Breaking Point

4

Joe drove his boot heels into Toby’s flanks and rode hard and fast back up the mountain through the water guzzlers to where he’d last seen Butch Roberson. Daisy ran behind, her tongue lolling out to the side. Toby had a surprisingly smooth gait when he went all-out, and it was actually easier on Joe’s aching knees and groin than his walk or bone-jarring trot.

Toby’s hooves pounded the soft ground, and Joe felt the wind in his face. He reached up and clamped his hat tighter on his head so it wouldn’t blow off.

He yelled, “Butch!”

The name echoed back from the wall of trees beyond the Forest Service fence-which hadn’t been repaired.

What he’d heard over the radio wasn’t reassuring. An anonymous call had been made to the sheriff’s department reporting two federal EPA officials missing from the night before. Whoever called said the two men had never checked into their rooms at the Holiday Inn and there was no sign of their car. A uniformed sheriff’s department officer was sent to where the caller said the two EPA men had been planning to go, which was a two-acre lot in a development called Aspen Highlands near Dull Knife Reservoir.

A quick check of the lot ownership with the county clerk revealed that it was owned by Butch and Pam Roberson. On arrival, the reporting officer said he could find nothing except some piles of gravel-and freshly dug soil. A quick reconnaissance of the area resulted in the location of a late-model Chevrolet Malibu SA hybrid sedan with U.S. Government plates. The car was found three miles from the Roberson lot. Someone had driven the vehicle off the gravel road and into the canyon choked with heavy brush. No one was inside. The reporting officer said he could have easily driven right by the car if it weren’t for the churned-up tracks on the dirt road. A tow truck, along with forensic techs, had been called to the scene.

Before climbing back into the saddle, Joe had called the dispatcher on his truck radio.

“This is Joe Pickett, GF-forty-eight. I’m located on the Big Stream Ranch. .” He gave her the location coordinates. “I ran into Butch Roberson-the subject of the current inquiry-an hour ago and I’m going back to find him. Please relay this to Sheriff Reed’s office.”

When she asked, he said, “I don’t want or need backup. It would take them too long to get out here, anyway.”

He signed off, “GF-forty-eight, out.”

GF-48 meant he was number forty-eight of the fifty-four game wardens in the state, ranked by seniority. He had once risen to GF-24 before getting into a confrontation with his superiors and losing his job and seniority number. When he’d been reinstated personally by Governor Rulon, a vindictive bureaucrat had refused to give him his old number back.

It rankled him every time he said “GF-forty-eight.”

Joe’s mind raced, and he replayed his encounter with Butch the hour before. He had no doubt Butch knew something, and suddenly everything Butch had said carried a different, more sinister meaning. Still, though, Joe wanted to find him and tell him what had been discovered on his property. He had no authority or probable cause to arrest Roberson, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t question him or ask him to follow him into town.

He rode through the opening in the fence and into the timber.

Two federal agents, he thought. Freshly turned-up ground. A car with no one in it.

Butch would have some hard questions to answer.

The fire pit Butch had built was cold, the rocks from the fire ring kicked away. Joe dismounted and tied Toby to a tree and carefully walked around the camp. He identified his own boot prints, Daisy’s prints, and large waffle-like impressions from Vibram hunting-boot soles, which he attributed to Butch. But he couldn’t discern which direction Roberson had gone after breaking his camp.

“Butch?” he called out.

He stopped and put his hands on his hips and looked west, into the thousands of acres of National Forest. Most of the roads within it had been closed, so it would be tough to drive inside. Butch had grown up in the area and had hunted the mountains all his life. Beyond the summit were succeeding waves of mountains, canyons, and heavy timber wilderness.

Joe smiled bitterly. Twelve Sleep County got its name because the Indians said it took “twelve sleeps” to walk or ride a horse from the west side of the mountains to the eastern slope. That was a lot of rough country.

Joe photographed the camp, the tracks, and what was left of the fire pit. He had a feeling there would be local, county, state, and federal people who would want to look at them. As he did, he questioned himself on the conversation he’d had with Butch Roberson. Had he deliberately missed something? Had his familiarity with Butch made him less than cautious?

He sighed and powered down the digital camera. Then he untied Toby and cantered him down to his pickup so he could drive to Butch’s lot at Aspen Highlands.