Winterkill

tracks. Joe had overheard the nurses say that the tips of three of his fingers and four of his toes were severely frostbitten.

The man in the bed was stout and in his mid-forties, with a thick mustache and brown eyes. Joe had seen him before while patrolling.

Wardell’s eyes found Joe in the doorway, and he raised his good hand slightly in greeting.

“You doing okay?” Joe asked softly.

Wardell seemed to be trying to find his voice. “Much better since they filled me full of drugs. In fact, I’m kind of . . . happy.”

Joe approached Wardell. The room smelled of bandages and antiseptic.

“Happy New Year,” Joe said, smiling.

Wardell grunted, and then winced because the grunt clearly hurt his ribs.

“Thanks for saving my life. The doctor said I couldn’t have stayed out there much longer.”

“I’m just sorry I hit you,” Joe said. “So what happened? You walked all the way out of the breaklands after you wrecked your truck?”

“I was on my way back to town,” he said. “Must have been about four-thirty or so. I had about another half hour, forty-five minutes of light yet. I wanted to get home because Mrs. Wardell and me had tickets for the steak and shrimp feed at the Elks Lodge for New Year’s.”

Joe nodded, urging him on.

“I seen a white pickup truck on BLM land up on a ridge, past the signs that say the damn road is closed in the winter. You know, in that cooperative Forest Service/BLM unit?”

Joe had patrolled the area. It was a rough, treeless expanse of sharp zigzag-cut draws and sagebrush that stretched from the highway to the wooded foothills of the Bighorns. The “unit” had been recently designated a research area, jointly managed by the two federal agencies to study the spread of native buffalo grass in the absence of cattle or sheep. The designation had raised the ire of several local ranchers who had grazed their stock in the breaklands for years, and of some local hunters and fishermen who used the roads to get to spring creeks in the foothills. Wardell was the project manager.

“Well, this white truck was in the process of pulling my ‘Road Closed’ signs out of the ground with a chain. When I seen that, I thought: ‘What the hell?’” Wardell pronounced it “hay-uhl.”

“I heard something about signs being vandalized,” Joe said.

Wardell nodded his head slightly. It took him a moment to start up again—the sedatives were working. Joe hoped Wardell could finish the story before he went to sleep. “It’s been going on for a few months now. Sometimes the signs are gone, and other times they’re just run over.

“So I says to myself, ‘What the hell?’” Wardell said again. “And I turned up that closed road and give chase.”

“Got it. Can you identify the vehicle?”

“White. Or maybe tan. Light-colored, for sure. Not brand-new. The damn sunlight was starting to go bad on me about then.”

“Ford? GMC? Chevy?” Joe asked.

Wardell thought. “Maybe a Ford. The truck was pretty dirty, I noticed that. There was mud or smudges on the doors, I think.”

Joe smiled grimly. Finding a Ford pickup in Wyoming was about as hard as finding a Hispanic male in Houston.

“Anyway . . .” Wardell swallowed, and his eyes fluttered. He was tiring. Joe felt a little bit guilty pushing him so hard. Joe looked at his watch: 3:30 A.M.

“Anyway, that truck saw me coming and the driver took off over the hill, still on the closed road. You know how it is out there with all them draws and hills. It’s damn easy to get lost or turned around. But whatever . . . I took off after him up that hill anyway.”

“Did you try to call anyone?”

“Damn right I tried. But the BLM office closed early, on account it’s New Year’s Eve. Our dispatcher left early.”

“Go on.”

“I got to the top of that hill and the whole unit was out there to be seen. The road turned to the left and I started to go that way but then I seen that white Ford halfway down the hill. He had gone off-road and was barreling down the hill toward the bottom. I said ‘What the hell?’ and followed him. All I wanted to do by then was get a license plate.”

“I think this patient needs some rest,” a night shift nurse said tersely from the doorway.

Joe turned. “We’re about done.”

“You better be,” the nurse said.

“Sassy little number,” Wardell commented, watching her walk away, her big hips making the hem of her skirt jump.

Joe turned back. “So, you saw the truck at the bottom of the draw. Doesn’t it start to get brushy down there?” Joe was becoming convinced that he knew the specific road and hill Wardell was describing.

Wardell nodded, then winced. “Yeah, it gets all tangly down there. And it was getting pretty dark, but I could see those taillights go right into the bush and disappear. Hell, I had no idea there was a way to get across that draw down there in a vehicle.”