Joe asked the minister about the man, and the reverend chuckled and said Ander attended a different church every week in Saddlestring and was on his second rotation of the winter. He was generous with his donation in the plate but had no interest in joining. And he wouldn’t show up again once the snows melted and the ranchers were hiring.
• • •
ANDER ESTI was the kind of character, Joe came to find out, who moved through the community and somehow left no impression he’d ever been there. During the winter months, he’d be on the periphery of the small Christmas parade put on by the downtown merchants or alone in the top row of the high school basketball game. He never spoke to anyone, and when he was gone no one recalled he’d been there.
Ander seemed to float through the seasons with a light footprint and a particular pattern: work all summer and fall in the high country without a day off, then winter in town like a ghost, slowly spending the wages he’d made until it was summer again. He was self-sufficient and never applied for unemployment insurance or welfare when he didn’t work, and never showed up for free lunch at the community center.
Joe noticed him, though, because he made a point of it. But he never got to know the man well and never had a conversation with him. And when he waved at Ander, the man appeared not to recognize him.
• • •
THE SHEEP WAGON Joe approached was the same unit where he’d originally met Ander but even more in need of a new coat of paint. Shards of green were curling off the base of the wagon and windows of galvanized metal could be seen on the sloped roof. It was warm enough that there was no curl of smoke from the stove. Ander Esti’s roan gelding looked thinner than the last time, and his dog more vicious.
Joe grabbed the mike from the dashboard and called it in. Because he was in the swale, reception was poor and filled with static.
“This is GF-24,” he said to the dispatcher two hundred and fifty miles away in Cheyenne. “I’m approaching the scene of the incident. It’s a sheep wagon belonging to the C Lazy U Ranch north of Kaycee. The perp in question appears to be inside and I know him. His name is Ander Esti . . .” Joe spelled out the name.
“Are you requesting backup?” the dispatcher asked.
Joe smiled to himself. “Negative. I’ll call in when I’m clear.”
Like before, Joe made sure his presence was known as he neared the wagon. He braked twenty yards from the front. Despite what the two hunters had claimed, Joe couldn’t imagine Esti being hostile. Nevertheless, he checked the loads in his shotgun before climbing out, but decided not to carry it to the front door of the wagon. Instead, he propped it inside the open door of his pickup. As he walked toward the front of the wagon, he touched the grip of his Glock with his fingertips but left it in the holster. He couldn’t conceive of a need to draw it out.
The sheep on all sides created a cacophony of mewls and abrasive calls. The blue heeler growled at him, showing its teeth and straining and lunging at a leash rope. The dog seemed unnaturally aggressive and upset, Joe thought.
Hundreds of sheep surrounded the wagon. They were so tightly packed together that they looked and functioned as a two-and-a-half-foot containment wall. Joe could hear them munching dry grass, and the sound became a low hum in the background.
“Ander? It’s Joe Pickett,” he called out as he neared the wagon but stopped well short of the dog. “Ander, you need to come out so we can talk. Some guys scouting for elk said you shot at their truck. They’re gone now—it’s just me.”
Although there were no sounds from inside, Joe noticed a very subtle shift in the wagon—weight being transferred from side to side, as if Esti was pacing. But it couldn’t be pacing because there wasn’t enough floor space. He must be shifting from the stool near the door to the bench at the table, Joe thought. He tried to picture Ander inside. The man was probably guilt-ridden and anxious about what he’d done. Joe couldn’t imagine what might go through a man’s mind after months of isolation with only a horse, a dog, and hundreds of sheep to talk to. Or what a man might think if he looked up and saw a strange pickup in the distance.
“Ander, come on out, but leave your rifle inside. Open your door so we can talk.”
Joe heard an impatient sigh and the latch of the upper door being thrown.
And Bryce Pendergast stood there holding Ander Esti’s lever-action carbine, pointing it directly at Joe’s face. Pendergast’s head was shaved and there were new tattoos on his neck and temple. He was shaking with rage or fear or meth and his eyes were wide open and wild.
Behind him, in the wagon, a female voice said, “Just shoot the motherfucker, Bryce. Just shoot him now.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Pendergast hissed to the woman. Then to Joe: “So, it’s you.”
Joe felt the blood in his face drain out and the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
“Where’s Ander?” Joe asked. “Do you have him with you in there?”
“Who?” Pendergast asked, his voice high and tight.
“Ander Esti. The sheepherder.”
“So that’s his name,” Pendergast said.
Joe wondered what exactly that meant.
• • •
“OKAY, GAME WARDEN,” Pendergast said, as he dropped his left hand from the front stock of the rifle but kept it aimed at Joe. “You need to unbuckle that belt and let it drop to the ground. Do it slow.”
Joe swallowed hard. He’d screwed up by forgetting his training and letting his familiarity with Ander Esti soften his approach. Never assume, he’d been taught. But he’d assumed.
He reached down and undid his belt and let his Glock, cuffs, bear spray, and extra magazines thump to the ground.
“I remember that goddamned bear spray,” Pendergast said, undoing the latch to the lower door and kicking it open. “It nearly fuckin’ blinded me.”
“I remember,” Joe said.
Joe recalled the takedown, when he was surprised by an armed Pendergast on the threshold of a rental house, and the first thing he was able to grab to protect himself was the canister of bear spray. And he remembered Pendergast writhing on the lawn, sobbing and crying that his rights had been violated.
Pendergast asked, “How’d you like that shit in your eyes?”
“I wouldn’t.”
Pendergast snorted and stepped down out of the wagon. The muzzle of the rifle trembled because Pendergast trembled. Joe looked at the man closely: wild eyes, flushed cheeks, sinew like taut cords in his neck, veins popping on his forearms.
As Pendergast cleared the door, Joe caught a glimpse of a skinny and dirty blonde inside, peeking out. She had long stringy hair and eyes as wild as Bryce’s. A tweaker, Joe thought. A couple of tweakers.
“Where’s Ander?” Joe asked.
Pendergast ignored him. He backed Joe up and squatted—with the rifle still aimed at Joe’s chest—to retrieve the gear belt and holstered pistol. He tossed it behind him so it landed in a coil beneath the wagon.
“We’re gonna be taking your pickup out of here,” Pendergast said. “Is there plenty of gas in it?”
“Yup,” Joe said. “But it won’t be as easy as that.”
Pendergast shook his head. “Why the hell not?”
“It’s a law enforcement vehicle,” Joe explained, dancing as fast as he could. “It’s got a GPS black box inside. The suits at headquarters can track it if it moves even a foot from where it is right now. So if it moves, they have to call me for a check-in. If you take my truck and don’t answer when they call in, they’ll know you’ve stolen it and they’ll send out a tracker plane or helicopter. You can’t just take a law enforcement vehicle anymore.”
Pendergast seemed flummoxed, but he covered himself by saying, “Yeah, I guess I heard something about that.”
“So if you want to go somewhere, I’ll be happy to drive you,” Joe said. “But you can’t just leave me h
ere and take it if you don’t want to get caught.”
“Maybe you’re going with us,” Pendergast said, narrowing his eyes.
“I thought that’s what I just said.” Joe grinned. Then: “So was it you who shot a couple of rounds at a pickup a while back?” Joe asked, keeping his tone conversational. “The guy who called it in said he thought it was the sheepherder.”
“It was Bryce,” the woman said from inside the wagon. “Ain’t that right, honey?” She was proud of him.
Pendergast nodded in agreement but kept his eyes locked on Joe.
“Get out here,” Pendergast said to the woman. “I need your help.”
“Doing what?” she asked.
“Just get the fuck out here,” Pendergast shouted.
“Jesus, you don’t need to yell,” she said, stepping out. Joe recognized her. He’d seen her playing girls’ basketball a couple of years ahead of his oldest daughter, Sheridan, for the same Saddlestring Wranglerette team. But she looked twenty-five years older than she should. He could see yellowed stubs where her row of white teeth used to be when she opened her mouth. She seemed to notice him staring and clamped her mouth shut. She was a serious meth user, all right. And maybe, he thought, she recognized him.
“So what did you do with Ander?” Joe asked. “I see his horse here and his dog.”
“Shut the hell up,” Pendergast said.
“So since your white van isn’t anywhere around here,” Joe said, “I’m guessing you broke down or got stuck somewhere close and walked until you found the sheep wagon. You were probably hoping there’d be a vehicle with it, but there wasn’t. So what did you do with Ander?”
“I said shut up while I think.”
“Never your strong suit,” Joe said. “But I’m worried about Ander. He’s known as a hard worker and a good guy, even if he’s a little . . . off. I’ve never met a rancher around here who didn’t want to hire him. He takes his job seriously and he never caused anyone any problems. He keeps to himself and works hard for a day’s pay. He’s trustworthy and honest and he’s never hurt or screwed anyone. I’d hate to think that something happened to him, because anyone who knew him liked the man.
“So,” Joe asked, “do you know where he is?”
Pendergast paused for a moment, then screamed, “Quit fucking asking the questions. I got the rifle—so I ask the questions.”
“Okay,” Joe said.
The girl shuffled up behind and to the left of Pendergast. Joe noticed for the first time that she held an old Colt .45 revolver in her hands. He glanced over his shoulder toward the open door of the wagon. No Ander. But he could see meth-smoking paraphernalia on the small table inside—crumpled aluminum foil packets, stubby pipes, open books of matches.
“Who knows you’re here?” Pendergast said.
Joe weighed his answer before he said, “Plenty of folks. I gave my location to the dispatcher just a few minutes ago. The sheriff’s department and the highway patrol are on their way. I’d suggest we end this before something bad happens.”
“When will they get here?” Pendergast asked, alarmed.
“Any minute,” Joe said.
Pendergast broke his glare and scanned the terrain for vehicles. “I don’t hear nobody coming.”
Joe shrugged. “Lots of folks are looking for you since you walked away from the Honor Farm. The best way to go here would be to put down the rifle and turn yourself in. That way you’ll be cooperating and they might go easy on you.”
“Fuck that,” Pendergast said, spitting out the words. “I ain’t going back there. You know what they had me doin’ on that farm? Milking fucking cows. I hate cows. I ain’t no farmer.”
Joe nodded. Bryce Pendergast had been raised well by solid parents. He had two brothers and a sister who had turned out all right. Bryce was in the middle, and had always been a wreck. Couldn’t keep a job, car theft, parole violations. He’d been in the process of setting up a meth lab with a buddy when Joe first arrested him.
“No, you aren’t a farmer,” Joe said.
Pendergast pursed his mouth and nodded as if they’d finally agreed on something. Then he seemed to recall why he’d asked the girl to come out of the wagon.
“Kelsey, put your gun on him for a minute.”
Kelsey—Joe now remembered her name as Kelsey Trocker—looked confused.
“What do you mean, on him?” she asked.
Pendergast sighed and said, “Raise that pistol and cock the hammer back and aim it at his face. If he so much as flinches, you pull the trigger. Now do you fuckin’ understand?”
“Yeah,” she said, “but you don’t need to talk to me like that.”
“Just do it.”
“Where you goin’?”
“I gotta pee.”
“Oh, okay.”
Pendergast stepped aside while Kelsey stepped forward. Joe felt his life about to end when she raised the revolver and fumbled with the hammer in an effort to cock it. She was as shaky as Pendergast. Then she managed to figure it out and Joe watched the cylinder rotate and the hammer lock in place. He could see—close as he was—lead bullets in three of the four visible chambers. The chamber that previously had been lined up in the barrel had been fired.
And he thought he knew what had happened to Ander Esti.
Pendergast kept his eyes on Joe while he backed away, making sure Kelsey had the situation under control. Then he turned near the wagon and Joe could hear him unzipping his jeans.
“Did you shoot Ander?” Joe asked in a low voice.
She shook her head no, but something that scared her flashed through her eyes. Maybe she was just now remembering what they’d done . . .
“You don’t need to go down with him,” Joe said, chinning toward Pendergast. “If Bryce was the one who did it, you can get yourself out of this.”
“Shut up,” she said, and Joe could see her finger whiten on the trigger. He shut up.
After leaving a meager puddle in the dirt, Pendergast zipped up and hoisted the rifle. He strode back toward Joe, but then stopped, as if he suddenly recalled something. With a lopsided grin, he turned and found Joe’s gear belt and removed the canister of bear spray.
Joe thought, Oh no.
“Keep that gun on him,” Pendergast said to Kelsey, as he clamped the rifle under his left arm. He held the bear spray aloft in his right hand.
“How’d you like a taste of your own goddamn medicine?” he said to Joe.
“I wouldn’t.”
“You thought it was pretty damned funny when you used it on me.”
“No, I didn’t,” Joe said.
“I learned at the Farm that this stuff,” he said, gesturing to the canister, “ain’t even legal to use on a human. It’s too damned powerful. They shoulda arrested you for excess force for sprayin’ me.”
“It was self-defense,” Joe said. “You might remember you were trying to shoot me at the time.”
“Bryce,” Kelsey said, stepping back, “don’t get any of that stuff on me.”
“Don’t worry, darlin’,” Pendergast said, warming up to his idea. “Just don’t take that gun off him.”
“Be careful,” Joe said to Pendergast. “That spray doesn’t always go where you aim it.”
Which made Pendergast pause for a moment while he studied the canister in his hand. There was a ring to put his index finger through, and a safety tab to flip up so he could trigger the release with his thumb. The complexity of it seemed to overwhelm him, Joe thought.
“Why don’t you—” Kelsey started to say.
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up!” Pendergast exploded. “He fucked me up with this stuff, so I’m gonna return the favor. Got it?”
Kelsey grimaced, and for a second the muzzle of the gun wavered.
“Really,” Joe said helpfully, “sometimes it shoots out
about forty-five degrees from where you aim it. So you’ve really got to know what you’re doing.”
It was about the fifth lie he’d told them since he arrived, he thought.
“Honey, can’t you spray him later?” Kelsey pleaded.
Pendergast ignored her and advanced with the canister out in front of him. When it was three feet from Joe’s face, Pendergast squeezed the trigger. But because he hadn’t armed the spray by raising the tab, nothing happened.
But Kelsey didn’t know that. She’d covered her face with her left hand and closed her eyes to avoid blowback. Joe threw himself at her.
He wrenched the Colt free and bodychecked her with his hip and she fell away like a rag doll. Before Pendergast could get rid of the canister and reseat his rifle, Joe raised the .45 in Pendergast’s general direction and fired.
The gunshot was flat and loud and Pendergast went down as if the wires that had held him aloft had been snipped. Joe didn’t know where he’d hit him, but he thumbed back the hammer again and pounced. Pendergast had taken his rifle down with him and Joe didn’t want it aimed at him.
Pendergast grunted “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck” and rolled in the dirt away from Joe, who could see a red stain blossoming through the fabric of Pendergast’s pant leg near his knee. He looked as if he intended to roll to his backside and sit up so he could fire the rifle at Joe.
Joe shot him in the butt from three feet away and Pendergast howled.
The rifle barrel raised in the air and Joe grasped it with his left hand and jerked it away, then sent it flying toward the near flock of sheep that had frozen and watched them with dumb eyes.
When the rifle hit the backs of the sheep—they were that tightly packed together—the entire herd panicked and began to move away as if they were a single organism. Their bawls filled the air and thousands of tiny chunks of earth were kicked up by their sharp hooves and rained down near the wagon and on Joe and Pendergast and Kelsey.
“Ungh,” Pendergast moaned, “you shot me in the ass.”
“Yup,” Joe said, cocking the hammer of the single-action.
Kelsey had recovered from being thrown aside and was on her hands and knees, trying to stand up.