James Smith - Hybrid

“I really don’t know.”

“You’re sure he’s at home?”

“Can’t be absolutely sure. But we’ve—”

“You got me outta bed and you’re not sure he’s home?”

“Look, Jack. We’ve determined that weekends are the best times to hit. That’s all we can do under the circumstances.”

Corey shook his head with a mock-grin.

“You might want to slow down a little here,” Montgomery said. “The local cops pay their bills with their radar gun.”

Corey was doing 65 in a 35 zone and didn’t let up. Down one of the gravel roads was the home of the suspect, Montgomery’s best guess as to the poacher of wolf labeled 10F, which had strayed from the Rose Creek pack. Its radio-collar had given off a signal indicating total absence of motion for twenty-four hours. Whenever Montgomery brought such warning signs to Corey’s attention, Corey directed the rangers to drop everything— everything —locate the wolf’s body, and give him a full account.

They had found the radio-collar near Highway 212, west of Cooke City. Those investigating the incident told Montgomery that the collar had been slashed with a knife and the body missing. Dried blood splattered the ground along with casings from .30/.30 shells. The missing mom—10F—left a den of pups. Only half survived. The others were found rotting. But it was not just a den of pups they’d found. She also left behind a grieving male, the same wolf often seen at the site where the slashed collar was found.

Evidently Nathan Dietz didn’t have many friends in that part of Montana. Park Service investigators said they had no trouble in locating informants who pointed fingers at him. His reputation for fishing over the limit, hunting out of season, and bagging more illegal game than anyone in four counties had caught up with him. The investigators said that Dietz complained to too many people about the government wolves. He carped about them breeding, then leaving the Park and killing his goats and sheep. He boasted often if he ever saw one “that would be one less goddamn wolf to worry about.”

Montgomery pointed to a mailbox at the head of a dirt road winding back into the trees. DIETZ was painted in black on the side of the steel box atop a wooden post.

“Loaded?” Corey asked.

Montgomery patted his holstered revolver and nodded.

Coreystomped on the accelerator and spun down the dirt driveway, trying to give the SOB who lived there a reason to confront them with a weapon. Even better, to shoot at them.

People who fired on park rangers were the lowest of criminals. Having a chance to fire back at a poacher was, to Corey’s mind, a great chance to take revenge on those bastards who always received the lightest of fines and rarely a sentence.

The truck spun to a stop in front of a shack with a sagging tin roof. The windows were either too grimy to see through or boarded up. On one side of the dilapidated structure a half re-painted Ford with tail fins rested lamely on blocks. A propane gas tank nestled among the tall weeds that surrounded the sorry excuse for a dwelling.

Montgomery rushed for the trees to make his way toward the back. Corey stepped onto the porch as a granddaddy beagle with visible ribs slinked from underneath the shack and labored to give off a threatening bark. A man wearing a red plaid and soiled shirt with the sleeves torn off opened the front door. Sporting week-old whiskers, he appeared to be in either his late fifties or his mid-seventies, depending on which angle you studied him from. He glared at Corey, then flipped onto the ground a cigarette that was smoked down to the grime on his long scraggy fingers.

“Are you Mr. Dietz? Corey asked. “Nathan Dietz?”

“S’ppose I am,” the man replied with a hoarse voice and matching attitude. He turned his head to cough before ambling over to the side of the porch and spitting into the breeze in a way designed to amaze the uninvited guests with his range. “And who the hell might you be on my property?” He coughed again.

“I’m Chief Jack Corey with the National Park Service.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“You’re under suspicion for killing one of the Park wolves.”

Dietz tried to laugh but was stymied by another coughing fit. “And what if I did?”

“These wolves are a species protected by the US government. Killing one is a felony.”

Montgomery walked out from behind a tree onto the porch. Dietz whipped a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket, hammered out a cigarette, and speared it between his lips. He squeezed a pack of matches from the same pocket and lit up, blowing the smoke directly downwind toward the trespassers.

Corey said, “I would appreciate it, Mr. Dietz, if you didn’t blow smoke in our faces.”

“To tell you the truth, I would appreciate it if you got the hell off my porch and went home.” He found it tough to complete a sentence without coughing. “Then my smoke wouldn’t get anywheres near you now, would it?”

“Do you own a thirty-thirty?” Montgomery asked.

Dietz took a slow draw on the cigarette and turned his head to the side this time to exhale. “I ain’t saying I do and I ain’t saying I don’t.”

Purple streaks sprouted across Corey’s neck. “I take it you won’t mind if we look around.” He yanked a piece of folded paper from his front pocket and held it up to Dietz’s face. “We have a search warrant, Mr. Dietz. I’d be happy to call in the sheriff to help me enforce it. His office is standing by.”

Montgomery smiled to himself. The local sheriff didn’t have a clue they were in his county. If he did, he’d have jumped at the chance to order them out of his jurisdiction pronto. Corey hadn’t followed or even considered protocol.

“You want to show us your gun collection, Mr. Dietz?” Montgomery asked.

“What makes you think I collect guns?”

“Just a hunch, sir.”

Dietz hesitated, then led them into his living room where a pride of cats scattered away. Along one wall a polished oak gun rack held four rifles and three shotguns—the only organized place in the house. Two of the rifles were .30/.30 caliber, one a Winchester and the other a Smith & Wesson. After a quick survey of other rooms, Corey asked to see the shed behind the house.

“Nothing out there but tools,” Dietz replied. “Besides, I got a doctor appointment in town.” He snatched a cheap watch out of his pocket and checked the time. “I’m gonna be late.”

Cough.

“Now I don’t mind if you gentlemen want to come back later. You can do all the questioning you want then. For now, I’m right sorry—”

“I don’t give a damn about your doctor appointment,” Corey snapped. “We’re going to search your shed. Understand me?”

He glowered back at Corey, uncertain how to react, then moseyed to the kitchen sink and spat into it. Wiping at his chin, he led the way out of the house while lighting up another cigarette.

Montgomery struggled with the knob on the shed door.

“It’s locked,” Dietz said between puffs. “Don’t know where the key might be.”

“Not a problem,” Corey replied. “Got an axe in the back of my pickup. Comes in handy at times like this.”

“Hold on.” While the cigarette clung to the side of his mouth, Dietz dug out a ring of assorted keys from his pocket. As if by magic, he found the right key and managed to open the door. “I hope this don’t take long. Hate to keep the doctor waitin’.”

The odor of mold and grease spewed from the dark interior of the shed. Rusted hand tools, decades old, hung from the walls. Some lay on the workbenches among used cans of paint and solvents.