“Then take it out,” I said.

Kurt shifted his rifle on his shoulder, his bare right hand moving toward his heavy hunting vest.

“We came out here to hunt, Amy,” Russ Lindahl snapped, glancing at Dale again.

“We paid for those wooden stands.”

“You paid for lumber that Gordon Lund appraised as scrap,” I said.

Dale didn’t move an inch, standing as still as stone with his hands clasped low in front of him.

Kurt looked at the patch on Dale’s shoulder in the growing light, his gray eyes not blinking.