C Box - Blood Trail

“This isn’t over,” Joe said aloud.

A thick bank of storm clouds pushed their way across the sun, halving it, then snuffing it out. In the distance he could hear the muted roar of semitrucks on I-80. The air smelled of dust, sage, and diesel fumes. In his ears he could hear a similar roar that stemmed from anger and betrayal. Joe called Marybeth, said, “It’s going to be a long night.”

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Did you meet with Vern Dunnegan?”

“I did.” Joe said tightly. “And everything has just gone nuclear.”

“Oh, no. What did he say?”

“It all goes back to Vern,” Joe said.

“What did he say?”

“Honey, you can’t say a word about what I’m going to tell you to anybody .”

“Joe, I won’t. I never do.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Sorry.”

As Joe explained, he looked up and saw his truck a mile away, descending toward the valley floor and the prison complex. In a couple of minutes it would be here. He hurried, rushing his words until all he could say was, “Nate’s here. I’ve got to go.”

“Joe!” she said. “You can’t do what I think you’re going to do.”

“I’ll call later,” he said, and snapped the phone shut as Nate pulled up in front of him and stopped the pickup.

Nate said, “I hope you don’t mind I borrowed your vehicle.” He got out and left the driver’s-side door open and walked around the front of the truck to get back in as a passenger. “I had to go downtown and check out a couple of pawnshops.”

Joe grunted and climbed in. The scoped five-shot.454 Casull revolver Nate had found at a pawnshop lay formidably on the seat cushion between them, along with a heavy box of ammunition. It was a massive weapon, the second most powerful handgun in the world, manufactured by Freedom Arms in Freedom, Wyoming. Joe knew that a.454 bullet was capable of punching a clean hole through a half inch of steel, penetrating the engine block of a car and stopping it cold, or knocking down a moose at a mile away. It was Nate’s weapon of choice, and he was an expert with it.

“I somehow figured I’d be needing that later,” Nate said by way of explanation. “The FBI still has mine. This baby’s a little beat up, but it’s got a nice scope and I got it for a song-eighteen hundred.”

Joe slipped the truck into gear and began to climb out of the valley.

“So,” Joe asked, “how does a man under federal indictment walk into a pawnshop and buy a hand cannon without raising any red flags in a background check?”

Nate smiled, handed back the wallet Joe had left in the pickup. “I didn’t,” Nate said. “You did. And tell Marybeth not to worry-I used your state credit card, not a personal one.”

Joe moaned.

“Did you find out anything?” Nate asked, gesturing toward the prison.

“You were right,” Joe said. “We were thinking Wolverine was targeting hunters in general. It turns out, the killer was after five specific men who happened to be hunters.”

Nate nodded slowly, waiting for more.

JOE SAID, “Vern was at coffee in the Burg-O-Pardner like he was every morning, even during hunting season, when Shenandoah Yellowcalf walked in the place. This was ten years ago. I wasn’t in the picture then. The breakfast crowd consisted of the city fathers, or who thought they were. Vern, Judge Pennock, and Sheriff Bud Barnum.”

When he said the name Bud Barnum , Joe glanced at Nate and paused. Nate looked untroubled.

“What?” Nate asked. “Do you expect remorse?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Joe said.

“Go on,” Nate said impatiently. It was clear to Joe that what bothered Nate was not Barnum’s involvement but Shenandoah’s.

Joe said, “This was when Shenandoah was operating her camp-cook-slash-guide service. She claimed she’d been hired by a party of five elk hunters who held her against her will and raped her. Vern said she said it in front of the whole table, and she demanded that Barnum and Vern go arrest the hunters. Vern thought the whole situation was uncomfortable because-according to him-it was pretty well known at the time that Shenandoah did a lot more for hunters than cook and guide.”

“That asshole,” Nate whispered.

“I don’t know if there’s anything to that charge,” Joe said. “I tend to believe there might be some truth in it, from what I’ve heard over the years and from what Alisha said last night. She said Shenandoah was wild back then, so it’s possible what Vern said is credible. That’s what I’ve got in my old notebook, that an Indian girl was prostituting herself under the cover of serving as a camp cook. No names, though. So there’s some corroboration. But if it is, there’s no evidence she made a claim of rape either before or after that incident. So in this particular case, she might have been forced and she wanted the hunters arrested.

“Vern said he went up to the elk camp with Barnum to talk to the hunters. There were five, like she said. The hunters were Wyoming men of some prominence. Vern said he recognized a couple of their names at the time. They said Shenandoah had been willing, even enthusiastic about taking them all on. They told Vern they’d been playing poker in their tent the night before and she invited them to her tent one by one. All of them were embarrassed, and begged Vern and Barnum not to tell their wives or girlfriends. They said Shenandoah must be shaking them down for money or something, because otherwise it made no sense to them that she’d come into town and make an accusation like that. The hunters said that if Shenandoah went public, it would ruin them for no good reason.”

Nate sat back in the seat, said, “I can see where this is headed.”

Joe nodded. “It’s even worse. What they ended up doing, Nate, was arresting her for public intoxication and putting her in the county jail until she realized her charge was going nowhere. That must have made her a very bitter woman.”

“And I don’t blame her,” Nate said.

Joe said, “She went from being seen as a star athlete to an alcoholic loser in the space of just a few years. There was plenty of gossip-probably some of it true-about her camp cook activities. So when she makes an accusation in public against five resident hunters, she gets charged. Whatever dignity she had left at that point must have been flushed away.”

Nate said, “I’m surprised she didn’t take it any further than that, like the Feds or the media.”

Joe agreed. “I asked Vern about that, and he said she didn’t take it any further because she realized she had nothing but her word against theirs. You see, Barnum and Vern ‘lost’ her original complaint. They didn’t order a rape kit done, or send her to the clinic for photos or an examination. By the time she realized all of that-when she was released on bail-any bruises she had were healed and there were at least three well-known city fathers lined up and ready to testify that she had shown up drunk and raving at breakfast. She had no case and an entire valley-whites who resented her for being Indian and Indians who resented her for doing too well-lined up against her.”

They drove in silence for the fifty miles from Lamont to Devils Gate under an unforgiving leaden sky. Joe could tell from the skitterish behavior of the antelope herds that low pressure and moisture were on the way. His stomach roiled and his hands felt cold and damp on the steering wheel. He’d told Nate the story Vern had relayed to him but he hadn’t told Nate everything.

“What were the names of our poker-playing hunters?” Nate asked, finally.

“I think you know,” Joe said. “Except for the fifth one.”

“But I can guess. Randy Pope.”