Breaking Point

forensic techs, had been called to the scene.
    Before climbing back into the saddle, Joe had called the dispatcher on his truck radio.
    “This is Joe Pickett, GF-forty-eight. I’m located on the Big Stream Ranch . . .” He gave her the location coordinates. “I ran into Butch Roberson—the subject of the current inquiry—an hour ago and I’m going back to find him. Please relay this to Sheriff Reed’s office.”
    When she asked, he said, “I don’t want or need backup. It would take them too long to get out here, anyway.”
    He signed off, “GF-forty-eight, out.”
    GF-48 meant he was number forty-eight of the fifty-four game wardens in the state, ranked by seniority. He had once risen to GF-24 before getting into a confrontation with his superiors and losing his job and seniority number. When he’d been reinstated personally by Governor Rulon, a vindictive bureaucrat had refused to give him his old number back.
    It rankled him every time he said “GF-forty-eight.”
    —
    J OE’S MIND RACED, and he replayed his encounter with Butch the hour before. He had no doubt Butch knew something, and suddenly everything Butch had said carried a different, more sinister meaning. Still, though, Joe wanted to find him and tell him what had been discovered on his property. He had no authority or probable cause to arrest Roberson, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t question him or ask him to follow him into town.
    He rode through the opening in the fence and into the timber.
    Two federal agents,
he thought.
Freshly turned-up ground. A car with no one in it.
    Butch would have some hard questions to answer.
    —
    T HE FIRE PIT Butch had built was cold, the rocks from the fire ring kicked away. Joe dismounted and tied Toby to a tree and carefully walked around the camp. He identified his own boot prints, Daisy’s prints, and large waffle-like impressions from Vibram hunting-boot soles, which he attributed to Butch. But he couldn’t discern which direction Roberson had gone after breaking his camp.
    “Butch?” he called out.
    He stopped and put his hands on his hips and looked west, into the thousands of acres of National Forest. Most of the roads within it had been closed, so it would be tough to drive inside. Butch had grown up in the area and had hunted the mountains all his life. Beyond the summit were succeeding waves of mountains, canyons, and heavy timber wilderness.
    Joe smiled bitterly. Twelve Sleep County got its name because the Indians said it took “twelve sleeps” to walk or ride a horse from the west side of the mountains to the eastern slope. That was a lot of rough country.
    —
    J OE PHOTOGRAPHED THE CAMP, the tracks, and what was left of the fire pit. He had a feeling there would be local, county, state, and federal people who would want to look at them. As he did, he questioned himself on the conversation he’d had with Butch Roberson. Had he deliberately missed something? Had his familiarity with Butch made him less than cautious?
    He sighed and powered down the digital camera. Then he untied Toby and cantered him down to his pickup so he could drive to Butch’s lot at Aspen Highlands.

5
    BECAUSE HIS HOUSE ON BIGHORN ROAD WAS MIDWAY between Big Stream Ranch and the highway he’d need to take to get to Dull Knife Reservoir, Joe stopped long enough to let Toby out into the corral and dump the horse trailer. Poke, Dulcie’s gelding, greeted Toby by playfully biting him on the butt. Toby kicked back at Poke and missed. Rojo, Marybeth’s other horse, watched the two of them imperiously from the corner of the corral.
    Joe’s district was considered a “two-horse” district by the department, meaning he received reimbursement for horses, tack, food, and vet bills. It was a two-horse district because of the vast size of it—more than 1,800 square miles. He was also in charge of a department snowmobile, a boat with an outboard motor as well as a drift boat, and a four-wheel ATV. And, of course, his assigned pickup, which was stuck on top of a mountain and he might never retrieve.
    As he put the three horses out to pasture, he heard Marybeth’s van drive up the road and swing into the driveway in the front. He checked his watch—4:38 in the afternoon—and wondered why she was home so early.
    As he unhooked the trailer hitch from the ball on his pickup, he heard Marybeth park in front. She was apparently on a break from work. Then the back door opened and slammed shut, and she emerged from