C. Box - Free Fire

On top, he got a cell signal again and his phone burred. Chuck Ward was calling from Cheyenne. Joe eased off the highway onto the shoulder and parked.

“We’ve notified the National Park Service that you want to meet with the investigating rangers,” Ward said. “They’ve assembledthe principals for a meeting at four this afternoon at their offices. The chief ranger, James Langston, will be there as well. They didn’t seem real excited about the prospect of meetingwith you, but they agreed.”

“I thought I was going incognito,” Joe said, puzzled at the change in strategy.

“The governor had a slight change of mind,” Ward said flatly. “He didn’t want to risk them finding out about you after the fact and raising hell with us. Our relationship with the Feds is bad enough without that. We told them you were up there to write a report about the crime and the investigation for the state attorney general’s office. A summary of what’s happened.”

“You mean there isn’t already a report?”

“If there is such an animal,” Ward explained, “the Feds have kept it all to themselves, which isn’t unprecedented. All we’ve got is what was in the file the governor gave you. Lots of pieces, but no definitive white paper. The Park Service has agreed to cooperate with you as long as you don’t interfere with them.”

Joe held the phone away for a moment and looked at it as if it would provide more information. Then: “Won’t the Park Servicewonder why the governor isn’t sending the AG or one of his lawyers? Why send a game warden?”

“Because,” Ward said, changing his voice and cadence to imitate Rulon’s rapid-fire speaking style, “ ‘You’re well versed in many facets of outdoor issues including law enforcement and resource management.’ ”

“I am?”

“I’m quoting, so don’t ask.”

Joe didn’t.

“Also, don’t wear your uniform. It might spook ’em. They don’t like state interlopers up there in their park. They consider the place their own little private fiefdom.”

Joe nodded, although he knew Ward wouldn’t know he had.

“And, Joe, nothing about that letter from Rick Hoening should be brought up, understand?”

“Not really,” Joe said, feeling as if Ward was already tugging at the rug he was standing on.

“And if they want to make you a ‘special policeman,’ don’t do it,” Ward said. “You can’t divide your loyalty.”

“What’s a special policeman?” Joe asked, the image of a helmeted Keystone Kop appearing in his mind.

“Who the hell knows? Something the Park Service does for local law enforcement. Like deputizing you, I guess. The guy who set up the meeting, Del Ashby, suggested it. He’s your contact.His title is supervisory special agent, Branch of Law EnforcementServices, Office of Investigations. How’s that for a mouthful?”

“Sounds official,” Joe said.

“Just wait,” Ward laughed. “They’ll need to order bigger business cards up there if their titles keep getting longer. Anyway,ask for Del Ashby.”

“They won’t like me second-guessing their investigation,” Joe said.

“Nope, they won’t.”

“Four o’clock,” Joe repeated.

“Yes. And remember, nothing about the letter.”

Joe found himself frowning. “So, what is it I’m supposed to report?”

“You’ll have to figure that out on your own. The governor said to do what you do and try not to create any problems. You’ll be there as our representative, but it’s federal and they have the right to throw you out anytime.”

“I’m confused,” Joe said.

He could hear Ward sigh. “So am I,” he confessed.

“It seems like you’re really hanging me out there.”

“We are. Why did you ever think different?”

As Joe started to close the phone, he heard Ward say, “Don’t contact me unless it’s an emergency. And whatever you do, don’t call the governor.”

At burgess junction there was a gas station, a restaurant,a gift shop, a sporting goods store, and a saloon all locatedin the same weathered log building. The owners also rented cabins. As Joe pulled into the parking lot, it appeared that the place was busy. Of course it was, he thought, it’s huntingseason.

Unshaven men in camo coats and blaze orange hats milled on the wooden porch and around the cabins in back. Four-wheel drive vehicles and ATVs were parked wherever the trees were cleared. The air smelled of wood smoke, gasoline, and tallow. Field-dressed mule deer and elk carcasses hung in the trees, rib cages opened to the air to cool, the view inside the cavities red-white-red like split and flattened barber poles.

“Those yours?” Joe asked one of the hunters on the porch.

“The elk? Got ’em this morning.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Feel free.”

He couldn’t help himself; old habits die hard. The first thing he noticed as he inspected the hanging carcasses was that the elk were well taken care of. Hides had been removed, cavities scrubbed clean, tags visible. He searched for entrance and exit wounds and could see that only one of the animals had taken a body shot. The others, apparently, had been killed by bullets to the head or neck. Very clean kills. The hunters knew what they were doing and they took pride in their work. The elk were big and healthy, another good thing. The inch-thick layers of fat along their backbones, white and scalloped, was proof of the excellent habitat and resource management.

“Nice,” Joe said to the hunter who had accompanied him from the porch.

“Want to see the antlers?”

“Nah, that’s all right.”

Joe didn’t care about antlers, just that the herd was healthy and the job of harvesting done right.

“Good work,” he said, nodding.

“We take it seriously,” the hunter said. “If you’re going to take an animal’s life, you owe it to that elk to take responsibility.”

“Exactly.” Joe smiled.

Nodding at the rest of the hunters on the porch as he passed them, he reached for the door handle.

“Got your elk yet?” one of them asked.

“Nope,” Joe said pleasantly. In Wyoming, “got your elk yet” was a greeting as ubiquitous as “good morning” was elsewhere, but Joe was momentarily struck by it. For the first time he could remember, he was taken for a hunter and not the game warden. In the past, his arrival would have been met with stares, sniggers,or the over-familiar banter of the ashamed or guilty.

Inside, he bought water, jerky, and sunflower seeds because he had forgotten to pack a lunch. While he was paying for the items at the counter, a stout, bearded man in the saloon eyed him and slid off his bar stool and entered the store. Joe assessed him as the man pushed through the half-doors. Dark, close-croppedhair, bulbous nose, windburned cheeks, chapped lips. Watery, bloodshot eyes. A hunter who’d been at it for a while, Joe guessed. No other reason for him to be up there this time of year. The hunter had rough hands with dried half-moons of dark blood under his fingernails. Joe could tell from his appearancethat he wasn’t a member of the group out on the porch. Those men were sportsmen.

“Got your elk?” the man asked, keeping his voice low so the clerk wouldn’t hear him ask.

Joe started to shake his head but instincts kicked in. “Why do you ask?”

The hunter didn’t reply, but gestured toward the door with his chin, willing Joe to understand.

Joe shook his head.

Frustration passed across the hunter’s face because Joe didn’t appear to get it.

“Come outside when you’re through here,” the hunter said, sotto voce, and went out the door to wait.

While the clerk bagged his snacks, Joe shook his head. He knew what the hunter was telling him but had played it coy. Over the years, he’d learned that deception, unfortunately, was a necessary trait for a game warden. Not open dishonesty or entrapment-those ruined a reputation and could get him beaten or killed. But in a job where nearly every man he encounteredin the field was armed as well as pumped up with testosterone-and calling backup was rarely an option- playing dumb was a survival skill. And Joe, much to Marybeth’s chagrin, could play dumb extremely well.