“He cut shooting lanes right across my boundary line.”

“He had no business touching these trees,” Dale said, setting the next yellow plate over the scar in the bark.

By six the sun had sunk completely behind the western tree line, leaving the woods in a deep gray dusk.

The temperature was falling fast, and our breath hung white in the air between us.

I held the flashlight steady, keeping its beam on the last tree along the south access lane, where Brad’s heavy iron chain lock was still wrapped around the steel gate posts.

Dale tightened the bottom lag bolt on the final yellow sign, bracing his gloved hand hard against the oak to hold it straight.