He ordered the Wild Bunch—three eggs, bacon, and toast.
There was the old iconic photograph of Harry Longabaugh, Butch Cassidy, and the Wild Bunch over the counter of the café. In it, the Sundance Kid wore a suit, tie, handlebar mustache, and bowler hat. Joe wished idly that criminals still chose to dress well, but thought: Nobody did anymore.
He was reaching for his phone to check on Latta when the game warden entered the café. Latta nodded to Joe in a brusque manner and said to the waitress, “The usual, Steffi.”
He sat heavily in the opposite seat and leaned forward toward Joe. Latta’s eyes were bloodshot and hooded, and a hundred tiny veins were visible on his nose and fleshy cheeks. He looked like he’d got about as much sleep as Joe had.
“I got your messages this morning,” Latta growled.
“I was wondering,” Joe said.
Latta shook his head, almost in sorrow. “I wish you wouldn’t have gone up there.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Joe said.
“This is my district, goddamnit.”
“I know that.”
“Then what in the hell were you doing?” Latta asked, angry and pleading at the same time.
“My job. Our job.”
Joe drew out his phone and brought up the camera roll. “Here,” he said, handing it over to Latta. “I’ve got ’em in the act. Scroll through there and you’ll see their truck, the license plate, and some dead birds. You can even see hatchery bands on one of their feet if you zoom in. The time stamp nails down when it happened.”
Latta frowned as he scrolled through the shots. He grumbled about having trouble figuring out the features of the phone to zoom in on individual shots. He complained that his thumbs were too big for the modern world.
“That’s Critchfield’s truck, isn’t it?” Joe asked.
Latta grunted an assent, then put the phone down in front of him.
“Jesus, Joe,” he said, shaking his head from side to side. “Next time you can’t sleep, why don’t you play solitaire or jerk off like everybody else?”
Joe chose not to reply.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to go back up there last night?” Latta asked.
“I tried,” Joe said. “You didn’t pick up.”
Latta said, “Shit, you stirred up a damn hornet’s nest.”
Joe was puzzled. “I did?”
The game warden turned his deadeye cop stare back on. “You left your card on their windshield.”
Joe nodded. “So you heard about that already? What, did they call you? Is that why you’re late this morning?”
“Never mind that,” Latta said. “This is my district and I deal with things in my own way. I don’t need you around here pissing in the pool.”
“Sorry you feel that way,” Joe said through tight jaws.
Before Latta went on, the waitress delivered their plates. Both had the Wild Bunch in front of them.
“I’ll try to smooth things out,” Latta said, “but in the meanwhile, I don’t need any more of your goddamn help, okay?”
“Smooth what out?” Joe asked.
A gust of cool air blew through the café as two men entered. One was obviously the sheriff, judging by his beige uniform. The sheriff had narrow shoulders and a potbelly, and wore black squared-off boots. He had a sunken, weathered face and looked bemused, and he held his gaze on Joe for a beat longer than necessary. The other wore a tie and slacks and a long gray topcoat. Both men glanced their way as they entered—two redshirts were always a curiosity in hunting country—but settled into a booth across the room. The older man in the topcoat had a large square head, silver hair, and a serious expression on his face. When Joe nodded a hello, the sheriff looked quickly to his companion as if he hadn’t seen it.
Joe noticed Latta had seen them enter as well, and the game warden’s face seemed to have drained of color.
“Who are they?” Joe asked as he stabbed the yolk of an egg with a point of his toast.
“Sheriff R. C. Mead and Judge Bartholomew,” Latta said in a low tone, not wanting to be overheard. “Don’t stare at them.”
“So that’s Judge Bartholomew,” Joe said. “I met his sister last night. I see the resemblance.”
Latta said, “Let’s eat and get out of here. You and me have to talk.”
Joe nodded and ate. He was starving. He didn’t even look up when a packet of jam thrown by one of the dirty boys hit him in the leg.
“Had to meet the physical therapist at the house before I could get going this morning,” Latta said through a mouthful. “That’s why I’m late.”
Joe thought: It took you a while to come up with that one.
• • •
AFTER THEY’D PAID THEIR TAB, Jim Latta left the restaurant with his head down the same way he had left the Bronco Bar the night before. He said he’d meet Joe outside. The fact that Latta didn’t acknowledge the judge or the sheriff said more, in a way, than if he had, Joe thought.
On his way toward the door, Joe skirted the table with the family and intentionally neared the booth with the sheriff and judge. Neither raised his head to acknowledge him.
As he passed, Sheriff R. C. Mead said to the judge, “And there he goes, off to enforce the game regulations for the great state of Wyoming.”
Joe paused next to them and looked over. The judge seemed to be fighting a grin.
Mead said to Joe, “If you find somebody out there engaged in major criminal activity—like with too many mourning doves in their coat pocket or something—you make sure to call 911 so I can call up our SWAT team, you hear?”
“I think I could handle that one on my own,” Joe said. “But thanks for the offer, Sheriff.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Mead said, exchanging glances with the judge.
“Joe Pickett,” he said, extending his hand.
“I’m Judge Ethan Bartholomew,” the judge said, dismissively shaking Joe’s hand. “I hope you enjoy your stay at the Pines.”
“So far, so good,” Joe said.
The judge paused for a moment, then said, “And don’t go smoking in bed. Poor Anna can’t afford to lose any more units.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Joe said. Then he clamped his hat on his head and said to both of them: “Morning, gentlemen.”
The judge nodded back. Mead said, “I know all about you, you know.”
Joe raised his eyebrows.
“Bud Barnum and Kyle McLanahan were friends of mine,” Mead said, letting the names drop like lead weights. When Bartholomew looked to him for clarification, Mead said, “The last couple sheriffs of Twelve Sleep County, where Joe Pickett here comes from. He was a pain in the ass to both of them, they said. Barnum dropped off the face of the earth and McLanahan died in a mysterious fall. I’m sure you heard about that.”
“I heard about it,” Bartholomew said, then looked up at Joe as if seeing him in a different light.
Mead said, “There’s a new sheriff over there, some cripple. I don’t know him very well yet. But my guess is he’d agree with the other two how the local game warden doesn’t know how to keep his nose out of sheriff department business. That’s what they told me, anyway.”
Joe said, “His name is Sheriff Mike Reed. He’s a paraplegic because he got shot in the line of duty. He’s a good man who needs a wheelchair. There’s nothing crippled about him.”
Mead said to Joe, “Just keep out of my way in this county. I really don’t want to run across you again. You seem to be bad luck when it comes to sheriffs.”
He said it as a mock joke, but Joe could tell he wasn’t joking.
“And I’d appreciate it if you would stay out of my courtroom,” Bartholomew said. “My court has enough on the docket without a bunch of frivolous game violations.”
“You mean like locals who poach pheasant
s at night?” Joe asked innocently.
Something flashed through Judge Bartholomew’s eyes. Mead managed to act as though he didn’t understand what Joe had alluded to.
“That’s what I mean,” Bartholomew said with finality. “I don’t want to waste my time with trivialities.”
When the waitress arrived with their breakfasts, Joe stepped aside.
“Nice meeting you,” he said as he went out the door.
• • •
JIM LATTA stood between their two pickups, shuffling his feet nervously. He had Joe’s phone in his hand. “You forgot this.”
“Thanks,” Joe said, taking it.
“What were you talking with them about in there?”
“Just saying hello.”
“That’s all?”
“That and the fact that everybody in this county seems to know where I’m staying and what happened last night.”
“It’s a small place,” Latta said. “Everybody talks. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
“Except you,” Joe said, standing close to Latta. “You don’t seem to have a need to talk to anyone around here. You move through them like you’re a ghost, I’ve noticed.”
Latta looked over his shoulder as if checking for spies and said, “That’s what we need to talk about. Why don’t we drop your rig and your dog by the motel and you can go out with me today? You can tell me all about establishing some public walk-in areas, like we talked about.”
Joe hesitated, then agreed.
When he got behind the wheel to follow Latta out of Sundance, Joe checked his phone for messages he might have missed. There were none.
But the photos had been deleted.
• • •
JOE FOLLOWED LATTA’S TRUCK east out of Sundance toward Medicine Wheel. The long grassy mountain meadow they drove across was empty of other cars. Wooded hills bordered the flat on both sides and a narrow creek meandered in and out of view on the right side, its bank choked by heavy brush. A small herd of white-tailed deer grazed in the grass near the creek and didn’t bother to look up as the two pickups sizzled by.
He let Latta build a comfortable lead before scrolling through his phone for Chuck Coon’s private cell phone number. When he found it, he punched the number with his thumb and put his phone on speaker and lowered it to his lap. Joe didn’t want Latta to see him talking with anyone if the game warden checked him in his rearview mirror.
Coon answered on the second ring. “Make it quick, Joe. I’m on my way down the hall right now for a meeting with some D.C. honchos.”
“Just checking in as instructed,” Joe said.
“Anything to report?”
“Not a lot,” Joe said. “Except everyone I’ve met so far seems to know I’m here.”
“But do they know why?”
“I don’t know what they know, but it’s like walking into a bar full of regular customers—I stand out. But I can tell you Wolfgang Templeton seems to be well regarded around here. I haven’t met anyone yet who doesn’t sing his praises.”
“Interesting,” Coon said. “But will anybody give you something we can work with?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has anyone indicated they’re aware of Mr. Romanowski in the area?”
“Nope. But I haven’t asked specifically, either.”
“Do that.”
Joe grunted.
“So no whistle-blowers as yet,” Coon said.
“Not yet,” Joe said. “But there seems to be a lot going on up here I don’t understand.”
He told Coon about delivering the pheasants, then being there when they were being poached out in the middle of the night.
“You left them your card?” Coon asked incredulously.
“Yup.”
“Joe, you were supposed to keep a low profile. We talked about that and you agreed.”
Joe said, “Chuck, they already knew I was here. Now they know I’m a real game warden. They aren’t thinking of me in any other way.”
Coon paused for a moment, then said, “Okay, I see the sense in that. It establishes your cover.”
“It’s not a cover,” Joe said. “I am a game warden. But what I can’t figure out is why these two low-life poachers seem to be above the law up here. The local game warden doesn’t want to roust them, the sheriff doesn’t want to hear about them, and the judge doesn’t want them in his courtroom.”
“How do you know that?”
“They all told me.”
“All this has happened already?” Coon asked. “You haven’t wasted any time.”
“I’ll text you the names of the locals when I get a chance,” Joe said. “Maybe you can run them and find something.”
“Roger that.”
Joe said, “The game warden up here seems to be hiding something. I think he knows a lot more about what goes on than he’s let on to me so far.”
“Are you on good terms with him? Will he talk?”
“I don’t know yet,” Joe said. “I’ve got to be real careful because he seems a little suspicious. He’s not happy with me for identifying those poachers for some reason. I don’t really like spying on a fellow game warden, you know. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Oh well,” Coon said. “Get what you can out of him and let me know.”
“Thanks for the sympathy and understanding.”
“My pleasure.”
Joe could hear Coon’s shoes tapping out a cadence as if he were marching down a hallway. He was slightly out of breath when he spoke.
Joe said, “Hey—do you have anything for me regarding Erik Young? The name I asked you about?”
“I gave that to an agent,” Coon said impatiently. “I haven’t seen the agent yet today and I don’t know if he sent me an email on it.”
“You’ll let me know, though, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’ve got to go. Keep me posted.”
Joe punched off. When he looked up he could see Latta watching him in his rearview mirror.
• • •
ANNA BARTHOLOMEW met them in the courtyard of the Whispering Pines with a platter of hot cinnamon rolls. She said she’d just baked them.
“We just ate breakfast,” Latta said to her with a grin while Joe led Daisy back to cabin number eight. “But if it’s okay with you, I’d like to take one or two along for later.”
“They’re best when they’re warm,” Anna said with a chirpy voice. “But I can get some paper towels and wrap them up for the two of you. You men must get hungry out there, driving around the countryside.”
Joe rejoined Latta with his coat and the leather briefcase from his truck while the game warden waited for the cinnamon rolls.
“Walk-in area guidelines and paperwork,” Joe said, lifting the briefcase.
Latta nodded and said, “She makes the best damned cinnamon rolls in the state.”
“I like cinnamon rolls,” Joe said. He sounded simple even to himself. But what he was thinking was, How did she know we were coming back here?
• • •
LATTA’S AGENCY PICKUP was of a newer vintage than Joe’s, but the contents of the single cab were remarkably familiar—GPS mounted on the dashboard, radios underneath, evidence kit, reams of maps held together by rubber bands on the floor console, empty shell casings and spent sunflower seeds on the floor. An M14 peep-sight carbine was secured to a mount in the center of the cab and a combat shotgun was wedged muzzle-down between the bench seats.
“Feels strange being a passenger,” Joe said, climbing in and shutting the door.
“I bet,” Latta said, taking the road out of Medicine Wheel.
Latta seemed preoccupied, Joe thought. No small talk about the weather, where they were going, anything.
Something was on his mind and he was trying to figu
re out how to present it.
Joe finally said, “The photos are gone from my phone.”
Latta wouldn’t meet his eyes as he drove, but he said, “What do you mean?”
“They’ve been deleted. I think you know that.”
Latta said, “I might have pushed the wrong button when I was looking at them this morning. I told you I have trouble with those damn things.” Then: “Damn, that’s too bad.”
Joe said, “We both know it doesn’t matter. We could find feathers, blood, and other evidence in Critchfield’s truck and send it to the forensics lab in Laramie. That is, if we really wanted to nail him. But it’s your district and it’s your call.”
Latta started to respond, then caught himself. After a few miles, he let out a sigh. He said, “I might have pushed something that said ‘reformat this camera’ when I was scrolling through the pictures, I guess.”
“Gee, you think?” Joe said with sarcasm.
“Okay, okay,” Latta said. “Now is not a good time to cite Critchfield and Smith. It’s complicated, but it’s something that just isn’t worth it, Joe. You’ve got to trust me on this.”
“Are you building a case against him?”
After a pause, Latta said, “Something like that.”
• • •
THEY TOOK THE WINDING STATE HIGHWAY through timbered hills to get to the access road that would lead them to the Sand Creek Ranch headquarters. In addition to spruce and ponderosa pine, Joe noted swaths of scrub oak in the valleys. As they passed, he saw deer and wild turkeys on the floor of the forest.
The truck approached a Y junction in the road and Latta bore left. Joe saw another historical marker whiz by. On a flat below a creek, he was surprised to see a huge red structure of sorts with turrets and a gabled roof. Two dozen four-wheel-drive vehicles were parked outside the main building. The southern wing looked empty except for two aging pickup trucks parked side by side.
“What the heck is that?” Joe asked. The building looked remarkably out of place. A sign read: THE BLACK FOREST INN.
“Used to be the home of the owner of the coal mine,” Latta said. “He built it to look like some kind of European château. Up until a few years ago, it was in bad shape. Some guy tried to turn it into a hotel, but he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. The only crowd he got there were the bikers on the way to Sturgis, and they beat it up even more.”