.454
Casull lay unholstered on the passenger seat.
Hunters, mainly. Plates from Colorado, Michigan, Pennsylvania. Hunting states. Except for the SUV Barnum had parked next to, the one with the Virginia plates. Interesting.
Nate slowed to a crawl but didn’t tap his brakes so his brake lights wouldn’t flare. He leaned across the passenger seat and looked up at the windows that were lit. He saw a man with a profile that looked familiar— someone from a long time ago—approach the window and reach out with both hands for fistfuls of curtain. But before the man pulled the curtains closed, Nate saw the silhouette of Bud Barnum’s crushed cowboy hat over his shoulder.
Nate thought of his red tail flaring two days before.
Instinctively, he rubbed the hand grip of his weapon with his thumb.
Twenty Eight
Smoke Van Horn was a huge man who seemed to fill up the cabin when he entered the room, accompanied by the smell of wood smoke, grease, horses, and leather that hung in his oversized sheepskin coat. His face was massive and naturally thrust forward, like a fist.
“Nice night out there,” Smoke said to Joe. “We need some snow, though, to get the elk moving.”
He let his coat slide off his shoulders, then tossed it on the bed across the room as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Perhaps he had, Joe thought. Under the coat, Smoke wore the same clothes Joe had seen him in that afternoon in the meadow, as well as the holster and .44 Magnum.
“I was just scouting the territory when I saw the light from your cabin,” Smoke said in a tooloud voice, “so I thought I better check it out. I’ve thrown more than a few backpacker types out of your place before, you know. A couple of years ago some hunters moved in before Will got up here, and I sent them packing too. I figure this place is paid for by my tax money and license fees, so I don’t want nobody trashing it.”
“I appreciate that,” Joe said, as he dished steak and potatoes onto his plate. “Can I offer you some?”
“I filled my belly with pemmican while I was riding,”
Smoke said, shaking his head, “but that sure smells good.”
Joe filled a second plate and sat it on the table in front of the outfitter. He tried not to turn his back on Smoke at any point, but to stay in front of him. The outfitter exuded an aura of pure physicality and danger, even though he had not yet said or done anything that could be considered threatening. Joe watched as Smoke withdrew a collapsible camp cup from a shirt pocket, shook it out, and filled half of it with Wild Turkey from a bottle he had brought in with him.
“Want some?” Smoke asked, already pouring it into Joe’s tin cup.
“Thanks,” Joe said, adding water from a canteen.
“That’s ruining two good drinks,” Smoke said, raising his cup, a wide smile cracking the fist. “Here’s to fall in Wyoming and two good men.”
While they ate, Smoke noticed Joe looking at the .44
Magnum.
“Something wrong?” Smoke asked through a mouthful.
“Do you ever take that off ?”
“Nope.”
“Have you ever considered carrying bear spray?”
“Nope.”
“Have you ever had to use it?”
“Yup,” Smoke said. “This steak needs something. You got any ketchup or hot sauce?”
Smoke surprised Joe by gathering up the dishes and dumping them in an old plastic tub that he’d filled with hot water from a pot on the stove. Joe said, “You don’t have to do that.”
“Camp law,” Smoke said, not turning his head. “You cooked, so I clean. Have another snort. And give me a reride on mine, will you?”
Joe picked up the bottle and began to pour it into his cup, then thought better of it. He refilled Smoke, and put the bottle back down with a thump so Smoke would think Joe had taken some. Instead, Joe added more water to his cup.
“I’ve got to admit,” Smoke said, washing a plate with his back still to Joe, “you are more wily than I gave you credit for when I met you outside of the Sportsman’s. You must have known at the time you’d be coming up here into the backcountry, but you didn’t give it away.”
Joe didn’t respond.
“That was an old trick of Will’s too. He liked to keep everyone guessing. Shit, if I was the game warden, I’d probably do the same damn thing. This is a lot of country for just one man, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You ever seen anything like this before?”
“My district is in the Bighorns,” Joe said. “We’ve got some rough country.”
“Nothing like this,” Smoke said, turning and taking a long drink, “nothing like this.”
He banged the empty cup down. “How ’bout another reride?”
