At the edge of the timber, where Brad had once hung his heavy chain lock and his illegal trail camera, the south gate swung easily on its greased iron hinges.

I walked right up to the corner walnut tree where Dale had put up the yellow steel boundary sign six weeks earlier.

The heavy square steel plate was lag-bolted six inches into the trunk, bright and easy to see from fifty yards down the fence line.

I reached out with my gloved hand and touched the cold, solid yellow corner of the plate.

The handwritten card Brad had nailed over my warnings was gone, and in its place were smooth bark and clean yellow paint.