Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(20)

Price looked up, his eyes wide. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. But that was a year ago. I put away my cane four months ago. If I hadn’t been in that saddle all day stiffening up, you wouldn’t even notice.”

“Who shot you?”

Joe shook his head. Then: “Our doctor.”

“Your doctor shot you?”

“Long story,” Joe said. “I’ll tell you about it one of these days.”

He nodded toward Boedecker on the far side of the pasture. “Right now, I’m going to help Brock take care of our horses before it gets dark. The horses come first.”

“Mind if I come along?” Price seemed eager, almost childlike.

“As long as you don’t bring your phone.”

“My phone is an extension of me,” Price said, chuckling. “That would be like asking me to cut off my arm and leave it here in the grass.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Just please don’t post any more photos of me, then. It distresses my wife and daughters.”

“They’re ConFab users? Excellent.”

Joe grunted in response.

“ConFab is an agent of good,” Price said. “It’s not like those other toilets on the Internet. ConFab exists to bring like-minded people together in worthwhile conversations, not to tear people down.”

Joe thought Price sounded defensive—and well-rehearsed.



* * *



—

As they crossed the meadow the shadows deepened.

“So is this going to be our camp for the duration of the hunting trip?” Price asked Joe.

“Maybe. I was up here two weeks ago to scout and I saw a lot of healthy elk. We made great progress today to get here. I thought it would take a day and a half, but our early start really helped. The elk up here don’t get a lot of hunting pressure because most guys are road hunters and they don’t venture this far into the mountains. It’s real work to pack an elk out,” Joe said. “I figure tomorrow we’ll get up real early and glass the meadows about a mile away. We might catch them grazing or about to bed down.”

“What if they aren’t there?” Price asked.

“Then we’ll go farther to the east. We might move the camp if we need to. Elk are wily. They never seem to be where you expect them to be.”

“It’s amazing how fast it gets dark and cools down up here,” Price said. “It’s so still.”

“It’ll get chilly tonight, but it looks like you brought good sleeping bags.”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw the stars,” Price said. “I mean, really saw the stars. It was probably in the Galápagos or a week I spent in Tibet.”

“We’ve got good stars,” Joe said. “I recommend our stars.”

“What’s that pistol you’re wearing?”

“It’s a Colt Python .357 Magnum. They used to be standard issue for game wardens until the department went to .40 Glocks like everybody else in law enforcement. I kept mine.”

“Will it kill a bear? I assume that’s why you’ve got it.”

Joe said, “A larger caliber is preferred, like a .44 Mag or a .454 Casull. But yes, it could kill a bear with a well-placed shot. I’ve loaded it with hot loads that really pack a punch.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“I am not a good shot,” Joe confessed. “That’s why I carry bear spray and keep my shotgun within reach when I’m in the field. But if given a choice in a split second, I’ll reach for the spray first. It usually works.”

“Usually?” Price said with alarm.

“Yup.”

Joe didn’t want to tell Price about the grizzly attack that had killed a guide from Dubois the year before. After the Predator Attack Team had located the bear and killed it, they found that the carcass reeked of bear spray. Meaning that on that one instance, it hadn’t worked at all to deter the predator. But that was rare.

“I don’t know anything about guns except that I don’t like them,” Price said.

“They’re just tools,” Joe said with a shrug. “They all have different capabilities and purposes. It would be like going through life with just a screwdriver. If you live out here, you need a complete toolbox.”

“Tools that can kill innocent people,” Price said.

Joe sighed.

“Everybody out here is armed to the teeth, aren’t they?” Price asked.

“Yup.”

“The gun culture is so strong out here,” Price said. “I just don’t get it.”

“Most everybody hunts,” Joe said. “But those that don’t have guns, too.”

“The murder rate must be really high.”

“It isn’t.”

“Really?”

“Really. You can look it up. Folks are less likely to threaten somebody with a gun if that somebody is likely armed themselves.” Joe paused and asked, “Do we really want to have this conversation?”

“Probably not,” Price said. “I don’t think either of us is likely to change our mind. We just live in different worlds.”

“Yup.”

They walked in silence for a minute, then Price said, “You can blame Steve Rinella for me being here.”