Stone Cold (13 page)

Joe climbed up in the back of his pickup after lowering the tailgate. The metal beaded moisture from a light combination of rain and snow, and the surface of the bed was slick under his boots.

While Joe unhooked the nylon straps, Latta said, “It pains me to say this, but we could save a whole lot of energy by just delivering these birds to about six local yahoos up there in Wedell. Those bastards will have 'em poached out of here by the end of the month.”

Joe shook his head to commiserate.

“In fact,” Latta said softly, “I think I see one of those reprobates now.”

Joe paused.

“Don't look up there real obvious, but I think I see a four-wheeler up there to the southeast on that hill behind you. I'd guess he's scouting so he knows where we release these damned birds.”

So he wouldn't turn and obviously look at the potential poacher, Joe sidled to the side of the crate and used the mirror on the
passenger side to see. He had to duck a bit before he got a bead on the man Latta had spotted.

Midway up the timbered hill behind and to the side of them, Joe glimpsed a man who appeared to be holding his head. No, he thought, the man was using binoculars.

“There's an old logging road up there,” Latta said. “He's probably standing on top of the seat of his four-wheeler so he can see us.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not sure. But it might be Bill Critchfield. He's kind of the ringleader of the bunch. If it's him, he's probably poached more deer, elk, and birds in these hills alone than any other guy besides Gene Smith, who's his best buddy. They live up in Wedell, but they spend a lot of their time down here.”

Joe said, “Have you ever caught him?”

“Twice,” Latta said wearily. “Caught him and Smith dead to rights while they were gutting out a dry doe on a sunny day in June, and another time with twenty dead pheasants in the bed of Critchfield's pickup. Judge Bartholomew let them skate both times. You ever run into Judge Ethan Bartholomew?”

“Nope.”

“Good thing,” Latta said. “He has a way of making a game warden feel . . . kind of useless.”

“So what do you want to do now?” Joe asked while he folded up the damp canvas cover.

“Nothing
to
do,” Latta said. “Let's release the birds and hope like hell they'll take to cover in the canyons between here and Wedell before Critchfield and Smith wipe 'em out.”

Joe paused. “It's that bad around here, huh?” He called Daisy in, and she bounded into the cab of his pickup.

“It's a whole different world,” Latta said.

“Sounds like a plan. Not a good plan, but a plan,” Joe said. “I don't like the idea of releasing these birds so they can be poached out. That just rubs me the wrong way.”

“Yeah,” Latta said with a shrug. “Used to bother the hell out of me, too. But we can't take these birds home. My backyard isn't big enough.”

It was meant as a joke, but Joe didn't laugh.

Joe said, “Maybe we could set up surveillance and catch them in the act. With me here, you've just doubled your forces.”

Latta responded with a frown. “Yeah, and we can drag their sorry asses in front of Judge Bartholomew, who will say we entrapped them or some such bullshit. Naw,” Latta said, nodding toward the crate, “let's let 'em go.”

“You're the man in charge,” Joe said, shaking his head and leaning down to open the crate.

Daisy watched and whined as if tortured inside the cab of Joe's truck while 150 pheasants shot out of the crate one by one like fireworks and soared into the dark timber on the north side of the meadow. Within three minutes, the crate was empty. Joe could see a few of the birds perching in the trees at the edge of the meadow, taking in their new surroundings.

“Good enough for government work,” Latta said, nonchalantly.

Joe was surprised Latta had chosen to release them all at once in the same place, and not disperse them throughout the drainage. But Latta was the local warden and he was running the show.

When Joe paused at the door of his pickup to take off his gloves before getting in, he heard a distant grinding and then a two-stroke motor fire up. The four-wheeler whined away in the trees.

“There goes Bill Critchfield back to tell his buddies so they can load their shotguns and charge up their spotlights,” Latta said with bitter resignation.

“Well,” Joe said, puzzled by what had just taken place, “I guess I'll go find my motel and check in before it gets too late.”

“Where you staying?”

“The Whispering Pines Motel in Medicine Wheel,” Joe said.

Latta nodded but seemed troubled. “That's the place that had a fire a month ago. Maybe you didn't hear about it, but some poor guy from Cheyenne died in one of the cabins when it burned down during the night.”

Joe said, “Yeah, I heard about that. But I figure, what are the odds of the same place burning down twice?”

“I hadn't thought of it that way,” Latta said. Then: “I live in Wedell. How about I buy you a beer at the Bronco Bar on your way to Medicine Wheel? Believe me, that motel won't be full this time of year. In fact, you'll probably be their only customer.”

“I could do that,” Joe said. “It's been a long day.”

“Yeah,” Latta said, putting his hands on his hips and surveying the darkening timber surrounding them, as if looking for additional spies. “Maybe you can tell me why Cheyenne wants you to ride along with me up here for a couple of days. It ain't like I don't have a good handle on my district.”

Joe nodded. Latta was already suspicious. He had a right to be, Joe thought.

But Joe had some questions of his own.

Wedell, Wyoming

The downtown of Wedell was a single block of slumped and decaying storefronts, most of them boarded up. The only paved street was the old state highway that halved the few remaining businesses—a dollar store, a convenience store, a gas station with twenty-four-hour pumps, the ancient post office, a craft store/rock shop/hardware store, and the Bronco Bar, which was situated in the dead center of the block. Unpaved residential roads spurred off the old highway and led to a mishmash of double-wide trailers, clapboard homes, and a few two-story brick Victorian houses that towered over the rest of the community, looking like royalty that got off at the wrong stop.

Hard pellets of snow bounced off Joe's pickup hood and windshield as he pulled in next to Jim Latta's vehicle in front of the saloon. There were few other cars or trucks on the street, and no pedestrians. The pending darkness and the low cloud cover made Wedell seem
particularly gloomy, although the neon Coors and Fat Tire Ale signs in the windows of the bar looked inviting.

He told Daisy to be patient, and followed Latta inside. Three patrons, all men wearing ball caps and muddy boots, sat at the long bar that ran the length of the room. They had bottles of beer in front of them, and they were all watching the Speed Channel as if they had money riding on who would win the three-month-old Pure Michigan 400 NASCAR race being replayed on the screen. All three glanced over at the two game wardens in their red uniform shirts, and their looks held just long enough to confirm that none of them were in trouble. When they were assured Latta and Joe weren't looking for them, they shifted back to the race.

The bar itself was typical, Joe thought: dusty elk, bear, deer, and pronghorn antelope heads on the walls, yellowing Polaroid shots of drunken patrons from years before thumbtacked to the rough-cut timber walls, a hand-drawn poster above the bar mirror with the details of a raffle for a .270 Winchester rifle to benefit the local Gun Owners of America chapter. An old sign with frontier-style writing read:

A farting horse will never tire and
A farting man is the man to hire

A jukebox in the corner played Hank Williams Jr.'s “A Country Boy Can Survive.”

The woman behind the bar, who had big blond hair and an overfull figure and a wide Slavic face, said, “What can I get you, Jim?” to Latta.

“I'll have a Coors Light,” he said, slipping into the farthest of two
booths from the bar itself. To Joe, he said, “I'm watching my girlish figure.”

“Make it two,” Joe said to the bartender.

She plucked bottles from a cooler behind the bar and twisted off the caps. As she did, the sleeves of the black long-sleeve Henley she was wearing slid back to reveal Popeye-sized forearms from opening
a lot
of beer bottles in her career, Joe guessed.

Joe sat across from Latta. They were far enough away from the bar and the NASCAR race was loud enough that they wouldn't be easily overheard.

The bartender came out from behind the bar with four bottlenecks gripped between the fingers of her right hand and hanging down like sleeping bats. In her left she had a plastic basket of bright yellow popcorn. Her shirt read
DON'T FLATTER YOURSELF, COWBOY, I WAS LOOKIN' AT YOUR HORSE
,
and she wore a silver buckle the size of a dinner plate.

“Happy hour,” she said, placing the four beers down on the table with a thud. To Latta: “As if you didn't know.”

Latta grinned. “Shawna, this is Joe. Joe, this is Shawna.”

By the way Latta and Shawna exchanged looks, Joe guessed there was some history between them. He said, “Nice to meet you.”

“No problem,” she said, as if the pleasure was all his. She assessed Joe with a practiced eye from his boots to his hat. Her eyes caught on his wedding ring and hung there for a long second before regaining momentum and proceeding up his arm to his face. By the time she met his eyes she'd dismissed him.

“Shawna here was the Women's Professional Rodeo Association barrel-racing champion of the world back in 1997,” Latta said.

“Back when I was younger and weighed less than my horse,
anyway,” she said. “Give me a holler if you boys need a reride on them beers.” She didn't look back over her shoulder at Latta as she returned to the bar and her high-backed stool to watch the conclusion of the race.

“Quite a charmer,” Joe said, sipping his beer. He hadn't expected a glass, and it was the kind of place where they didn't even ask.

“We kind of had a thing a few years ago after my wife left. You know what you hear about barrel racers in the sack? Well, it's true,” Latta said with a defensive grin.

“I didn't mean to insult her or you,” Joe said quickly.

“You didn't,” Latta said. “She's pretty rough around the edges. I get that.”

Joe didn't know Latta was divorced. In fact, he didn't know much about him at all. There were fifty-two game wardens in the state, and they were a different lot, Joe knew. Some kept in touch with other game wardens and worked shoulder to shoulder with them, some closely followed the goings-on at headquarters and reported back, and some kept completely to themselves. Latta kept to himself. Divorce was a common casualty within the profession, mainly due to wardens' long hours, remote postings, and poor pay. Joe had expected Latta to make departmental small talk and ask him about their new director, LGD, and the changes coming at the agency, but he didn't.

“So,” Latta said, slipping on his stoic law enforcement game face so smoothly Joe felt a tug in his gut, “why are you here? They should know by now I'm not looking for any help. I've been doin' my job up here for twenty-three years without once getting written up. But I do my own thing. I don't even like trainees breathing down my neck. If they got a problem with me or the way I'm doing my job, they should tell me direct. They shouldn't send you up here to spy on me.”

Joe said, “I'm not here to spy on you.”

Latta probed into Joe's eyes for a tell. Joe let him.

“So why are you here?”

“LGD has a burr under her saddle when it comes to game wardens creating more public access with walk-in areas on private land. She knows there aren't any up here; I guess she thought I could help you out.”

Latta looked away. So there was
something
Latta was hiding or suspecting, Joe thought. He didn't have enough information or familiarity with Latta to guess what it was.

“Now I feel kind of stupid,” Latta mumbled. “I thought . . . well, it's pretty well known you've done some work on the side for the governor, Joe. You don't exactly have a low profile, with all the stuff you've gotten involved in over the years. So when I hear the famous Joe Pickett is coming to shadow me for a couple of weeks, well . . .”

Joe thought,
Famous Joe Pickett.
He couldn't even comprehend the words.

Instead of letting Latta speculate further and maybe get closer to the truth, Joe said, “Back there when we released those birds you said this place is a whole different world. What did you mean by that?”

Latta paused, then finished his first beer and set it aside. He reached for the second. “I guess every district is unique in its own way. I bet you've got plenty of war stories to tell about yours.”

“I do,” Joe said, “but we aren't talking about my district right now.”

Latta grinned sheepishly, caught at trying to divert the question in a clumsy way. He said, “Well, have you been up here before?”

“Just to pass through.”

“It's a tough place to live,” Latta said. “In some ways it's got all a
certain kind of man could ask for. In other ways, it's got nothing at all.”

Joe waited for a moment, and said, “You'll have to unpack that for me.”

“It'll take a little while,” Latta said, looking over in an attempt to get Shawna's attention. “In fact, it's going to take another round.”

“None for me,” Joe said.

“Shawna,”
Latta boomed, “we need a reride.”

•   •   •

“
T
HERE WAS
A TIME
when Medicine Wheel County looked like it was gonna be in the big leagues,” Latta said, leaning forward toward Joe across the table. “We're talkin' turn of the last century. There was a big-ass gold-mining operation up here, and coal mines that employed hundreds of people. You passed most of those old places on the road you came on today. The owners of the gold mine were named Eric and Maïda Wedell. They were one of the richest families in the state at one time and the town of Wedell was a big shit. Now look at it.”

Joe recalled the historical plaques he hadn't stopped to read.

Latta said, “This place at one time was
booming
. Gold, copper, coal, oil—there were even two big-time lumber mills and a hell of a logging industry. There are old logging roads
everywhere
in the hills. Copper was a big one. All three of the towns grew like crazy—Medicine Wheel and Wedell were rivals, trying to be the biggest. Sundance was the smallest of the three towns in the county then. If you look at the old newspapers, which I've done, you'll see that Medicine Wheel had an opera house and an orchestra, and Wedell right
here used to have a dance hall where they brought in big-time entertainers from California and New York. Hell, they had Lily Langtry and Houdini right here in this town at one time. Medicine Wheel had a morning paper
and
an evening paper—one for Republicans and one for Democrats.

“I mean, what did you see when you drove here today?” Latta said. “Pretty mountains, streams, wildlife out the wazoo. The weather isn't as severe as where you live, and the wind doesn't blow like it does in Cheyenne, Casper, or Rawlins. Some people might say these mountains don't compare to the Bighorns, the Winds, the Tetons, or the Snowy Range, and they don't. These are nice gentle mountains. You won't fall off a cliff here or die from exposure, and we don't have all the damned wolves and grizzlies that will chew your ass off. This is paradise compared to them places. Tourists used to come through here on their trips between Mount Rushmore and Yellowstone. Rich guys from the Midwest used to build second homes here because it was just so damned scenic and mild.”

Four more beers arrived, just as Joe had finished his first. Latta thought nothing of it, and grasped his third by the neck.

“Take it easy, cowboy,” Shawna cautioned as she returned to the bar.

“You know me,” Latta said.

“And that there's the problem,” she countered. One of the patrons at the bar guffawed and turned quickly away.

Latta ignored her and the patron. He told Joe, “Medicine Wheel County in 1920 had a population of seventy thousand folks—bigger than Cheyenne or Casper or any other damned place in Wyoming. There was even an effort to move the state capitol from Cheyenne up
here. Of course, the Union Pacific Railroad ran Wyoming then, and they nixed the idea. But the old-timers around here
still
hate Cheyenne for that.”

Joe smiled. Old small-town rivalries ran deep.

“I think that's where it started,” Latta said, lowering his voice as if he feared being overheard. “They lost that fight with Cheyenne and the people here took it personally. They went around with a chip on their shoulder, and they were convinced the deck was stacked against them. Then damn if they didn't turn out to be right.

“First it was copper. The owners of the mine and mill diversified into Montana and South Dakota and got so overextended their credit got cut off by the banks. The copper mines closed in the 1920s, followed by the gold mines in the 1930s. The coal mines were underground, though, and they seemed untouchable. Even when the companies learned they could strip-mine millions of tons of coal around Gillette a hell of a lot cheaper than digging it out of the mountain here, the coal mines kept chugging along. There are third-generation coal miners around here, and they are a tough bunch of hombres. But the EPA shut 'em down five years ago. The Feds put new clean-air regulations up and the power plants couldn't afford to finance new scrubbers, I guess. The coal from here was too expensive to burn, and the low-sulfur coal from Gillette won out. All them mines shut down within a year, and folks were dropping off their house keys at the bank on the way out of town.”

Joe clicked his tongue in sympathy. It was a familiar story.

Latta said, “The tourism economy died when the interstate highway system routed I-90 north of here so the tourists could shoot right through the top of the county and not pass through these towns anymore.

“Then the only rail spur that could transport lumber from here east went belly-up ten years ago and the mill closed. That shut down the loggers. You know what loggers are like, don't you? Loggers log. They can't do nothing else. They're used to months of downtime when the weather is bad and then balls-to-the-walls work when the snow melts. But when the good weather rolls around and they can't go into the woods—damn. They get grumpy.