“Plus, he helped you and Emily,” Joe said.
“That’s right,” Latta said, and turned to Joe. “Who else would do something like that out of the goodness of his heart? I mean, he found the best surgeon in South Dakota and flew me and Emily to Rapid City in his plane so she could get that operation. Think about that.”
“He has his own plane?” Joe asked.
“A couple of them,” Latta said, which confirmed what Coon’s file had said. “The ranch headquarters has an airstrip on it, and Mr. Templeton keeps his planes in a hangar there. See, he’s a pilot. He actually flew us there himself. And when Emily was released from the hospital, he flew back over and brought us home.”
“I’ve got to ask,” Joe said, as conversationally as he could manage. “Where did he get all his money to do these things?”
Latta turned back to the road. He said, “Beef, of course. And he grows lots of hay on a couple of his ranches.”
Joe said, “Still, there seems like there has to be another source. All the ranchers I know are land-rich but cash-poor.”
Latta continued: “Then there’s all the outfitting and hunting operations, the wild game — processing plant…” His voice trailed off.
Joe let the question just hang there, and it did.
“I don’t know,” Latta said, finally. “I heard he used to be some kind of big-shot financial whiz back east. He probably banked a ton of money away during the boom years.”
As he said it, Latta turned from the highway onto a well-graded gravel road. They passed under a magnificent wrought iron archway that identified the property as THE SAND CREEK RANCH.
As they passed through the arch, Joe noted small closed-circuit cameras mounted to the wrought iron columns on each side.
“Why the cameras?” Joe asked, pointing them out to Latta.
“Cattle rustlers, I’m sure,” Latta said quickly.
“Is that a problem around here?”
“Sure. Beef prices are up, you know. That’s why the ranch shut down all the old access roads except the main one a few years ago. Rustlers can bring their cattle trucks in only one way: through the main gate.”
“Interesting,” Joe said.
“Mr. Templeton thinks of everything,” Latta said with a nod.
“Tell me,” Joe said, “in your visits out here, have you ever run into a falconer? Big guy, with a blond ponytail?”
Latta looked over, puzzled. “No, why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Who is he?”
“Just a guy I’m always on the lookout for,” Joe said. “We have some history.”
Latta let it drop.
Joe looked ahead. The road followed the contours of a narrow but deep stream. He could see trout rising to the surface to sip at a midmorning hatch. The concentric circles were substantial, meaning the fish were big. As a fly fisherman, Joe felt a tug in his chest and wished he’d packed along his rod and waders.
“We might catch Mr. Templeton himself,” Latta said, “but more likely we’ll talk to his ranch foreman about the walk-in areas.”
Joe tried to contain his disappointment.
“But if we talk to Mr. Templeton, Joe, I’ve got to ask a favor of you.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me do the talking,” Latta said. “You tend to ask too many questions.”
Joe thought it over, recalling the admonition from Coon and the promise he’d made to Marybeth, before saying, “It’s a deal. This is your district, after all.”
The hills on both sides closed in as they drove up the gravel road and entered the shadowed mouth of a canyon. Joe kept glancing at the stream itself but also noticed the condition of the ranch: straight and tight barbed-wire fences, obvious habitat restoration work on the waterway, smart culverts and cattle guards, no ancient husks of spent vehicles or ranch equipment. The vast property was impressive, he thought, and well managed.
The road began to serpentine and narrow as it rose into the canyon, hugging the left side of the red canyon wall. When he glanced ahead, Joe could see the outward corners of four upcoming turns.
Coming around the farthest turn, more than a quarter of a mile ahead, was a flashing glimpse of the grille of an oncoming pickup.
“Oh shit,” Latta whispered, slowing down immediately.
Joe narrowed his eyes. The oncoming vehicle was already out of view as it rounded the turn. But he’d recognized it as well.
“That’s Bill Critchfield’s rig,” Latta said urgently. “Get out now.”
Joe looked over for clarification.
“If he sees you…” Latta said.
“What if he does?”
“Just get out,” Latta said. He pointed his finger toward a thick stand of ponderosa pine on the other side of the creek about two hundred and fifty yards upstream. “Meet me there. I’ll pick you up in a minute.”
“But…”
“Go,” Latta hissed, his eyes flashing.
“It’s your district,” Joe said as he threw his door open and jumped out. The grade on the side of the road was steep and the ground was loose, and he danced his way down to the bottom. When he was able to stop and look back, he saw Latta’s arm reach out from the cab and close the passenger door, then ease his truck up the road.
Confused, Joe pushed his way through heavy brush until he reached the creek. The air smelled of juniper and sage. He could hear both pickups on the road above him as they met. He imagined Latta and Critchfield stopped nose-to-tail in the road to exchange pleasantries. Or something.
Although he was too far away to make out any words, Joe heard Critchfield’s voice bark sharply. He paused and listened and waited, hoping there wouldn’t be trouble. Joe wished he’d brought his shotgun along, and he instinctively reached down to brush the grip of his service weapon with the tips of his fingers.
The stream was narrow enough at one point that he was able to jump across it, although he barely made the distance. Both of his boot heels sank into the mud of the opposite bank as he landed, and he windmilled his arms forward to keep his balance so he wouldn’t tumble back into the water.
Joe stopped to pause and listen as he walked upstream, keeping to the heavy brush so they couldn’t see him from the road. Again, he heard Critchfield’s voice rise and fall. He got the impression Critchfield was yelling at Latta, or making some kind of emphatic point. Probably about the business card he’d found on his truck, Joe thought. He was still taken aback by how panicky Latta had acted, and he wondered what Latta thought Critchfield would do if Joe had stayed in the truck.
Latta, Joe thought, had some explaining to do.
Around a long, lazy bend of the stream, with the dark stand of pine looming ahead of him, Joe found out he wasn’t alone. What he didn’t expect was to stumble upon a man who appeared to be a refugee from The Great Gatsby searching for a tennis game.
13
“Hello there,” Joe called out. “Are you having any luck?”
At the sound of Joe’s voice, the man upstream froze in midcast. He didn’t jump or wheel around but his fly line dropped and pooled unceremoniously around his ankles. As it did, he slowly turned his head, but his expression was stoic.
Joe had encountered enough fishermen over the years to know the reaction was unusual. Usually, anglers were startled and immediately started talking or reaching for their licenses when they saw his red shirt. Only once had it been otherwise, four years before in the Sierra Madre, and what led from that response had been harrowing.
The man was young, trim, and athletic-looking, although like the red stone structure on the way up, he seemed out of place. The fly fisherman wore British Wellington boots instead of modern waders, form-fitting cargo pants, a crisp button-down long-sleeved shirt, and a cream-colored sweater-vest with a V-neck. Joe thought he looked like a Hollywood actor, with his high cheekbones, slicked-back dark hair, and intense blue eyes. The fisherman held an expensive-looking bamboo fly rod and wore a throwback wicker creel over his shoulder.