No Man's Dog by Jon A. Jackson

and BLM land. He still owned this property, but for complicated reasons he had no intention of living on it. A rancher owned all the land between him and the highway. That rancher had left him alone, tended the fences, and took good care of the cattle, providing a de facto barrier between Joe and the outside world. This was a different situation. Frank was not a rancher. Joe explained this to him, patiently.
    “I’m thinking of going into it more,” Frank said. “Fedima’s right, it’s time I gave up this marijuana stuff. We got a kid now. It’s not good. That was okay when I was batching it, you know? The kid’ll be going to school before you know it. What’s he gonna do, tell the teacher his daddy’s a dope dealer? Nah, Fedima’s right. We could put in a couple hundred acres of good hay, timothy, maybe. We’d have enough to sell, even.”
    Joe listened, dispiritedly. Frank was into a rave about the irrigation system he’d build. That appealed to him, Joe knew. Just the idea of building a new, elaborate irrigation system was enough to excite Frank. Joe had let it ride, but now he thought he’d do something about it.
    A couple of days after Caspar’s visit and Joe’s call to the Colonel, Tucker had called back. “I think I found something, about the guys who were supposed to be interested in you,” he said.
    “Who are they?” Joe asked.
    The Colonel told him about a bombing in Detroit. Joe hadn’t heard anything about it. He never followed the news. Tucker said it was believed at first to have been the work of Arab terrorists. But now the feeling was that it was another, unrelated group. “Anyway, your name came up,” the Colonel said.
    Joe was shocked. “Me? I’m no bomber. What’s this?”
    “Did you sell any explosives, any arms, in the last couple of years?”
    “No,” Joe said.
    “Think, Joe. Your house down in the Ruby. It blew up. How did that happen?”
    “That’s my business,” Joe said. He had rigged the house when he’d built it. It was rigged to be totally destroyed in case he was raided. He had wanted no telltale evidence left behind in the event that he had to leave in a hurry. The system was rigged to involve a large propane tank. The house would burn to fine ashes and it would seem to be simply a propane explosion, not so unusual in rural Montana. And, as it happened, he’d had to trigger the system. Echeverria had been all but killed in that blast.
    Joe’s recent visitor, Caspar, of course, had mentioned Echeverria as one of the names of the men involved in the search for him. Echeverria had actually escaped from that inferno, though badly burned. Joe had been employed by the Colonel to finish the job, months later. So Echeverria was dead, but he would have friends.
    “So now you’re telling me that Echeverria’s pals are involved in bombing, in Detroit?” Joe said. “They’ve gone into the terrorist business?”
    “Not exactly,” the Colonel said. “It’s complicated. We should talk, but not on the phone. I think it’s the lead you wanted.”
    Joe agreed to meet. They didn’t make a date. Both men were too careful for that. Joe would call him in a few days, from some unspecified location, and set a rendezvous.
    Joe told Helen he had to go and meet Colonel Tucker. The way he explained it, this would close out their contact with the Colonel and his group, the Lucani. Neither of them wanted anything further to do with these rogue agents. They were too unstable, and too likely to both betray and be betrayed. But it had to be resolved. He might be gone for a week or so. He was sorry he had to leave her with so much work. Helen didn’t mind. It was what mainlyoccupied her, working on the place. She wanted to get the house ready so her mother could visit for Christmas.
    “Don’t get into trouble with Anders,” Joe said, joking.
    Helen bridled. “You must be kidding. He’s over forty.”
    “He’s got the hots for you,” Joe said. “I’ve seen the way he looks