Sowing on the Mountain

≈ 31 ≈

She paced back and forth by the road, unable to keep still. Jet leaned on the pickup and watched her. There was a spot of red through the trees and then Slim's pickup dusted up the road toward them. He got out and took her in his arms. She couldn't cry—­ wrung out. She felt numb. Her lips were frozen.

"We saw the wreck," he said. "Must've been pretty bad."

"Got another problem," Jet said. "Trapper's dogs. They're dead. Mary thinks they were poisoned." All she could do was to nod.

"The hell!" Headley said. "I guess we better have a look. We'll follow you down." He glanced at the turnoff to the Echeverry base camp. "Don't want to leave a Forest Service truck up here in plain sight."

They got out of the trucks and stared at the dogs, twisted in agony, heads thrown back, jaws gaping, still tied to their trees.

"Jesus Christ!" Jet said. He noticed the pistol and picked it up.

"One was barely alive." Mary said, and couldn't go on. They looked at her while she bent her head forward and took deep breaths, trying not to lose it. "It was in the trailer. In a box."

Headley went over and looked. "The guy had a goddam arsenal," he said. "Wonder what's in the cabin. He said he wired it with booby traps."

"I think he was lying," Mary said. "He wasn't in 'Nam, not even in the military. So where would he learn that?" She walked to the cabin and stepped up on the porch. The door was ajar. She kicked it open. "Fucker," she said.

Slim took her by the shoulders. "Let me take a look," he said, and stepped inside. Headley was poking around in the trailer. There was a flash— he was taking photos. He motioned Jet to come over. "Found the stolen dog chow. Help me lug this outside." They carried the wood chest with the guns and boxes of ammunition out into the sun. Slim came out.

"Big mess in there. Looks like he left in a hurry."

A white Ford pickup crawled down the road and stopped. The driver started to back up, and Headley sprinted over and held up a hand. "Hold on!" he yelled. "Out of the vehicle please, and show me your hands." Mary noticed that he was wearing a pistol belt with a revolver on it. Ray Echeverry got out.

"Heard about the wreck. Came down to see if I could do anything for the dogs."

"Bit late for that," Headley said. "Take a look."

Ray walked over to the nearest dog and knelt, touching it and recoiling at the coldness, the stiffness.

"It's been dead for a while," Headley said. "Mary had to shoot the one over there this morning."

Ray gave a stricken glance and looked at the nearest dog. "I. . .I. . .I. . ."

"You know anything about this?" Headley said.

"Never been down here, not this year," he said. "Look— I gotta go back to the camp and tell 'em to tie up the dogs."

"These dogs were tied up. Didn't do them any good." Headley's voice was merciless. "Okay! Go!"

Ray leapt into the truck and reversed into a pine with a bang, then wheeled the truck in a tight circle and spun out, going up the hill. Headley stood there, making fists and relaxing his hands, again, again. "Letting that little son-of-a-bitch go was one of the hardest things I've ever done."

"Why?" Mary said.

"There's an investigation— a setup to catch the people who are peddling poison to the ranchers." Slim had come up behind her.

"U. S. Fish and Wildlife is running it," Headley said. They've got a bead on suspects, some in state government, and a bunch of big ranchers, with big connections: state legislators, Congress, even a governor or two."

"If we start hauling in ranchers, the suppliers will stash their stocks and lay low. So we have to back off for now."

"Do you think they poisoned Trapper's dogs?" She looked at Slim.

"Yes. . . and no. I think Trapper fed 'em poisoned meat that he poached up here."

"So why did he crash?" Mary asked.

"I've got an idea," Slim said. "But first we have to look around. Rubber gloves, everyone. Get some baggies. This is a crime scene."

Headley pulled the deer haunch and some other meat scraps out of the trailer and bagged them, then photographed the dead dogs, and scraped samples from their bowls. Harv showed up, got the rundown, and helped Jet load the poor dogs into trashbags and pile them in the stockrack. Slim went to the cabin and asked Mary to take photos. He poked around, finding some papers. He bagged a couple dirty glasses for fingerprints. Then he looked at the stove. There was a greasy frypan with some dried, burnt scraps of meat in it. Slim picked up the meat with his gloved fingertips and bagged them, used an alcohol swab, then bagged the pan. He did the same with a plate and silverware on the table. There was an ice chest. He looked inside and then taped it shut.

"That should do it," he said. "Load up the guns. Let's head to town."

"Gris is locked in the shack. I have to get him, and my car."

"Right. Harv? Could you give Mary a ride and keep an eye on things?"

Harv straightened up and set his jaw. "Right. Can do."

"Good. I'll be at the Game and Fish office in town. Get Les Boswick and Walberg from the Sheriff's office. We need to have a talk."