The dogs of McCarthy, Alaska, roam the dirt and gravel streets untethered. There are no leash laws here and no police within a hundred miles to enforce them even if there was. A loose affiliation of about a dozen mutts, they respect each others’ territories and dispositions, often frolic when they gather, and rarely scrap. When the dogs stray, they stray north, toward Kennicott, or up the hill east, toward the dozen or so cabins scattered through the woods between McCarthy and its gravel airstrip. Only McCarthy’s natural boundaries limit their movement. McCarthy Creek borders town to the south and flows into the Kennicott River, the town’s western margin. To the east and north lie thousands of square miles of mountains, glaciers, and river valleys. Before the summer of 1997, the Kennicott was traversable only by hand trams and afterward only by footbridges. Tourists sometimes bring city dogs not used to this freedom. And, occasionally, one of these well-groomed pets will loudly tangle with one or more of McCarthy’s pack, which usually rallies to repel the Outsider. The tourist dogs don’t stay long anyway. On March 1, 1983, Louis Hastings attempted to murder McCarthy, Alaska. By 2 P.M. that day, six of McCarthy’s dozen or so year-round residents lied dead while two more were wounded--one cowered outside a greenhouse, tightly clutching her upper right arm to stem the flow of blood, while stifling the sound of her panicked breathing; the other had been flown by a neighbor to Glennallen, a town one hundred miles northwest and home of the nearest hospital, to receive treatment for gunshot wounds to his face and head. The thirty-nine-year-old Hastings was headed west on the lone road connecting McCarthy to the outside world. He rode a snowmobile taken from one of his victims. Each of the dead had received multiple gunshot wounds, including at least one single wound to the head. After killing McCarthy’s residents, Hastings planned to sabotage the Alaska pipeline. The plot began to unravel, however, after Hastings’s nearest neighbor survived two shots to his head and escaped to warn others. The previous night, Hastings had played a board game with Chris Richards in Kennicott, a town of four about five miles north of McCarthy. Hastings won. During the course of conversation, Richards mentioned that a couple of McCarthy’s residents were away on a skiing trip. Hastings seemed disappointed. Richards also warned Hastings about cutting firewood from dead trees on land that had been subdivided recently and thus might be off-limits to such activity. "He seemed to appreciate the fact that I was concerned about him," Richards said in a 1983 newspaper interview. The next morning, at about 8:30, he saw Hastings approach the front of his home from the south side. Richards thought Hastings--large, soft-spoken, balding, and bespectacled with an unkempt red beard--was stopping by on his way to pick up the mail. Richards pushed the outside door ajar and invited Hastings in for coffee. Hastings set down a heavy backpack and, before entering, took a deep breath. Richards turned his back to the door and faced the stove to continue preparing breakfast. Then he began to turn his head to greet Hastings.