From the direction of Farmington, a helicopter flew low over the grass and shrubs. It banked to the east, making one circle around the riders, before leaving them for the direction of the mountains.
“Cole—” Sam began, her voice shaking with uncertainty and fear.
“I saw,” his voice, gruff with anger, answered her unasked question.
Without another word, both urged their horses into a canter and followed the helicopter. Sam’s mind filled with pictures of what could have happened. The automatic rifle, held securely in the shooter’s grip, could have taken out her, Cole, and the horses. What was the helicopter doing out here? She hadn’t heard any shots that might have come from the Springs, but they were probably too far away to hear them. BLM land was protected. To hunt on it took a license,
