Savage Run

23

Sheridan Pickett, still in her pajamas, was nestled in a pile of couch cushions in front of the television when Maxine began barking at the front door. This ruined Sheridan’s perfect Saturday morning. She tossed candy wrappers and a half-eaten bag of chips aside and scrambled out of the cushions, wrapping herself in her terrycloth bathrobe as someone knocked heavily and then rang the doorbell.

Sheridan had been instructed never to open the door for strangers and she was rarely tempted. Ever since the man had broken into their house and hurt her mother she had been especially cautious.

People often came to the door looking for her dad, because his office was in the house. Sometimes they were ranchers who wanted to file damage claims or complain about hunters or fishermen, and sometimes they were hunters or fishermen who wanted to complain about ranchers. Her dad always asked people to call first and set an appointment, but sometimes they just showed up. Since it was her dad’s job to serve the public, her parents had told her that if she was home alone and someone stopped by, she should be polite and get a telephone number where her dad could call them.

She cinched her robe tightly and approached the window. Pulling aside the front window curtains, Sheridan peeked outside.

An older, portly, pear-shaped man stood on the front porch. He had a round, full, red face and was not shaved. He wore a low-crown gray cowboy hat, and a weathered canvas ranch jacket and blue jeans. Scuffed lace-up outfitter boots with riding heels poked out from the bottom of his Wranglers. Sheridan always noted the boots men wore because she thought that boots, more than anything, defined who a man was.

The man stood looking at the door, his shoulders slumped, his head tipped forward, as if he were very tired. She looked out through the yard and could see the roof of a car over the fence but couldn’t tell what kind of car it was. Sensing her eyes on him, the man turned his head and saw Sheridan looking out at him. He smiled self-consciously at her. Sheridan thought he had a friendly face and that he looked like somebody’s grandfather.

Nevertheless, she made sure the door chain was secured before opening the door the several inches the chain would allow.

“Is your father the game warden in this area?”

There was a wooden sign out front on the fence that said exactly that, but oftentimes strangers either didn’t see it or chose not to acknowledge it.

“Yes, he is,” Sheridan said. “He’s not here right now but he’ll be back soon.” This is what she was supposed to say, that he would be back soon. Sheridan’s mother had drilled this into her, this deliberate vagueness.

The man seemed to be thinking. His brow furrowed and he stroked his chin.

“It’s important,” he said, looking up. “How soon will he be back?”

Sheridan shrugged.

“Do you think it will be in a few minutes or a few hours?”

Sheridan said she didn’t know for sure.

The man rocked back on his boot heels and dug his hands into the front of his jeans pockets. He looked annoyed and troubled, but not necessarily with Sheridan as much as with the circumstances in general. She had not been much help to him, but she would only say what her parents had told her to, nothing more.

“I can give you his cell phone number,” Sheridan offered. “Or if it’s an emergency you can call the 911 number and ask the dispatcher to radio him.” She wanted to be helpful.

The man didn’t respond.

“I suppose you can’t let me come in and wait for him?”

“Nope,” Sheridan said flatly.

The man smiled slightly. It was clearly the answer he expected.

“If I leave him a note, would you make sure he gets it?”

“Sure.”

“Back in a minute.”

The man turned and walked through the picket fence gate toward his car. Sheridan went into her dad’s office and got a business card from the holder on his desk. She waited at the front door. Then she saw the man emerge from his car. As he came through the gate he was licking the back of an envelope.

“Here’s his card,” Sheridan offered, exchanging it for the envelope through the crack in the door.

The man’s handwriting on the envelope was wavery and poor but it said “Game Warden,” followed by the word “Important,” which was underlined three times. She read the return address on the envelope.

“Are you a lawyer?” she asked. The printing was for the law offices of Whelchel, Bushko, and Marchand, Attorneys at Law, in Denver, Colorado.

When the man looked at her there was something very sad in his eyes.

“No, I’m not. I just borrowed the paper.”

“Okay.”

“Make sure you give that to him the minute you see him, little lady,” he said as he backed off of the porch.

“My name’s Sheridan Pickett.”

He stopped before opening the gate and looked over his shoulder.

“My name is John Coble.”

Sheridan shut the door and threw the bolt home as he slowly walked to his car and got in. Through the windshield, she watched him as he collapsed into the driver’s seat. He seemed exhausted. Then he rubbed his eyes with both of his hands, ran his fingers through his gray hair, and reached forward and started the engine. He backed up and drove away on the Bighorn Road.

Sheridan took the envelope into her dad’s office and put it on his computer keyboard where he would see it right away.

John Coble, the Old Man, felt remarkably good about what he had just done. It was the first thing he had felt really good about in two months. It was possible, he hoped, that he had set some wheels in motion. The girl had been suspicious of him, which was a sign of both intelligence and smart parents. She was a good girl, it seemed to him.

But there was more to be done. His next trick would be harder, and much more unpleasant.

Luckily, he knew these mountains well, and after seeing the crude map that Charlie had pulled from Tod Marchand’s pack, he had a very good idea of where Stewie Woods’s cabin would be.