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Authors: Craig Johnson
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conversational. I commented on the weather, and he related how he and his friends had been surprised by the little storm last night, how the roads had been slick with snow coming off the mountain. “You fellows were hunting on the mountain?”
“Yes, sir.” He unlocked the Chevy and dug into the center console where I caught a glimpse of a red box indicating Federal brand ammunition. After a moment, he produced four bright and shining bow-hunting permits.
Bow hunting permits. I pursed my lips and blew out. “You fellows are bow hunters?
“Yes, sir.” I checked the permits; they were all mountain, 24, 166, 25. “Look, is there something we’re being charged with? Should I be getting a lawyer or something?
“I’m hoping that won’t be necessary, Mr. Anderson. Do you or any of your party have any firearms?”
“No.”
Maybe he was just nervous. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. Well . . .” Moment of truth. “Randy has a .38 in the glove box.”
“Is it loaded?”
“It might be.”
“Are you aware that a loaded, vehicularly concealed weapon constitutes a misdemeanor offense in this state?” Vehicularly—was that a word? Where did I get this stuff? I smiled again to let him know I didn’t think he was Al Capone. “So, let’s say you and I make a deal? I won’t examine the legendary Randy’s pistol to see if it’s loaded and you answer a few more of my questions.” He figured it was a good deal. I pulled the section map out of my coat pocket, spread it out, and, with Mike’s help, held it on their hood. He said they had asked at the Game and Fish about sections 23 and 26 because Anderson’s father had hunted there years ago, claiming the deer on the Powder River draw were much larger than those on the mountain. Anderson’s father was right, but I didn’t share that with Mike; my ranch was in that section. They had driven out there Friday at noon and circled up along the Powder River coming back past Arvada, Clearmont, and Crossroads.
“Did you get off the main road at any point?”
“Um, three times. Once to watch some antelope just at the top of the hill after that little town at the main road?”
“Arvada.”
“Once where there was an old bridge headed south.”
Maybe something. “An old kings-bridge structure?” His face was blank. “A trestle system of steel girders that goes over the road with an old car stuffed into the bank on the far side?”
“Yes, sir. Now that you mention it.”
“Did you see anyone, or anything else, out there?” He paused to think. I was going to have to talk to all of them. Was I ever going to get to sleep?
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“No. I mean there were some cars and trucks that went by . . .” He was thinking hard but wasn’t coming up with anything.
“But you didn’t speak to anyone?”
“No.”
“What about the third stop?” His face brightened. I guess he figured the governor had called with the reprieve.
“We had lunch at a little place about twenty miles out.”
“The Red Pony?”
He pointed a finger at me, and I started figuring that Anderson sold something for a living. “That was it.”
I asked him what they had, and he said cheeseburgers. I asked how they were, and he said they were okay.
“Just okay?”
“Yes, sir. Why? Is that important?”
A gust of wind fluttered the map. “No, I just want to give the chief-cook-and-bottle-washer some flak. You ate at this place on the way back to town? About what time was that?
“Right after noon, maybe one.” I took out my pen and made some notes on the map. “Your picture is on the wall. Out there at the bar with all the medals, maps, and stuff, isn’t it?” I continued to scribble away. “You two were in the war together? You and the Indian guy?”
“Yep, the war to start all wars.” I don’t think he got it.
“I mean the food wasn’t that bad . . .” He started sounding apologetic. I couldn’t wait to
“Yes, sir.” He unlocked the Chevy and dug into the center console where I caught a glimpse of a red box indicating Federal brand ammunition. After a moment, he produced four bright and shining bow-hunting permits.
Bow hunting permits. I pursed my lips and blew out. “You fellows are bow hunters?
“Yes, sir.” I checked the permits; they were all mountain, 24, 166, 25. “Look, is there something we’re being charged with? Should I be getting a lawyer or something?
“I’m hoping that won’t be necessary, Mr. Anderson. Do you or any of your party have any firearms?”
“No.”
Maybe he was just nervous. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. Well . . .” Moment of truth. “Randy has a .38 in the glove box.”
“Is it loaded?”
“It might be.”
“Are you aware that a loaded, vehicularly concealed weapon constitutes a misdemeanor offense in this state?” Vehicularly—was that a word? Where did I get this stuff? I smiled again to let him know I didn’t think he was Al Capone. “So, let’s say you and I make a deal? I won’t examine the legendary Randy’s pistol to see if it’s loaded and you answer a few more of my questions.” He figured it was a good deal. I pulled the section map out of my coat pocket, spread it out, and, with Mike’s help, held it on their hood. He said they had asked at the Game and Fish about sections 23 and 26 because Anderson’s father had hunted there years ago, claiming the deer on the Powder River draw were much larger than those on the mountain. Anderson’s father was right, but I didn’t share that with Mike; my ranch was in that section. They had driven out there Friday at noon and circled up along the Powder River coming back past Arvada, Clearmont, and Crossroads.
“Did you get off the main road at any point?”
“Um, three times. Once to watch some antelope just at the top of the hill after that little town at the main road?”
“Arvada.”
“Once where there was an old bridge headed south.”
Maybe something. “An old kings-bridge structure?” His face was blank. “A trestle system of steel girders that goes over the road with an old car stuffed into the bank on the far side?”
“Yes, sir. Now that you mention it.”
“Did you see anyone, or anything else, out there?” He paused to think. I was going to have to talk to all of them. Was I ever going to get to sleep?
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“No. I mean there were some cars and trucks that went by . . .” He was thinking hard but wasn’t coming up with anything.
“But you didn’t speak to anyone?”
“No.”
“What about the third stop?” His face brightened. I guess he figured the governor had called with the reprieve.
“We had lunch at a little place about twenty miles out.”
“The Red Pony?”
He pointed a finger at me, and I started figuring that Anderson sold something for a living. “That was it.”
I asked him what they had, and he said cheeseburgers. I asked how they were, and he said they were okay.
“Just okay?”
“Yes, sir. Why? Is that important?”
A gust of wind fluttered the map. “No, I just want to give the chief-cook-and-bottle-washer some flak. You ate at this place on the way back to town? About what time was that?
“Right after noon, maybe one.” I took out my pen and made some notes on the map. “Your picture is on the wall. Out there at the bar with all the medals, maps, and stuff, isn’t it?” I continued to scribble away. “You two were in the war together? You and the Indian guy?”
“Yep, the war to start all wars.” I don’t think he got it.
“I mean the food wasn’t that bad . . .” He started sounding apologetic. I couldn’t wait to
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