In Plain Sight

“Arlen,” Joe said.

Robey nodded.

Joe told Robey about the 1-800-POACHER tip he’d received earlier, naming Hank.

“Oh, man,” Robey said. “What could that mean if it’s true?”

Joe said, “Tens of thousands in fines, but that’s not what would hurt Hank the most. What would hurt Hank would be the confiscation of the equipment used to poach the animals, meaning his airplane, vehicles, and guns. And even worse for him, his license to guide and hunt could be revoked. Since he runs a big hunting operation in at least three locations, it would put him out of business.”

Robey shook his head. “Jesus,” he said. “This is getting even nastier than I thought.”

Joe snorted. “Of course, before investigating Hank I need proper authorization from my supervisor, which I’m still waiting for.”

“You’re kidding,” Robey said flatly.

Joe just looked at him. He hated feeling the way he did. Pope’s management of Joe stripped away both his independence and his confidence. But that was Joe’s problem, not Robey’s.

“And you know what?” Joe said, pointing the mouth of his bottle toward Robey. “I don’t think we’ve seen anything yet in regard to Scarlett versus Scarlett.”

Robey nodded. “We haven’t, because the next stage in the war will be more of what Arlen started in going after the surrogates of the other brother, like Hank’s accountant.”

“Or,” Joe thought out loud, “Arlen’s future management consulting firm—MBP Management.”

Robey sat back. “You think?”

“It fits,” Joe said.

And the door opened and in walked Hank Scarlett with a ranch hand. Joe watched as Hank mumbled hellos to men seated at the bar and then took the stool at the end that used to belong to ex-sheriff O. R. “Bud” Barnum, before Barnum went away. Hank’s tiny eyes, set close together in his thin face, burned like coals as they swept the room, settled for a moment on Joe, then moved on. He was doing inventory, Joe thought, seeing who in the Stockman was in his camp, and who wasn’t.

“Speak of the devil,” Joe said, his eyes narrowing. As he stared at Hank Scarlett, things started to tumble together and click. Six years before, Hank had been one of the most vocal opponents of calling in the feds when the Miller’s weasels were discovered, and he publicly blamed Joe for the intrusion of biologists, endangered-species advocates, and environmental groups that came as a result. Hank felt the issue would be best resolved locally, meaning: All the animals should be secretly killed. That’s how he’d always proceeded with endangered species.

In addition, Hank knew the Bighorns as well as anyone in Wyoming—even better than Joe, because he had hunted and explored every inch of them. If anyone knew where the colony of Miller’s weasels thrived in the wilderness, it was Hank. The fact that Marybeth had chosen to work for Arlen in Hank’s mind put Joe in his brother’s camp, even though it wasn’t the case.

“Joe, I don’t like that look on your face,” Robey said.

Joe didn’t realize he had any look at all.

“If you think Hank had something to do with that Miller’s weasel, you had best keep it to yourself until you can prove something,” Robey said.

Joe thought about the animal on his door, the steak knife pinning it there, the single streak of dark red blood that coursed down and pooled in a crack. And of Sheridan’s horrified expression when she realized what it was, what it meant.

“Excuse me,” Joe said, and slid out of the booth.

“Joe . . .” Robey said, his voice hard, but Joe didn’t turn around.

He approached the bar. Hank had his back to Joe, although the man Hank had come into the bar with watched Joe intently. Joe measured Hank’s companion, met his eyes dead-on. This one is a thug, Joe thought. There was nothing cowboy about him. He was tight through the chest, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed enhanced forearms with coils of cablelike muscle writhing under tattooed skin. His face was thin and pinched, his mouth full and rubbery. He had a soul patch under his lower lip and a ponytail. He wore the wrong jeans and his boots were black Doc Marten lace-ups, not real working cowboy boots. The man’s hat was Australian outback, not cowboy. And there was something about him, Joe thought, something familiar. When he looked at the man’s face he saw somebody else he was familiar with, or the shadow of that person. But Joe couldn’t remember if he had ever seen this man before.

The beer Joe had been drinking with Robey surged through him, deadening what should have been self- preservation warning bells going off like a prison break.

“Hank,” Joe said, to Hank’s back.

“Is there a problem here?” the man with Hank said in a low southern accent.

“I was talking to Hank,” Joe said, looking from the ranch hand to the mirrored back bar, to see that Hank saw him and was staring back with his dead sharp eyes.

The ranch hand spun on his stool and rose to his feet, but Hank said, “It’s okay, Bill, he’s just the game warden.”

Bill relaxed, stepped back, sat down.

Hank took a long drink from his glass of bourbon, then swiveled around, not getting up. Joe was three feet away, and he tried not to let his face twitch as Hank frowned and leveled his gaze on him.

“What can I do you for, Game Warden?” He said Game Warden with detached sarcasm. Hank’s voice was high and tinny. He bit off his words, as if speaking them were painful in itself.