men sat around a poker table in the back room of an historic hotel somewhere in Wyoming. They were only vaguely aware of its history, but the bullet holes that pockmarked the expansive wood bar out front hinted at it. The place was supposedly haunted, too, but they didn’t care and didn’t believe.
They had business to discuss.
A new outfitter had shown up late last spring, and from what they could tell, he was unlicensed. The men at the table were unlicensed as well, lying to clients from out of state, telling the nonresidents that they could legally hunt under the outfitter’s license. Not true, but they didn’t care.
No, they led the hunts into public lands as far away from possible observation as they could get, wined and dined the hunters to make them feel like big deals, then got them their damn trophies, knowing these guys would leave the state immediately.
Babied them, is what they did, sometimes even setting up the shot and aiming the rifle.
It was good money, all of it carefully laundered out of state.
But now some new guy was horning in, and he could be big trouble. Losing a few trophies to the hunters he guided wasn’t as much of a concern as his lower charges. He could force them all to charge less, especially if he got enough people to work for him.
The bigger concern was that if he screwed up he’d bring a lot more scrutiny to bear and could cause their operations to cut way back until the heat went away. Also, they couldn’t afford to take this fight public by reporting him. Not when they’d spent so long carefully burying themselves below the state’s radar.
The burly guy with the ponytail slapped his cards facedown on the table. “We gotta eliminate him. As in dead.”
The other men nodded. If this interloper had just played nice with them, they might have let him in, but instead he’d started a solo operation. No respect. Dangerous.
“Okay,” said a man whose face was nearly as grooved as the mountainous landscape. “Accidents happen, people disappear out there. Find out where his base is.”
“I’m hearing Conard County,” said the ponytail man. He knew a lot more, but he wasn’t about to share or reveal his sources to anyone. They had to be well protected. But this guy he wanted dead? He wasn’t what he pretended to be, a fact that ponytail kept to himself. Knowledge was power and he had it. The last thing he wanted was for his partners to wet their pants and run.
“Well, hell,” said the man with mountain terrain for a face. “He hasn’t set up shop, that I’ve heard.”
“Just about to,” said ponytail. “And that’s one of our most profitable areas.”
“Yeah,” said one of the other men, his voice gravelly from cigarettes, his face weathered until it looked like a map. “He dies. Just make it look like an accident.”
The ponytailed man nodded and never mentioned that they had a second target: that nuisance of a warden, Desi Jenks. One favor for another. If they guessed that they’d probably all turn into frightened grannies.
Then they went back to playing cards, unaware of all the past times when just such murderous plans had been laid here.
Senior Game Warden Desiree Jenks, or Desi as she preferred to be known, arrived at the ranch belonging to Jake Madison, just in the foothills of Thunder Mountain in Conard County, Wyoming. She knew what she was going to see. By the sound of things, Jake, who was also the Conard City police chief, was mad enough to shoot someone.
She couldn’t blame him, and yet, it was her job to stay calm and maintain a good relationship with the local people, most especially the ranchers. She relied on them probably more than they guessed. Like this. Only because of Jake would she have ever known about it.
She parked her official truck near the front of the house and climbed out. The early October air had a chilly bite so she pulled on her dark green insulated vest over the long-sleeved red shirt that was part of her uniform—and the reason Wyoming wardens were called “redshirts.”
She retrieved her shotgun out of the rack in the back and loaded a few shells, turning in time to see Jake coming out of the house. A tall, well-built man, he was dressed in his own insulated vest and jeans, and carrying an orange hunting vest.
“Damn it, Desi,” he said as he strode up to her. “This has got to stop. My land is posted. Nobody asked for permission.”
She nodded. “I get it, Jake. And it’s getting worse by the year.” She laid the shotgun down on the seat after making sure the safety was on, and reached for her other equipment.
“No kidding. I suggest we ride if you don’t mind. It’s a distance and pretty bumpy.”
“Fine by me.” She pulled out her orange hunting cap and crammed it on, then hung the strap of her camera around her neck. Next, she tugged out a pack carrying her evidence collection kit and slipped it onto her back. Jake had donned his orange vest. The man ought not to have to worry about such things on his own land, Desi thought. Posting it should have been enough to keep people away, not that it always was. And he had a small child to worry about, even worse. After pulling on her gloves, she followed him across the dry, hard ground of the yard.
Jake had already saddled two horses that waited patiently in the barn. Desi shoved her shotgun into the saddle holster, then mounted the big pinto easily. The ranch hand just outside waved as they passed by, clearly about to climb into a battered pickup.
Riding side by side, they moved quickly. “Did you find it?” she called to Jake.
“Larry did. He came riding back to tell me, so I went out and...well, the air turned kinda blue. Crap, I hate poachers, but my cattle are out there, too. The hunters must have chased that bighorn down the mountain.”
“Maybe.” It was still a little too early for the bighorn to be migrating to much lower altitudes. Later in the month or early next month, as the weather got colder and mating season drove them, they’d come down lower, seeking a safe valley for rutting. But that didn’t fit this place or this time. Yeah, some hunters with dogs might have driven him down. Or maybe he was sick. She’d have to find out.
Twenty minutes later they approached the site of the kill. She could smell it. Must be two days old. Rain the last two nights. No footprints of any kind to help her investigation.
But there was no question about what she saw in the tall yellowed grass. “Damn,” she swore.
“Yeah,” said Jake. “And double damn.”
The remains of a large ram’s body lay headless in the trampled grass. Trophy hunting. God, it sickened Desi. The meat left to rot, which was a crime unto itself, the animal expertly skinned for its pelt...and the carrion eaters had already started their job.
The horses didn’t like the smell, and began to sidle and nicker. Hanging onto her reins, Desi swung down and passed them to Jake. “You take the horses back a way. I need photos and samples.”
The wolves had already been here, along with the hawks and vultures and ravens. Not good about the wolves. Desi hated to see any of them get killed, but
