Ote sighed. 'Meat for the pot, warden. Just meat for the pot. Some of us got a family to feed.' Ote had a deep Southern accent. Joe couldn't identify the state.
Joe squatted over the nearest and largest buck deer and ran his fingers over the soft velvet that still covered the antlers.
'Seems to me you didn't have to kill the only trophies in the herd just to fill your freezer.' He looked up at Ote Keeley, his eyes hard. 'A meat hunter would have probably been happy with a big dry doe or two.'
Joe knew there was a black market for antlers in velvet, and that racks this size would command thousands of dollars in Asia where they were thought to possess healing powers as well as serve as an aphrodisiac when ground up and ingested.
'I'm going to have to write you up. Ote Keeley, isn't it?'
Ote was genuinely surprised. His face flushed red. 'You're gosh-darned kidding me, right?' Ote asked, as if avoiding an additional ticket for cursing.
Joe stood and pulled his ticket book out of his back pocket and flipped it open.
'No, I'm not kidding.'
Ote stepped toward Joe over the downed deer he was straddling.
'Hey--I know you. You're the brand-new game warden, ain't you?'
Joe nodded and began to fill out the citation. 'I heard about you. Everybody has. You're the bonehead who arrested the governor of Wyoming for fishing without a license, right?'
Joe could feel his neck getting hot. 'I didn't know he was the governor,' Joe said, wishing he hadn't said anything.
Ote Keeley laughed and slapped his thigh.
'Didn't know he was the governor,' Ote repeated. 'I read about that in the paper. Everybody did.
'Rookie Game Warden Arrests Governor Budd.'' Ote turned serious: 'Hey, you're not really going to ticket me, are you? I'm a professional hunting outfitter. I can't feed my family if my outfitter's license gets pulled. I'm not kidding. I'm sure we can work this out.'
Joe looked up at Ote Keeley.
'I'm not kidding, either. Now give me your driver's license.'
It was as if Ote Keeley, for the first time, realized what was really happening. Joe was amazed at the man's almost staggering stupidity. Joe caught Ote glancing toward where he had left his rifle.
'There's more animals in Wyoming than people,' Ote spat. 'These critters won't be missed by anyone. That herd ran nearly thirty. Vern Dunnegan wouldn't have pulled this shit.'
'I'm not Vern Dunnegan.' Joe said, hiding his surprise about what Ote had said about his predecessor and mentor.
'You sure as hell ain't,' Ote Keeley said bitterly, as he pulled his wallet out of his jeans and held it out for Joe. As Joe reached for it, Ote grabbed Joe's arm and jerked it past him, throwing Joe off balance. Ote had Joe's revolver out of the holster before he could recover.
For a brief second, Joe Pickett and Ote Keeley stared at each other in genuine surprise, then Ote raised the pistol and aimed it squarely at Joe's face.
'Uh-oh, look what just happened,' Ote said, a little in awe.
'I would suggest you give that back,' Joe answered, trying to keep his face from twitching. He was terrified. 'Give it back and we'll call it even.'
Ote Keeley smoothly cocked the hammer of the revolver. Joe watched the cylinder rotate. Dull noses of lead filled each chamber, and the mouth of the barrel was black and huge, gaping. Ote wrapped his other hand around the grip, steadying his aim.
'Now we're in really, really fucking deep,' Ote said, more to himself than anybody.
Joe thought of his daughters, Sheridan and Lucy, both at home, probably playing outside in the backyard. He thought of his wife, Marybeth, who had always feared that something like this would happen.
Then Joe's entire consciousness, his entire being, focused on one simple question: would he die with his eyes open or closed?
PART ONE
Joe lived, but it wasn't something he was particularly proud of. It was now fall and Sunday morning dawned slate gray and cold. He was making pancakes for his girls when he first heard of the bloody beast who had come down from the mountains and tried to enter the house during the night.
Seven-year-old Sheridan Pickett related her dream aloud to the stuffed bear that served as her confidant. Lucy, three and horrified, listened in. The television set was on even though the reception from the vintage satellite dish was snowy and poor, as usual.
The monster, Sheridan said, had come down from the mountains through the dark, steep canyon behind the house very late last night. She watched it through a slit in the curtain on her window, just a few inches from the top bunk other bed. The canyon was where Sheridan had always suspected a monster would come from, and she
