’ve asked so nicely…”

“Yeah?” Hutch’s voice was low, almost a challenge.

“Yeah,” Starsky said, rasp warm. “If I wasn’t stuck in this bed, I’d show you just how nicely.”

Hutch’s smile was slow, trouble curling at the edges. “Guess I’ll hold you to that.”

Chapter 64

Epilogue

Winter lay heavy on the mountains, the peaks and valleys wrapped in an unbroken white mantle. From his seat at the desk his grandfather had built, the one Huggy had hauled down from the Kingdom before the roads closed. Starsky could see through the cottonwoods to the ford where Thunder Creek slid swift and black toward the lake, steam curling off the current in the cold air. Beyond that, he could just make out Hutch on Goliath.

Hutch

Starsky smiled to himself, continuing to watch the dark figure on Goliath move steadily across the snow. Hutch’s life had shifted almost as much as his own. His grandfather had died not long after the second well came in, and Hutch had said more than once that the old man had probably been holding on for Joshua’s sake, for the chance to see the well finished and prove his old friend right. Now, Hutch was handling the estate, stepping into control of the business. He’d made it clear the Kingdom and Starsky would be part of that future, his future and was already folding it into his plans.

Kathy and Huggy were part of it too, thick as thieves these days, and Starsky suspected there was more between them than anyone was saying.

The old dangers were gone. Gunther was finished, torn apart by indictments and lawsuits. Trevedian had vanished before the police reached him, only to be found later swinging from a tree. Nicky was gone too, buried somewhere under the tons of rock and concrete that had once held the dam together. The collapse had already made rebuilding the dam impossible, at least to its former shape or height. But Hutch was already discussing with engineers how to get at least the power plant to work.

–

Dear Mr. Starsky,

Dr. Graham has sent me the full details of your case as of August 27, along with the X-ray photographs he has taken. I can only say that I entirely agree with his view that you are completely cured and have no need to worry about the future.

You must be wondering now whether I was correct in my original diagnosis. For your benefit, I am sending my copies of the X-rays taken at New York Hospital in February of last year, along with a copy of the case notes I made at the time. You might like to frame one of the pictures side-by-side with Graham’s X-ray as a reminder that you have confounded the experts! I need hardly add that I am delighted that you have.

Dr. Graham will doubtless have told you that, occasionally, cases of spontaneous cure do occur in these cases. The causes are unknown, and the instances are rare. In your case, I am inclined to the view that it may be largely psychological. You underwent a sudden and complete change of environment. This, combined with the fact that you became involved in a struggle outside yourself, may have given you an overwhelming interest in living that you had not previously experienced.

All this is not strictly within orthodox medicine, but in a case of this sort, it is necessary to look beyond the laboratory and the operating theatre. It is perhaps nearer to the miracle than to medicine.

Finally, may I say how pleased I am to be able to record, in this instance, a complete reversal of my expectations. It is cases like yours that place our medical achievements to date in their proper perspective and give to the profession those who desire to continue searching diligently for a cure to a terrible disease. I wish you every success, and if you ever return to New York, I hope you will come and see me.

Yours sincerely,

Dr. Douglas Miller

—

The letter was now framed on the wall behind him, alongside the “before” and “after” X-rays, a photograph of the second well before it blew in, a shot of the dam, the original of Joshua’s will, and the document signed by Roger Hutchinson returning the mineral rights of Joshua’s Kingdom.

There, in that frame, was the whole story of the last year.

What the future held, he didn’t know. What did it matter? The great thing was having one. Hutch planned to start drilling in the Kingdom come spring. Maybe they’d end up millionaires. But all the money in the world couldn’t buy what he had now.

Starsky turned from the window just as the door opened. Cold air swept in with Hutch, the brim of his hat dusted white, cheeks flushed from the ride, as he shut the door with a boot and crossed the room.

Starsky smiled without thinking.

“Any luck?” he asked.

Hutch set the rifle aside and leaned forward, brushing a quick, warm kiss against Starsky’s mouth. “Plenty,” he said, with that slow grin that promised more.

Thank you to all the readers and for all the kudos. I hope you can see Starsky and Hutch clearly in this AU, and also recognize the world inspired by Hammond Innes’s Campbell’s Kingdom.