Chapter Fifteen #3
Joe had given it a little thought on the way out.
Chronic wasting disease was spreading in mule deer in pockets across the state.
The natural disease caused deer to lose weight rapidly, and to walk around as if disoriented.
There had been a few cases of CWD reported in elk, but none thus far in the Bighorn Mountains.
“If it was CWD,” Joe said, “you’d be required to submit a blood sample for analysis. And if you didn’t, that would be one more violation to add to your growing list.”
“Maybe you ought to climb into your truck and get off our private property,” Lisa said. “We don’t exactly remember inviting you on our ranch.”
“I’ve got probable cause to be here. Lainie has a whole pocketful of probable cause. What are they, Lainie? Nines? Why don’t you show them to me?”
Lainie didn’t move, and she didn’t take her hands out of her coat pockets. He’d heard the McElwees were rarely without concealed weapons on their persons. Did Lainie have a weapon on her? Joe wondered. And there was certainly enough room beneath Lisa’s flowing caftan for a gun.
The McElwee sisters weren’t backing down, which was another trait they were known for. He chose to de-escalate the situation. There was no need for a western gunfight. Even for a bull elk.
“So tell me,” Joe said. “Do you two have hunters staying on your ranch right now? If they did this, and it sounds like they did, I’ll cite them and let you two off the hook. Unless you want to confess that you roped a bull, poured whiskey down it, and tied it to your snubbing post.”
The sisters exchanged a quick glance. Lisa said, “We don’t have any hunters.”
“So who were the three guys the archery hunter reported?”
Another look. And maybe a crack in their facade.
“Maybe our ranch hands,” Lisa said.
“You’ve got three ranch hands?”
“Yes,” Lisa said. “Our Mexicans, we call ’em. You can’t hire good American dudes these days. They don’t want to work.”
Joe recalled that the reporting party said the shooters “didn’t look like cowboys.”
“Where are your men now?”
“Out,” Lisa said.
“Do you know where?”
“No. Could be anywhere. It’s a big ranch.”
Joe sighed. He said, “I’m going to go check out your corral and bring my necropsy kit. I’ll be able to determine if there’s elk blood in the dirt where you raked it over. If so, I’ll be back to talk to your ranch hands.”
“They don’t speak much English,” Lainie said.
“I’ll figure it out somehow,” Joe said. “Are they legal?”
Neither sister responded, which told Joe all he needed to know.
“I’d hate to involve ICE in this, too,” he said. “But that’s your call.”
It was an empty threat. The closest ICE agents were in Casper and they’d rarely respond unless the miscreant was incarcerated already. But he hoped the McElwees didn’t know that.
“Now please step aside so I can get to work.”
Reluctantly at first, the sisters parted so Joe could walk between them to his pickup. As he brushed by Lainie he heard the tinkle of what were likely shell casings in her pocket. Joe looked over his shoulder at her and said, “Gotcha.”
“Fuck you,” Lainie spat.
—
Departing the ranch with several soil samples from around the snubbing post, Joe looked into his rearview mirror.
Lisa and Lainie were still outside, still watching him.
They’d observed him crawling around on his hands and knees in the corral, and they said nothing to him as he collected the evidence and climbed into his pickup to leave.
He’d send the samples to the Game and Fish lab in Laramie, and he’d likely know results within the next week. He kept an eye out for any vehicles that might contain the three Mexican ranch hands.
If they were actually ranch hands.
—
Joe checked in with dispatch on his way out toward Antler Creek Junction to ask for the contact details of the archery hunter who had made the report.
He said he’d like to question the RP further about the cowboys who didn’t look like cowboys, and especially the drunk elk.
The dispatcher said she’d text him the RP’s details.
As he disconnected, he realized that he was once again perpendicular to the trailer on the hillside he’d seen on the way in.
He also saw that there was a fresh pair of tire tracks from the main road up to the trailer.
Because the aspen grove was a few hundred feet higher in elevation than the main road, there was a dusting of snow from the night before on the ground that hadn’t yet melted.
The tracks became more pronounced as they rose toward the trees.
He knew whoever had gone up there had done so between the time he arrived at the ranch headquarters and the time he was leaving.
Joe slowed, and turned right on the two-track.
He could see no vehicles parked near the trailer, but the unit itself blocked him from seeing if a car or truck was hidden directly behind it.
He was aware that he had no probable cause to enter the camper, although it was, almost, a couple of miles away from the public land where the archery hunter had called in.
He could make a (poor) case that he wanted to look at the ranch from the vantage point of the RP, he thought. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
As he neared the unit, Joe noticed signs of life. A wisp of smoke or exhaust emerged from a pipe that poked through the metal skin of the roof. He slowed his pickup to a crawl and drove around the left side of the trailer.
It was an ancient single-wide, more of a house trailer than a camping unit.
The sheet metal exterior was dented and rust was creeping up its sides.
Old tires had been thrown on the roof to keep it from blowing away in the wind.
He noted that the twin propane tanks on the front of the unit were commercial rentals that could be acquired at a half dozen locations in Saddlestring.
That meant the trailer was being maintained by someone.
There was no vehicle parked there, but the tire tracks showed that one recently had been. There was also a flurry of boot tracks around the front door of the trailer. Apparently, whoever had come up there had left the trailer quickly.
He parked and swung out. Large prints of pointy cowboy boots were in the snow headed toward the front door, which was accessible by a set of stairs constructed of two-by-fours.
As he started for the door he heard a barely discernible click behind him and he froze.
The sound was familiar, and he backed away and turned.
In a thick juniper bush, he noted the double lenses of a game trail camera partially hidden within the branches of the bush.
It was aimed at the front door of the trailer.
Joe circled around the juniper and approached the camera from the side. He reached in and plucked it out. He was familiar with the brand and model, and he opened the door on the back and plucked out the memory card.
Had it captured him near the trailer? Probably. But standing near a trailer was perfectly okay. He wished he could insert the card into a computer to look at the contents, and perhaps see the owner of the pointy boots. Instead, he dropped the card into his side vest pocket.
Joe looked around, then checked the main road, to make sure no one was watching him up there. Then he mounted the stairs and pounded on the door.
“Wyoming Game and Fish Department,” he announced. “Is anyone home?”
There was no response from inside, so he grasped the handle of the door. It was locked.
He backed down the stairs, thinking that was that. He was almost grateful the door was locked, so he wouldn’t compromise his job even further.
Then Joe squinted at the chimney pipe again.
Someone had just been there. The furnace was obviously on.
Someone had been concerned enough about visitors that they’d placed a trail cam in the junipers.
Since the Mexican ranch hands the McElwee sisters had described presumably bunked in the outbuildings at the central compound, who was using the trailer and for what?
Against his better judgment, Joe climbed the stairs again, grasped the door handle, and pulled hard.
Maybe because the hardware was as old as the trailer itself and the metal was fatigued, it swung open.
He was glad he’d left Biscuit at home, because he wouldn’t have wanted his young dog to witness him breaking and entering.
Rather than wandering through the single-wide and leaving boot prints and fingerprints, Joe simply leaned inside and looked around.
To his left was a bedroom with a bare mattress on a frame.
To his right was a built-in table packed with bottles, plastic containers, and a half dozen empty bottles of Corona.
Joe drew out his phone and thumbed open the camera app. He stuck his arm inside the trailer and took photos of everything inside, then did a quick panoramic video from the left to the right.
As he did so he noted that the containers on the table were labeled with names he wasn’t familiar with: sodium hydroxide, phenethyl bromide, tert-butoxycarbonyl, acetone, xylazine, propionyl chloride.
There were saucepans on the propane stove, as well as two stockpots. An immersion blender was propped up on its stand on the counter. Next to it was a container of blue food coloring.
On hooks attached to the outside of the small bathroom were white hazmat suits. The bench seats on either side of the table were strewn with gas masks, buffs, and oversized gloves.
While he was sweeping the camera from side to side, Joe suddenly felt dizzy. It hit hard and fast, and he stumbled backward and slammed the door shut behind him.
Outside, he bent forward with his hands on his knees and sucked in cold mountain air. Still, he felt like swooning and it was difficult to keep his balance.
Ten minutes later, he felt steady enough to stand up.
His vision was still blurred, and it was difficult to concentrate enough to return the memory card into the trail cam and back away.
His head remained foggy as he drove down the mountain until he reached the main road and turned toward Antler Creek Junction.