He stood.
Flicking his eyes from the river to the canyon wall to the two-track behind the Dodge where the missing driver might walk up, he stepped backward until he was adjacent to the open driver’s window of his pickup. He reached in and plucked the mike from its cradle.
“Dispatch, this is GF-fifty-four.”
Static.
“Dispatch, this is GF-fifty-four.”
Nothing.
“Can anyone hear me?”
No. Still too deep in the canyon for a signal.
Joe withdrew his cell phone from the breast pocket of his red uniform shirt. No bars.
He guessed the scenario: The Mad Archer and his accomplice were coming up the two-track when they either saw or heard Joe’s pickup coming down the same road from the campground. Maybe the eagle screech alerted them. Since there was nowhere to turn around and driving the Dodge in reverse around the blind corners was impractical, they’d simply bailed out and run. Since it was approaching dusk, no doubt they hoped Joe would simply pass by their vehicle en route to town. When he passed, they’d come out from where they were hiding.
He ran through his options. None were very good.
Joe thought about the empty packages of AA batteries. And he smiled to himself.
HE GAVE THEM fifteen minutes to show up. They didn’t, which didn’t surprise him. The shadows within the canyon grew long and dark and the breeze stilled and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. The wounded eagle grew impatient and screamed. Every time she screeched, he flinched and the hair on the back of his neck bristled.
He had the feeling he was being watched, but he couldn’t see who was watching him, or from where.
He made a show of checking his wristwatch. Then, with the slumped shoulders of a man who’d just given up waiting, he climbed into his pickup with the pronghorn antelope decals on the door, gunned the engine, and drove slowly forward.
He made it past the Dodge with six inches of clearance to spare, although heavy brush clawed the passenger door and scratched at the window. Back on the road, he turned his headlights on and drove slowly, looking carefully-but not too obviously-from side to side for a flash of color or the dark form of a hidden man. The two-track rose to a crest, and once he dropped over the top, he could no longer see the Dodge in his rearview mirror. The river was less languid on the bottom of the hill, and rallied from its late-summer doldrums into a stretch of fast water that picked up in volume until, spent, it spilled over a small falls into a deep pool. When the rush of water overcame the sound of his motor, he let the pickup coast to a stop and he turned the lights out. There was a narrow meadow to his right-a break in the canyon wall-and he drove in it and did a three-point turn in the dark so he was pointed back the way he had come.
Joe kept a small duffel bag of spare clothes in the lockbox in the bed of his pickup and he dug through it until he found a pair of socks.
“Sorry,” he whispered, as he slipped one of the socks over the head of the eagle. He’d learned from his friend Nate, who was a master falconer, that raptors went into a state of quiet when their heads were covered by a falcon hood. He hoped the sock would serve the same purpose.
Back in the cab of his pickup, Joe turned on a small radio receiver under the dashboard and waited.
In recent years, the use of handheld two-way radios-mostly manufactured by Motorola-had become standard equipment for hunters, fishermen, and hikers. The radios worked well within a two-to-five-mile range and operated on commercial channels. They were powered by AA batteries. The receiver under Joe’s dashboard was designed to scan those commercial channels.
It didn’t take long.
“Is that asshole finally gone, Brad?”
“He’s gone.”
Joe noted the thick Okie accents-he’d heard a lot of them lately in the area.
“Are you sure?”
Brad said, “He’s long gone. I seen his truck go over that hill a while back and now I can’t even hear it.”
“Let’s give it ten minutes anyway. If you see his lights or hear anything, shout.”
“You bet, Ron. But you know I gotta get back. I’m so goddamned late now Barb’s gonna kill me.” A little bit of panic in Brad’s voice, Joe thought.
“She’ll live,” Ron said.
“Yeah, she’ll live. But she’ll make my life a living hell. She’s probably throwin’ my clothes out into the yard right now.”
“Heh-heh,” Ron laughed. Then, “What was he doing down there all that time? That game warden?”
“I don’t know. But you can bet he got your plate number and he’ll know who you are.”
“He can’t prove nothing, though. All we gotta say is the truck stalled and we walked out trying to get help. That’s our story, and we’re stickin’ to it.”
“Yeah.” Cautious.
“We’re okay.” Arrogant. “He can’t prove nothin’.”
“Yeah.” Unsure.
“ ’Cause he’s an asshole,” Ron said.
“Yeah,” Brad said.
Joe thought, Ron is the Mad Archer. Brad is his buddy along for the ride. Brad will turn on Ron. Ron is toast.
Joe felt strangely disappointed. For a month he’d tracked the man, studied his crimes, gathered evidence. In the back of his mind, he supposed he’d built Ron into something he was not. Ron was just a stupid redneck poacher with too much time, too much money, and too many arrows.
WHEN JOE BATHED THEM with the beam of his Maglite, Ron was reaching for his door handle with one hand while gripping the compound bow with the other. Brad was urinating on the road. Both were wearing full camo and face paint. They were in their early thirties, thick and hairy. Energy workers. Empty beer cans and energy drink containers littered the bed of the pickup.
“Hello, boys,” Joe said, the Glock lying alongside the barrel of the flashlight.
Ron and Brad looked nervous and scared. Joe was, too, but he feigned confidence. He knew the blinding beam of his flashlight was his best defense if either of them decided to go for a weapon. He could see them clearly, and all they could see of him was the intense white light.
“Drop that bow,” Joe said to Ron. “Toss it into the back of your pickup. The arrows, too.”