“It looks restored,” Joe said, noting its clean lines, new asphalt parking lot, and new roof.
“Pretty much,” Latta said. “About ninety percent of the rooms are refurbished, and they’re filled with hunters this time of year. It’s pretty convenient for them because that structure on the south end is that wild game–processing facility I told you about—the only one in the county. It gets busier than hell.”
“I saw a couple of trucks.”
“Locals,” Latta said. “When they’re butchering game, they employ five or six people from around here. It’s a damn fine processing outfit—one of the best I’ve ever seen. You know how some of those places are. But down there, you could eat off the floor. All the saws and equipment are stainless steel, and the cutters wear white coats and aprons. It’s high-quality enough I take my own deer and elk there to get it packaged. We could swing by there on the way back and pick up some German sausage, if you want. They make great sausage.”
“Who owns it?” Joe asked, already knowing the answer.
“Templeton. He saved the place,” Latta said.
“I wish I’d known about it,” Joe said. “I could have stayed there instead of the Whispering Pines.”
“The bar gets pretty rowdy,” Latta said with a grin. “Especially now, during hunting season. So you’re better off where you’re at.”
Joe nodded. He said, “Since we’re going to see him, what can you tell me about Wolfgang Templeton?”
“What do you want to know?”
“You seem to like him. Everybody I’ve met seems to like him. That’s not always the case with big landowners who move in and buy everything up.”
Latta agreed and said, “If it weren’t for him, I don’t know what this county would be like.”
As they drove, Latta said Templeton had been a generous and selfless philanthropist since his arrival years before.
“You name it,” Latta said. “When our six-man high school football team needed new uniforms, Mr. Templeton paid for them. When the county museum needed a new roof, Mr. Templeton paid for the materials and sent his men to fix it. When the medical clinic was just about to close because the mines shut down and hardly anyone had medical insurance anymore, Mr. Templeton was able to recruit a doctor from Pakistan—Dr. Rahija—and made a big donation to upgrade the place. He just helps people, Joe,” Latta said, as if that explained it all.
“He’s the biggest employer in the county by far,” Latta continued. “He employs out-of-work loggers and miners as guides, outfitters, cowboys on his ranches, cooks, even those meat processors back there. Three-quarters of this county owe their walking-around money to Mr. Templeton.”
“Interesting,” Joe said.
“Yeah, I don’t know what we’d do without him. Government checks and EBT cards only go so far.”
“EBT?”
“‘Electronic Benefits Transfer.’ The Feds issue ’em now instead of food stamps. They’re kind of like debit cards. Food stamps gave the recipients a sense of shame, I guess.”
Joe looked over to see if Latta was being facetious, but he didn’t appear to be.
“Plus, he helped you and Emily,” Joe said.
“That’s right,” Latta said, and turned to Joe. “Who else would do something like that out of the goodness of his heart? I mean, he found the best surgeon in South Dakota and flew me and Emily to Rapid City in his plane so she could get that operation. Think about that.”
“He has his own plane?” Joe asked.
“A couple of them,” Latta said, which confirmed what Coon’s file had said. “The ranch headquarters has an airstrip on it, and Mr. Templeton keeps his planes in a hangar there. See, he’s a pilot. He actually flew us there himself. And when Emily was released from the hospital, he flew back over and brought us home.”
“I’ve got to ask,” Joe said, as conversationally as he could manage. “Where did he get all his money to do these things?”
Latta turned back to the road. He said, “Beef, of course. And he grows lots of hay on a couple of his ranches.”
Joe said, “Still, there seems like there has to be another source. All the ranchers I know are land-rich but cash-poor.”
Latta continued: “Then there’s all the outfitting and hunting operations, the wild game–processing plant . . .” His voice trailed off.
Joe let the question just hang there, and it did.
“I don’t know,” Latta said, finally. “I heard he used to be some kind of big-shot financial whiz back east. He probably banked a ton of money away during the boom years.”
As he said it, Latta turned from the highway onto a well-graded gravel road. They passed under a magnificent wrought iron archway that identified the property as THE SAND CREEK RANCH.
As they passed through the arch, Joe noted small closed-circuit cameras mounted to the wrought iron columns on each side.
“Why the cameras?” Joe asked, pointing them out to Latta.
“Cattle rustlers, I’m sure,” Latta said quickly.
“Is that a problem around here?”
“Sure. Beef prices are up, you know. That’s why the ranch shut down all the old access roads except the main one a few years ago. Rustlers can bring their cattle trucks in only one way: through the main gate.”
“Interesting,” Joe said.
“Mr. Templeton thinks of everything,” Latta said with a nod.
“Tell me,” Joe said, “in your visits out here, have you ever run into a falconer? Big guy, with a blond ponytail?”
Latta looked over, puzzled. “No, why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Who is he?”
“Just a guy I’m always on the lookout for,” Joe said. “We have some history.”
Latta let it drop.
Joe looked ahead. The road followed the contours of a narrow but deep stream. He could see trout rising to the surface to sip at a midmorning hatch. The concentric circles were substantial, meaning the fish were big. As a fly fisherman, Joe felt a tug in his chest and wished he’d packed along his rod and waders.
“We might catch Mr. Templeton himself,” Latta said, “but more likely we’ll talk to his ranch foreman about the walk-in areas.”
Joe tried to contain his disappointment.
“But if we talk to Mr. Templeton, Joe, I’ve got to ask a favor of you.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me do the talking,” Latta said. “You tend to ask too many questions.”
Joe thought it over, recalling the admonition from Coon and the promise he’d made to Marybeth, before saying, “It’s a deal. This is your district, after all.”
• • •
THE HILLS ON BOTH SIDES closed in as they drove up the gravel road and entered the shadowed mouth of a canyon. Joe kept glancing at the stream itself but also noticed the condition of the ranch: straight and tight barbed-wire fences, obvious habitat restoration work on the waterway, smart culverts and cattle guards, no ancient husks of spent vehicles or ranch equipment. The vast property was impressive, he thought, and well managed.
The road began to serpentine and narrow as it rose into the canyon, hugging the left side of the red canyon wall. When he glanced ahead, Joe could see the outward corners of four upcoming turns.
Coming around the farthest turn, more than a quarter of a mile ahead, was a flashing glimpse of the grille of an oncoming pickup.
“Oh shit,” Latta whispered, slowing down immediately.
Joe narrowed his eyes. The oncoming vehicle was already out of view as it rounded the turn. But he’d recognized it as well.
“That’s Bill Critchfield’s rig,” Latta said urgently. “Get out now.”
Joe looked over for clarification.
“If he sees you . . .” Latta said.
“What if he does?”
“Just get out,” Latta said. He pointed his finger toward a thick stand of ponderosa pine on the other side of the creek about two hundred and fifty yards upstream. “Meet me there. I’ll pick you up in a minute.”
“But . . .”
“Go,” Latta hissed, his eyes flashing.
“It’s your district,” Joe said as he threw his door open and jumped out. The grade on the side of the road was steep and the ground was loose, and he danced his way down to the bottom. When he was able to stop and look back, he saw Latta’s arm reach out from the cab and close the passenger door, then ease his truck up the road.
Confused, Joe pushed his way through heavy brush until he reached the creek. The air smelled of juniper and sage. He could hear both pickups on the road above him as they met. He imagined Latta and Critchfield stopped nose-to-tail in the road to exchange pleasantries. Or something.
Although he was too far away to make out any words, Joe heard Critchfield’s voice bark sharply. He paused and listened and waited, hoping there wouldn’t be trouble. Joe wished he’d brought his shotgun along, and he instinctively reached down to brush the grip of his service weapon with the tips of his fingers.
The stream was narrow enough at one point that he was able to jump across it, although he barely made the distance. Both of his boot heels sank into the mud of the opposite bank as he landed, and he windmilled his arms forward to keep his balance so he wouldn’t tumble back into the water.
Joe stopped to pause and listen as he walked upstream, keeping to the heavy brush so they couldn’t see him from the road. Again, he heard Critchfield’s voice rise and fall. He got the impression Critchfield was yelling at Latta, or making some kind of emphatic point. Probably about the business card he’d found on his truck, Joe thought. He was still taken aback by how panicky Latta had acted, and he wondered what Latta thought Critchfield would do if Joe had stayed in the truck.
Latta, Joe thought, had some explaining to do.
• • •
AROUND A LONG, LAZY BEND of the stream, with the dark stand of pine looming ahead of him, Joe found out he wasn’t alone. What he didn’t expect was to stumble upon a man who appeared to be a refugee from The Great Gatsby searching for a tennis game.
Sand Creek Ranch
“Hello there,” Joe called out. “Are you having any luck?”
At the sound of Joe’s voice, the man upstream froze in midcast. He didn’t jump or wheel around but his fly line dropped and pooled unceremoniously around his ankles. As it did, he slowly turned his head, but his expression was stoic.
Joe had encountered enough fishermen over the years to know the reaction was unusual. Usually, anglers were startled and immediately started talking or reaching for their licenses when they saw his red shirt. Only once had it been otherwise, four years before in the Sierra Madre, and what led from that response had been harrowing.
The man was young, trim, and athletic-looking, although like the red stone structure on the way up, he seemed out of place. The fly fisherman wore British Wellington boots instead of modern waders, form-fitting cargo pants, a crisp button-down long-sleeved shirt, and a cream-colored sweater-vest with a V-neck. Joe thought he looked like a Hollywood actor, with his high cheekbones, slicked-back dark hair, and intense blue eyes. The fisherman held an expensive-looking bamboo fly rod and wore a throwback wicker creel over his shoulder.
“How’s fishing?” Joe asked.
“Fine, sir,” the man said. The word spoken was southern and syrupy: fahn.
“I saw some big rises on the water a while ago,” Joe said. “Are they still coming up to the surface?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing better than fishing for big trout with dry flies, is there?”
The fisherman was still locked in place, the rod suspended in the air. He slowly lowered it and said, “No, there isn’t. Even in the fall there are midmorning hatches. But I believe, sir, you might be trespassing.”
Joe said, “Maybe so.”
High above them, Joe could still hear the sound of voices from Latta and Critchfield. Apparently, they were still parked on the road. Joe shot a look toward the slope to confirm that he was still out of their view due to the angle, as was the fisherman.
“My name is Joe Pickett. I’m a Wyoming game warden.”
“Ah,” the fisherman said with a nod, “the misplaced game warden.”
“Misplaced?”
“Back home, we’d call you a conservation officer.”
“Where’s home?”
“Not here.”
“Meaning you’re a newcomer here,” Joe said.
“But not misplaced,” he said with an edge.
So he was aware of him as well, Joe thought. Joe stepped a few steps to the side. The move was intended so he could observe the fisherman from a three-quarter angle from the back. He didn’t appear to be packing any weapons, although it was hard to discern what was under the sweater-vest.
“Mind if I take a look at what you’ve got in your creel?”
Something flickered across the fisherman’s face: a look of disdain. “This, sir, is highly unusual. May I ask you why you want to know?”
“Sure,” Joe said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re legal, which I’m sure you are. I’m guessing anyone who uses a twelve-hundred-dollar bamboo rod and an eight-hundred-dollar vintage creel would also be in full compliance with the fishing regulations.”
The fisherman kept his gaze on Joe as he approached. He said, “You don’t know your rods like you think you do. This is a Lyle Dickerson Model 8013. It was built in 1959 and it cost me $9,750.” He paused for effect, then: “It’s worth every penny on a narrow stream like this. It doesn’t have the action of a modern graphite, of course, but it has touch and restraint I’ve learned to appreciate.”
Joe whistled as he approached the man.
“Stop right there,” the fisherman said, hardening his voice. As he did, Joe sensed danger in the man’s stillness.
“I just want to take a look,” Joe said. “It’s up to you to let me. I won’t force you. But if you refuse to let me see what’s inside that creel, we may have issues.”
“Issues?”
Joe nodded.
“You, sir, are trespassing on private property. These are private waters.”
Joe paused and leaned back and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. He said, “I’m sorry, but this a free-flowing stream, not a private pond. There’s a strange thing about Wyoming laws, and I can understand your confusion. See, in this state, the landowner owns the ground—even the streambed—but not the water itself. The water belongs to the public and so do the fish, which means Wyoming Game and Fish regulations apply even on private land.
“We don’t want to make this difficult. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look in that creel. It looks heavy. It looks like you’re doing really well with that bamboo rod of yours. I’m a fly fisherman myself, and I’m always in awe of a real pro.”
The fisherman didn’t respond, although Joe sensed he enjoyed being referred to as a pro.
The man raised his chin, but his unblinking eyes never wavered. When Joe looked directly at them, he got a chill on the back of his neck. There was something about this man that made Joe wish he’d never encountered him. Something deeper and more serious than he’d anticipated.
After a beat, the fisherman reached down with his free hand and untied the leather strap on the creel and raised the cover. Joe noticed there was a word or name tooled into the strap that said WHIP. He stepped forward and peered inside. The heavy brown trout inside looked like brightly speckled lengths of burnished copper. They were nested in long, moist grass plucked from the bank to keep them cool.
“Impressive,” Joe said, counting heads. “Ten of ’em, and not a one less than fourteen inches. You’re quite an angler.”
“I took up the sport a few years ago,” the fisherman said, the edge on his voice dulling a bit more. “I find fly-fishing surprisingly relaxing.”
Joe gestured to the creel. “Is that your name? Whip?”
“It’s a nickname.”
“What’s your full name?”
“That, sir, is none of your business right now.”
“Have you ever considered catch-and-release?” Joe asked. “That way, someone else might get the chance to catch one of these beauties.”
“I’ve never considered it,” Whip said flatly. “Letting a fish go after you’ve stalked it and landed it with the perfect fly and perfect cast seems incomprehensible to me. Letting a fish go after all that surveillance insults the fish itself, like making a silly sport out of something serious. Does that make any sense to you, sir?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to tell me I’m over my limit, are you?”
“Nope, because you aren’t,” Joe said, leaning back again and refitting his battered Stetson on his head. “You can have twelve in possession, and you’re two shy. But there’s a problem.”
“What?”
Joe sighed, feigning sadness. “You can have twelve in possession, but only one can be over twelve inches. It looks like every one of those big trout is oversized.”
Whip didn’t move or speak.
Joe said, “Let’s clear the air, and start with letting me confirm your license and habitat stamp.”
The fisherman made no move to reach for his wallet.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Joe said. “I need to verify your license and stamp. It’s routine procedure.”
“What are you going to do?” the man asked in a whisper. “Arrest me?”
“Probably not,” Joe said. “But you may get a ticket. And if you don’t have a proper license or refuse to comply, you may wind up in more trouble than either of us wants.”
The man was still but smoldering. Joe mentally rehearsed reaching for his bear spray with his left hand or his weapon with his right, but he hoped it wouldn’t come down to either.