Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(29)

It wasn’t until he was nearly upon the camp that he realized there were too many horses tied up in the trees. In fact, twice as many as they’d ridden up there.

They had visitors.

Joe stepped behind the trunk of a tree so he couldn’t be seen.





TEN


Joe pressed against the sticky rough bark of the pine tree and carefully peered around the trunk. He wasn’t certain why he’d taken the precaution, but something in the air just didn’t seem right. The fresh boot tracks he’d discovered, the fact that Price and Rumy had abruptly left their position, the hoofprints along the trail, the arrival of visitors in their camp—things didn’t add up.

He couldn’t see what was happening because the walled cook tent blocked his view, but he could hear voices and snippets of speech from the other side of it. He heard a bass voice rumble the word “ConFab” and Price raise his own voice with a question: “How can we settle this?”

Joe thought, Settle what?

His first thought was that perhaps they’d unwittingly encroached on someone else’s hunting camp or area. It was unlikely but possible. Joe knew where the elk outfitter camps were located in the Bighorns because he patrolled them annually, and no one he knew of had used this particular location in years because it was so far from any roads. That was one of the reasons he’d chosen it.

Maybe someone was using the area for something they didn’t want discovered? A gang of poachers operating in the mountains wasn’t unheard of, but poachers in Joe’s experience were opportunists. They’d rather gun down a trophy from their truck and cut off the head and antlers and get away. They rarely devoted themselves to the hard work, planning, and logistics it took to use this remote location.

Whatever was happening on the other side of the tent would have to be dealt with. He wanted to make sure he handled it the correct way. Joe didn’t want to alarm anyone or panic them because they’d know from his uniform shirt that he was law enforcement. He also didn’t know how many individuals he’d be confronting.

The best method he’d found, since he was always outnumbered and outgunned when he approached a hunting camp, was to be as amiable and friendly as possible. He’d smile and ask about their day while at the same time keeping himself far enough away and to the side so that he wasn’t directly challenging them. And he’d keep moving, walking and talking, because a moving target was harder to hit.

It was also possible he was misreading the entire situation and conjuring up a threat when there was none. Maybe the two horsemen had stumbled onto Price and Rumy and the four of them had decided to go get coffee back at the camp. Maybe someone was injured and needed medical attention. It could be anything.

And Joe had to be prepared for anything.



* * *



—

What he wasn’t prepared for was when a forearm flashed across his vision and his head was wrenched back by a powerful hand and he felt the cold bite of a knife blade on the skin of his throat.

“We were wondering where you were,” said the man who’d come up silently behind him. He spoke softly into his ear. “Don’t fucking move.”

Joe marveled that he had not heard the man approaching. And he didn’t move. He was too startled to be scared.

“I’m going to let go of your head, but the knife stays where it is,” the man said to him. “If you move, I’ll cut you.”

“Mmmmm.” Joe didn’t want to speak or nod. The grip was released on the crown of his skull.

He felt the man tug at his pack to remove it. Joe rolled his shoulders back to make it easier. Then the man pulled loose the safety strap of his revolver and drew it out of the holster.

“A Colt Python,” the man said with admiration. “Nice. I’ve always wanted one.”

Joe expected the man to reach up under the other side of his coat and pull out the canister of bear spray that was velcroed to his belt, and he did. Then his cell phone was removed from his breast pocket and the personal locator beacon was removed from his back pocket. A few seconds later, Joe heard the crunch of glass and components as both devices were crushed underfoot.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Joe said.

“Do you have any more weapons?” the man asked. As he did, Joe felt the pressure of the blade lessen slightly, which allowed him to talk.

“I’ve got knives and saws in the pack for field dressing,” he said. “No more firearms.”

Which was true. He’d left his rifle and shotgun in camp that morning. There was a spare can of bear spray in the side pocket of his daypack and a Leatherman multi-tool in the other, which he assumed the man would find if he searched it.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked the man. The harsh nature of the situation was starting to take hold.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“You know I’m a Wyoming game warden, right?”

“Oh, I know who you are.”

“Then you know you could be in big trouble. I’d like to avoid that and I’m sure you would as well.”

“We’ll see,” the man said. He took the blade away from his throat and a second later Joe felt the sharp point of it cut through the material of his coat, shirt, and underwear where it pricked the skin between his ribs. Joe flinched in surprise from the pain.