Chapter Ten #2
Joe opened the side gate so John and Shelby could ride out of the pen, then followed them across the ranch yard to his pickup. He noted that they’d engaged in a very animated conversation as they rode side by side, but that they were keeping their voices low so he couldn’t overhear them.
John was swarthy, with a heavy brow and deep-set eyes.
His four-day growth of beard made him look vaguely sinister, Joe thought.
Shelby was thin and wiry, with gray-streaked red hair.
She had a hawklike nose and pale blue eyes.
She wore a brace on her right hand, but the injury didn’t prevent her from waving it around emphatically as she made a point to John.
Joe was used to locals sometimes acting strangely uncomfortable when he arrived.
It came with the territory. Even completely innocent citizens sometimes acted guilty while in the presence of law enforcement.
But in Joe’s experience, the Bucholzes hadn’t reacted to him that way when he’d met them previously in town.
—
After both riders had dismounted, Joe said, “Thanks for taking a break. I won’t take much of your time.” Then, to Shelby: “What did you do to your hand?”
“Broke it.”
There was no more explanation.
John and Shelby exchanged a quick glance. To Joe, it appeared to be the kind of look violators shared with each other when he entered their hunting camp.
He quickly outlined his reason for showing up, and he pointed toward the mountainside.
“If you let that hunter go up there and get his moose, I’d really appreciate it. I’ll even go help him so he can get it moved off your property back onto public land. I’ll give you a call and let you know how much damage was done to your fence.”
“Is he gonna pay for the damage?” John asked. “Them moose walk through fences like they was tissue paper. That’s why I don’t like them on our ranch.”
“I’ll float the question about payment,” Joe said. “But he’s under no obligation to pay for the damage made by a moose. I suppose you’ll just have to go over there and fix it yourself. I’ll volunteer to help you out with that as well.”
“No,” Shelby said with finality.
“No, what?” Joe asked.
“We’re not allowing that guy to trespass. Not today.”
Joe was confused. He said, “Are you saying he could follow that moose another day?”
Again something passed between John and Shelby. It was as if neither wanted to speak next.
“Look,” Joe said. “I’d be happy to go find the bull myself and put it down so it won’t suffer any longer. I could donate the meat to the Wyoming Hunger Initiative in your name, if you want.”
Finally, John shook his head. “I’ll do it when we’re done sorting cows.”
“You’ll take care of the bull?” Joe asked.
“I’ll shoot the son of a bitch.”
“I was kind of hoping for a different outcome,” Joe said.
“Not today,” John said. “As you can see, we’re busy. The shipper is coming tomorrow.” As he spoke, he placed his hand on Shelby’s shoulder to indicate they were done talking. She got the message and turned toward her horse.
Joe was flummoxed. He couldn’t explain the behavior or attitude of the Bucholzes. But there was little he could do about either.
John had his left boot in the stirrup and was starting to swing his right leg over the saddle when Joe asked, “What’s with the helicopter out in the badlands?”
John froze for a second. Shelby did the same thing. It was a tell of some kind, Joe thought. Then the rancher mounted himself in the saddle. When he was up there, he refused to make eye contact with Joe. Shelby also looked away.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” John said.
“Really?” Joe asked. “It’s kind of hard to miss. It’s flying low on some kind of grid pattern, it looked like to me. You really don’t know that it’s been flying over your ranch?”
“Probably over Trumley,” John said.
“No, I’m pretty sure it was over your land.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about it,” John said. Shelby had already spurred her horse to return to the corrals. Her back was to Joe.
“Another thing I was wondering,” Joe said. “Who is it that looked at me from one of your old cabins? Is he a ranch hand, or a boarder, or what?”
John Bucholz turned his head and glared at Joe. His eyes were mean. He said, “You’ve had your five minutes, game warden. Now I gotta get back to my cows.”
“You’re sure about putting that bull out of its misery?” Joe asked. “I thought you were too busy.”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
“What about the meat?” Joe asked.
“Coyotes gotta eat, too,” he said.
—
Frustrated, Joe left the ranch and drove toward Antler Creek Junction. He told Biscuit, “That was one of the strangest experiences I’ve had in a while.” He felt like he’d just had a long exchange with people using English as a second language.
Biscuit looked back with empathy.
The helicopter was no longer flying over the badlands, he noted.
But before he reached the junction, he had to pull over to allow a high-tech drilling truck to pass by.
Inside was a driver and a passenger, and the lettering on the driver’s-side door read Global Exploration. The license plates were from Texas.
Under his previous note about the helicopter sighting, Joe wrote down the name of the company so he could look it up later.
As he did, his phone lit up with a text. It was from Shelby Bucholz.
John’s on his way to take care of that moose, like he said. You’ll keep that helicopter stuff just between us or you’ll be sorry.
Joe thought, What is going on out here?
And: Was Shelby threatening him?