Stone Cold

13

“Hello there,” Joe called out. “Are you having any luck?”

At the sound of Joe’s voice, the man upstream froze in midcast. He didn’t jump or wheel around but his fly line dropped and pooled unceremoniously around his ankles. As it did, he slowly turned his head, but his expression was stoic.

Joe had encountered enough fishermen over the years to know the reaction was unusual. Usually, anglers were startled and immediately started talking or reaching for their licenses when they saw his red shirt. Only once had it been otherwise, four years before in the Sierra Madre, and what led from that response had been harrowing.

The man was young, trim, and athletic-looking, although like the red stone structure on the way up, he seemed out of place. The fly fisherman wore British Wellington boots instead of modern waders, form-fitting cargo pants, a crisp button-down long-sleeved shirt, and a cream-colored sweater-vest with a V-neck. Joe thought he looked like a Hollywood actor, with his high cheekbones, slicked-back dark hair, and intense blue eyes. The fisherman held an expensive-looking bamboo fly rod and wore a throwback wicker creel over his shoulder.

“How’s fishing?” Joe asked.

“Fine, sir,” the man said. The word spoken was southern and syrupy: fahn.

“I saw some big rises on the water a while ago,” Joe said. “Are they still coming up to the surface?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing better than fishing for big trout with dry flies, is there?”

The fisherman was still locked in place, the rod suspended in the air. He slowly lowered it and said, “No, there isn’t. Even in the fall there are midmorning hatches. But I believe, sir, you might be trespassing.”

Joe said, “Maybe so.”

High above them, Joe could still hear the sound of voices from Latta and Critchfield. Apparently, they were still parked on the road. Joe shot a look toward the slope to confirm that he was still out of their view due to the angle, as was the fisherman.

“My name is Joe Pickett. I’m a Wyoming game warden.”

“Ah,” the fisherman said with a nod, “the misplaced game warden.”

“Misplaced?”

“Back home, we’d call you a conservation officer.”

“Where’s home?”

“Not here.”

“Meaning you’re a newcomer here,” Joe said.

“But not misplaced,” he said with an edge.

So he was aware of him as well, Joe thought. Joe stepped a few steps to the side. The move was intended so he could observe the fisherman from a three-quarter angle from the back. He didn’t appear to be packing any weapons, although it was hard to discern what was under the sweater-vest.

“Mind if I take a look at what you’ve got in your creel?”

Something flickered across the fisherman’s face: a look of disdain. “This, sir, is highly unusual. May I ask you why you want to know?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re legal, which I’m sure you are. I’m guessing anyone who uses a twelve-hundred-dollar bamboo rod and an eight-hundred-dollar vintage creel would also be in full compliance with the fishing regulations.”

The fisherman kept his gaze on Joe as he approached. He said, “You don’t know your rods like you think you do. This is a Lyle Dickerson Model 8013. It was built in 1959 and it cost me $9,750.” He paused for effect, then: “It’s worth every penny on a narrow stream like this. It doesn’t have the action of a modern graphite, of course, but it has touch and restraint I’ve learned to appreciate.”

Joe whistled as he approached the man.

“Stop right there,” the fisherman said, hardening his voice. As he did, Joe sensed danger in the man’s stillness.

“I just want to take a look,” Joe said. “It’s up to you to let me. I won’t force you. But if you refuse to let me see what’s inside that creel, we may have issues.”

“Issues?”

Joe nodded.

“You, sir, are trespassing on private property. These are private waters.”

Joe paused and leaned back and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. He said, “I’m sorry, but this a free-flowing stream, not a private pond. There’s a strange thing about Wyoming laws, and I can understand your confusion. See, in this state, the landowner owns the ground — even the streambed — but not the water itself. The water belongs to the public and so do the fish, which means Wyoming Game and Fish regulations apply even on private land.

“We don’t want to make this difficult. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look in that creel. It looks heavy. It looks like you’re doing really well with that bamboo rod of yours. I’m a fly fisherman myself, and I’m always in awe of a real pro.”

The fisherman didn’t respond, although Joe sensed he enjoyed being referred to as a pro.

The man raised his chin, but his unblinking eyes never wavered. When Joe looked directly at them, he got a chill on the back of his neck. There was something about this man that made Joe wish he’d never encountered him. Something deeper and more serious than he’d anticipated.

After a beat, the fisherman reached down with his free hand and untied the leather strap on the creel and raised the cover. Joe noticed there was a word or name tooled into the strap that said WHIP. He stepped forward and peered inside. The heavy brown trout inside looked like brightly speckled lengths of burnished copper. They were nested in long, moist grass plucked from the bank to keep them cool.

“Impressive,” Joe said, counting heads. “Ten of ’em, and not a one less than fourteen inches. You’re quite an angler.”

“I took up the sport a few years ago,” the fisherman said, the edge on his voice dulling a bit more. “I find fly-fishing surprisingly relaxing.”

Joe gestured to the creel. “Is that your name? Whip?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“What’s your full name?”

“That, sir, is none of your business right now.”

“Have you ever considered catch-and-release?” Joe asked. “That way, someone else might get the chance to catch one of these beauties.”

“I’ve never considered it,” Whip said flatly. “Letting a fish go after you’ve stalked it and landed it with the perfect fly and perfect cast seems incomprehensible to me. Letting a fish go after all that surveillance insults the fish itself, like making a silly sport out of something serious. Does that make any sense to you, sir?”

“No.”

“You’re not going to tell me I’m over my limit, are you?”

“Nope, because you aren’t,” Joe said, leaning back again and refitting his battered Stetson on his head. “You can have twelve in possession, and you’re two shy. But there’s a problem.”

“What?”

Joe sighed, feigning sadness. “You can have twelve in possession, but only one can be over twelve inches. It looks like every one of those big trout is oversized.”

Whip didn’t move or speak.

Joe said, “Let’s clear the air, and start with letting me confirm your license and habitat stamp.”

The fisherman made no move to reach for his wallet.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Joe said. “I need to verify your license and stamp. It’s routine procedure.”

“What are you going to do?” the man asked in a whisper. “Arrest me?”

“Probably not,” Joe said. “But you may get a ticket. And if you don’t have a proper license or refuse to comply, you may wind up in more trouble than either of us wants.”

The man was still but smoldering. Joe mentally rehearsed reaching for his bear spray with his left hand or his weapon with his right, but he hoped it wouldn’t come down to either.

He could barely hear Whip when the man said, “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Actually,” Joe said, withdrawing his citation booklet from the back pocket of his jeans, “I’ve done this before. I can write you a ticket for violating fishing regulations and for not having your license and stamp in possession, but I’ll waive the last charge if you produce your documentation. So for now, let’s start with your name…”

Before Joe could reply, his name was called out from above.

“Joe!” It was Latta. He sounded alarmed.

Joe turned his head up toward the road. In the distance, he could hear Critchfield’s truck making its way down the canyon. Whatever Critchfield and Latta had been talking about for so long was apparently resolved.

Latta was out of his truck and peering down into the meadow with his hands on his hips.

“Joe! Goddamnit, Joe!”

“What, Jim?”

He could see Latta looking from Joe to the fisherman and back to Joe. He was waving his arms. His tone was high-pitched and panicked.

“Joe, get the hell up here now. Leave that man alone and get the hell up here.”

Again Joe was confused. When he looked over at the fisherman, he saw the man smiling slightly, but in a malevolent way. As if he’d spared Joe, but Joe was too dense to understand just how closely he’d flown to the sun.

To the fisherman, Latta shouted, “I’m sorry this happened. He’s not from around here. He has no idea what he’s doing.”

“No, he doesn’t,” the fisherman said, more to Joe than to Latta.

Joe was stymied and angry. “Jim…”

“Get up here.”

Joe took a deep breath and swallowed hard. He said to the fisherman, “Obviously, I’ve touched a nerve.”

“Obviously, you have. Now please go so I can get on with my morning.” Whip leaned forward and began to retrieve the line at his feet. He said, “There are fish to catch.”

As Joe climbed up the slope toward Latta with his ears burning hot from anger and humiliation, he heard the fisherman behind him purr, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, Mr. Joe.”

Inside the cab of the pickup, Joe slammed his door shut and said to Latta, “What the hell was that about?”

“We’re here to see Mr. Templeton,” Latta said through clenched teeth, “not to hassle his guests or employees.”

“I wasn’t hassling him,” Joe said. “I was doing my job.”

“In my district, on my watch, goddamn you,” Latta said, slamming the truck into gear and lurching forward. His face was flushed, and Joe noticed a necklace of sweat beads under his jaw as if he were wearing a choker. He said, “I’m trying to do this, Joe, I’m trying to be a good host and a colleague. I’m fucking trying. But this is the second time you’ve left a turd in my punch bowl. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

“Keep what up?”

Latta’s eyes flashed. “Keeping you from getting yourself hurt or killed, that’s what.”

“Why don’t you just forget about that,” Joe said. “How about coming clean with me instead?”

“It’s for your own good.”

“So who was that guy down there? Whip? Why is it so important to protect him?”

“I don’t know his full name,” Latta said.

“Then why did you warn me off?”

“He’s not someone you want to mess with, believe me.”

Joe said, “What kind of name is Whip?”

“Don’t ask me questions like that.”

Before Joe could ask another, the canyon opened up onto a vast green hay meadow bordered by timbered hills. The hay had been recently cut and lay in thick rows across the carpet of late-season grass. Sand Creek, choked with close streamside brush, meandered through the meadow.

Joe could see an older man below in a battered straw cowboy hat, riding a four-wheeler through the rows of shorn hay with his back to them. He wore worn jeans, irrigation boots, and a torn and faded chambray shirt. A shovel was attached to the back end of the ATV with bungee cords.

“That’s Mr. Templeton out checking his final cutting of the year,” Latta said. Joe noted the tone of admiration in his voice.