Blood trail

3

PHIL KINER, the new game warden of the Saddlestring District, was waiting for Joe in his green Ford four-wheel-drive pickup with the Wyoming Game and Fish logo on the door in front of Joe's old home on Bighorn Road. Joe drove an identical pickup. Joe tried not to let it get to him that Phil now lived in his former state-owned home with the view of Wolf Mountain, tried not to allow the nostalgia he'd let in that morning eat further into him, but when he saw the house he couldn't help it. The picket fence needed painting and the corral needed repair. When he shot a glance at the windows of the house he saw the images and ghosts of his younger family looking out as they had once posed-Marybeth, Sheridan, Lucy-and his foster daughter, April. He shook his head hard to rid himself of the memory and stanched his longing for the innocence and naivete of that time.

Kiner unrolled his window as Joe pulled up beside him nose to tail, the quintessential cop maneuver so neither would need to get out of his vehicle. "Have you been listening on your radio?"

"Not really," Joe said, a little ashamed he'd been so preoccupied on the eight-mile drive out.

"McLanahan's up ahead, waiting for us," Kiner said. "He knows the general area but doesn't know where this elk camp is at. He needs for us to get there and show him."

"Whose camp?"

"Frank Urman from Cheyenne. He's the victim. You know him?"

"The name's familiar," Joe said. "I think I know the camp."

"Good, because I don't."

Kiner said it without bitterness, which Joe welcomed. Throughout the first year Kiner took over, he hadn't contacted Joe for advice or background on the district Joe had overseen for six years. Marybeth speculated that it was either misplaced pride or Kiner's fear of displeasing Randy Pope by creating the impression he was close to Joe. Either way, it hurt. Joe tried to put himself in Kiner's shoes, and when he did he understood the dilemma but still thought Kiner should have reached out. They had reconciled only after Sheridan slugged Kiner's son Jason in the lunchroom at school and both sets of parents were called in for a conference with the vice principal.

"How many are up there?" Joe asked.

"Three," Kiner said. "Related to the victim, from what I can tell so far. They sound really pissed off, so we need to get up there before they go after whoever shot the fourth guy."

"Is it possible it was an accident?" Joe asked.

"It sure as hell doesn't sound like one, but we won't know for sure until we get there," Kiner said, raising his eyebrows. "But from what I've heard, it sounds fucking horrible. In fact, I can't even believe what they're telling the dispatcher they found."

"What?"

"Turn on your radio," Kiner said while putting the pickup in gear and roaring off.

Joe sat for a moment, took a deep breath, and followed. He kept far enough back of Kiner's dust cloud to look up at the looming dark mountains as they framed the valley. Fingers of fall color probed down the slopes and folds. The sky had turned from brilliant blue to a light steel gray as a film of cloud cover moved from the north, bringing, no doubt, a drop in temperature and possibly snow flurries. He turned on his radio beneath the dash and clicked it to the mutual aid channel. It was crackling with voices.

The dispatcher said, "Mr. Urman, I understand. But please remain where you are and don't pursue anyone on your own. We've got units on the way."

"That's easy for you to say, lady," the man Joe assumed was Urman said with barely controlled fury, "you haven't seen what happened to my uncle this morning. And whoever did it is still out there."

"Mr. Urman-"

"Somebody shot him with a high-powered rifle," Urman said, "like a goddamned elk!"

Joe swallowed hard.

"Like a goddamned elk," Urman repeated in a near whisper, an auditory hitch in his voice. AS HE FOLLOWED KINER, Joe did a quick inventory of his pickup. He'd been practically living in it for the past month and it showed. The carpeting on the floorboards showed mud from the clay draws and arroyos near Lusk, the Little Snake River bottomland of Baggs, the desert of Rawlins, the Wind River foothills out of Pinedale. There was a gritty covering of dust on his dashboard and over his instruments. The console was packed with maps, notes, citation books. The skinny space behind his seat was crammed with jackets and coats for every weather possibility, as well as his personal shotgun, his Remington WingMaster twelve-gauge, his third since he'd become a full-time game warden. An M-14 carbine with a peep sight was under the seat, a Winchester.270 rifle was secured in brackets behind his head. The large padlocked metal box in the bed of the vehicle held evidence kits, survival gear, necropsy kits, heavy winter clothing, tools, spare radios, a tent and sleeping bag. Single-cab pickups for game wardens with all this gear was proof that whoever it was in the department who purchased the vehicles had never been out in the field.

Since he'd lost his district and been assigned to work "without portfolio" for the governor, Joe filled in across the state whenever and wherever he was needed. Since there were only fifty-four game wardens covering the ninety-eight thousand square miles of the state, he was constantly in demand. If a warden was sick, injured, or had extended duty in court or on assignment, Joe was asked to substitute. Because he was moving around so much, agency biologists had asked him to gather samples from big-game animals across the state so they could monitor the spread of chronic wasting disease. CWD was a transmissible neurological disease that attacked the brains of deer and elk and was similar to mad cow disease. From a few isolated cases in the southwest of the state, the disease seemed to be moving north and was turning into a significant threat to the wild game population. Joe was concerned, as were many others. Too many animals were showing positive results for CWD, although not yet in crisis proportions.

He never knew what his schedule would be from week to week. The requests came via third party or from the wardens themselves. They never came straight from Director Pope, who had chosen not to communicate directly with Joe in any way. Joe liked it better that way as well, but he never forgot for a moment that Pope had fired him and would do so again in an instant if he could find justification. Joe's relationship with the governor was vague, and after the case in Yellowstone Joe wasn't sure he could trust him. But Rulon had not given Joe any reasons to doubt his sincerity since then, other than his generally erratic behavior, a sign of which was hiring Stella Ennis as his new chief of staff.

The two trucks raced up the state highway, wigwag lights flashing. A herd of pronghorn antelope raced them for a while before turning south in a flowing arc toward the breaklands. Cows looked up but didn't stop grazing.

They passed the entrance to Nate Romanowski's place. Nate was an outlaw falconer with a mysterious background who'd made a pledge to protect Joe and his family after Joe proved his innocence in a murder investigation. Currently, Nate was in federal custody involving the disappearance of two men-one being the former sheriff-two years before. He'd asked Joe to continue to feed his falcons, which Joe did every day he could. Sheridan filled in when Joe was out of town, getting a ride to Nate's old stone house from Marybeth. Nate's trial had been postponed twice already. Joe missed him.

Farther up the road, Joe saw Sheriff McLanahan's GMC Blazer and two additional county vehicles waiting for them. The sheriff and his men let them pass before joining in. Joe caught a glimpse of McLanahan as they rocketed by. McLanahan had completed his physical and mental transformation from a hotheaded deputy to a western character who spoke in semiliterate cornball folkisms. The huge handlebar mustache he'd grown completed the metamorphosis.

"It looks like the posse is now complete," McLanahan said over the radio. "Carry on, buckaroos."

Joe rolled his eyes. THE CARAVAN of law-enforcement vehicles was forced to ratchet down its collective speed as it entered the Big Horn National Forest. Kiner eased to the shoulder to let Joe overtake him and lead the way. The gravel road gave way to a rougher two-track that led through an empty campground and up the mountain in a series of switchbacks. Frank Urman's camp was located over the top of the mountain through a long meadow.

The dispatcher called out his number and asked for a location.

"This is GF-52," Joe said. "I'm with GF-36 and local law enforcement. We're headed up the mountain now to the subject's camp."

"Hold for Director Pope."

Joe grimaced.

"Joe?" It was Pope. Joe could hear the whine of the state airplane in the background.

"Yes, sir."

"Joe, we're about thirty minutes out. When we land we've got to get vehicles and get up there to the scene. About how long will it take for us to get there?"

"At least an hour, sir."

"Damn it."

After a beat, Pope said, "Do you know what happened yet? Is it as bad as we hear it might be?"

"We don't know," Joe said, "we're not yet on the scene."

"Who is the RP?"

"The reporting party is named Chris Urman," the dispatcher broke in. "He's the victim's nephew."

"How many people are involved?" Pope asked.

"Involved?" Joe asked. "As far as we know there is one victim."

"No, I mean how many people know about this? How many have heard what happened to him?"

"I don't know, sir," Joe said.

"I'm issuing a direct order," Pope said. "This is to you and Kiner. Don't give any statements to anybody until I get there. Don't talk with anyone or tell anybody what happened. Got that?"

As had happened many times before when Pope was on the radio, Joe held the mike away from him and looked at it for answers that never presented themselves.

"Affirmative," Kiner finally said, "no public statements until you're on the scene."

"You got that, Joe?" Pope asked.

"I got it," Joe said, "but we've got the sheriff behind us, and anybody listening to the scanner will know we've got a situation here."

"Look," Pope said, his voice rising, "I can only control my own people. I can't control anything else. All I ask is that you follow my direct goddamned order, Joe. Can you do that?"

"Of course, sir," Joe said, feeling his ears get hot.

"Good. I'll call when we land. In the meantime, you two keep off the radio. And I'll politely ask Sheriff McLanahan to do the same."

McLanahan broke in. "Shit, I heard you. Everybody did."

"Everybody?"

"We're on SALECS-the State Assisted Law Enforcement Communications System," McLanahan said. "If you want to go private you need to switch to another channel."

Pope didn't respond and Joe pictured him stammering and angrily hanging up. Joe waited awhile before cradling the mike. When he looked in his rearview mirror he could see Kiner signaling him with two fingers, meaning he wanted Joe to switch to the car-to-car band so no one could hear them. The frequency worked as long as the vehicles were in sight of each other, and not much farther than that.

"Joe," Kiner said, "do you have any idea what's going on with Pope? I've never heard him like this."

"I have," Joe said.

"So what's up? Why in the hell is the director flying up from Cheyenne for this? Since when does he get personally involved in a case? And especially since you two avoid each other like the plague?"

"I was wondering that myself," Joe said.

"There's something going on here we don't know about, that's for damned sure."

Joe nodded. "I agree."

"Me too," McLanahan said.

"What are you doing on our channel?" Kiner asked McLanahan. Joe held his tongue.

"Just remindin' you boys who's in charge of this investigation," McLanahan drawled. JOE WAS struck immediately by the three hunters waiting for them at the camp. They looked young, hard, fit, and intense, and they started walking up the rough two-track to meet the convoy of law-enforcement vehicles as soon as Joe cleared the rim and saw them. Many of the hunters Joe encountered were older and softer. These three reminded him of an elite commando unit on patrol. All three had their rifles with them and carried them naturally. Joe and Kiner pulled over so Sheriff McLanahan could take the lead.

The sheriff stopped and got out of his Blazer to meet the hunters. They introduced themselves as Chris Urman, Craig Hysell, and Jake Dempster. Urman appeared to be in charge, and Joe stood with Kiner and listened as the hunters described what had happened.

"Uncle Frank wanted to scout elk on his own this morning," Urman, Frank's nephew, told McLanahan. Urman was tall, with a long face and steady eyes. While he spoke he slung his rifle from one shoulder to the other with a fluid, well-practiced movement and without pausing. Joe thought, Military. "He said he'd be back by breakfast unless he got his bull. I made him take a radio so he could call in either way. He was supposed to be back here by oh-eight-hundred hours at the latest, and when he didn't show up by oh-eight-thirty we tried to call him. Craig here said he heard a shot around oh-seven-thirty," Urman said, gesturing to one of the other hunters, who stepped forward.

The hunter held out his hand, said, "Craig Hysell. I heard just one shot. I waited to hear a second but it never came. I thought it was from the east, where Frank went, but I couldn't be sure because of the way sound echoes around up here."

Joe noted the times in his spiral.

The third hunter, Jake Dempster, was dark, with a stern expression. "I didn't hear it," he said.

"So when he didn't come in for breakfast you went looking for him," McLanahan said.

"Yes, sir," Urman said. "And we found him."

"You didn't see nobody else?"

"No, sir, we didn't see anyone and we didn't hear any vehicles. There's only one road into this camp and nobody came down it until you just now. But there sure as hell was somebody out there. And for all we know, he still is."

"Can we drive to the scene?" McLanahan asked.

"We've gotta walk. There's no road."

"Well," McLanahan said, "lead the way."

Urman turned crisply and started up a trail and his companions fell in behind him. Joe, Kiner, and McLanahan and his two deputies followed. "WE JUST got back from Iraq," Jake Dempster told Joe over his shoulder. "Wyoming National Guard. Chris's uncle Frank invited us all to come here elk hunting when we got back. He was a good old guy. This is his camp. We've been looking forward to this trip for seven months. It's the only thing that got me through some days when it was a hundred and forty degrees and I was sick as hell of dealing with those Iraqi knuckleheads."

"Thanks for your service," Joe said.

Dempster nodded. "We all saw some pretty bad stuff over there where we were stationed, near Tikrit. You know the stories."

"Yup."

"Yup."

"But in two years over there in the world's armpit, I never seen anything like this," he said. "Shooting Uncle Frank was bad enough but what was done to his body afterwards is something else. If we catch who did it, you're gonna see Chris go medieval on his ass. And me and Craig are going to help him. So I hope you guys catch whoever did it fast, because you'll be doing them a favor."

Dempster's eyes were hard and clear. Joe said, "I believe you."

"I gotta tell you something else," Dempster said as they walked. "I realize it can't be used as evidence or anything, but my buddies and I were talking last night how we felt like someone was up here watching us. I thought it was just me, so I kind of hesitated saying anything. But when Urman brought it up, both me and Craig said we'd felt the same thing yesterday while we were hunting."

Joe knew the feeling. He'd had it. Sometimes it was a game animal watching him, sometimes a hunter in a blind. And sometimes he never learned what caused it.

"I got that same buzz once over in Iraq," Dempster said. "We were on patrol and parked at an intersection one night. It was pure black because the lights were out. I could feel it on my neck when I looked outside the Humvee. Then one of our guys who had night-vision goggles opened up on an insurgent sniper up on a roof and took him out. The sniper had been sighting in on us on the street. That's what it felt like yesterday, that someone was looking at me through a scope but I couldn't see him." JOE ADMIRED hunters who hunted seriously and with respect not only for the animals they pursued but for the resource itself. Most of the hunters in Wyoming were like that, and they had passed their respect along to the next generation. While the numbers of hunters had declined over the years, it was still a vibrant local tradition. Good hunters considered hunting a solemn privilege and a means to reconnect with the natural world, to place themselves back on earth, into a place without supermarkets, processed foods, and commercial meat manufacturing industries. Hunting was basic, primal, and humbling. He had less respect for trophy hunters and thought poachers who took the antlers and left the meat deserved a special place in hell and he was happy to arrest them and send them there.

He valued those who shot well and took care of their game properly. This involved field dressing the downed animal quickly and cleanly, and cooling the meat by placing lengths of wood inside the body cavity to open it up to the crisp fall air. Back limbs were spread out and the game was then hung by the legs from a tree branch or game pole. The game carcass was then skinned to accelerate cooling, and washed down to clean it of hair and dirt. The head was often removed as well as the legs past their joints. It was respectful of the animal and the tradition of hunting to take care of the kill this way.

Over the years, Joe had seen hanging in trees hundreds of carcasses of deer, moose, elk, and pronghorn antelope that had been field-dressed, skinned, and beheaded.

This was the first time he'd ever seen a man hung in the same condition.