When the storm finally ended it was well after noon and he had a powerful sense that he’d blown the last twelve hours doing exactly the wrong things in the wrong places and that he was desperately far behind. All sorts of things had gone into motion in the camp. Some kid was tearing around in one of those open all-terrain vehicles that, on ranches, had basically replaced horses. Riding shotgun— literally wielding a shotgun—was an older man. Message traffic from the Boskey clan was all to do with alligators. Rumor in camp had it that someone’s dog had gone missing and was presumed to have been eaten. Beau was trying to get people to understand that he could get the gator situation squared away if they would just settle down, but the guys in the ATV had their blood up and couldn’t be managed.