Crook County sheriff’s deputies were also en route. Joe guessed that all of them would converge at once on the location of the distress call.
They were on State Highway 14, north of Devils Tower Junction, looking for the ranch access that would take them east toward the mountains and the ranch headquarters. Dispatch had been quiet; whoever had placed the initial 911 call had dropped off the line and had never come back. Calls to the ranch house had gone unanswered, which didn’t bode well.
Joe thought,
Sheridan sat in the middle of bench seat clutching her cell phone, staring at it as if willing it to ring. Nate hung out the open passenger window, squinting at the sky with his blond ponytail undulating in the wind. He reminded Joe of Maxine, his old Labrador, who liked to stick her head out the window and let the wind flap her ears.
“See that chopper?” Nate said, pulling his head inside the cab.
“Yup.”
“You had better let me off up here for a while. I don’t think it would help anyone concerned if Portenson sees me.”
“Agreed.”
“Why not?” Sheridan asked.
“Because I’m on the run,” Nate said, matter-of-fact.
“On the run?” she asked. “Like from the law?”
He nodded, said, “Thanks to your dad I’m not in jail right now.”
Joe felt Sheridan’s eyes on him, hoping for an explanation.
“Dad, I thought you put people in jail.”
“I do.”
“But . . .”
“It’s a long story.”
“Are you going to tell it to me?”
“Not now.”
“Nate?”
“Me either,” Nate said, taking Joe’s cue.
“There’s a stand of trees up ahead on the right,” Nate said, changing the direction of the conversation. “Maybe I can hang out over there and wait for you.”
It was an old homestead. On the high desert that led toward the foothills, the only trees were those once planted by settlers trying to make a go of it. In nearly every case, they’d failed—overwhelmed by poor soil, harsh weather, isolation, and market conditions. All that remained of their efforts were rare stands of trees, usually cottonwoods, that had been put in for shade and to provide a windbreak.
The highway was a straight shot across the stunted high-country sage. Traffic was practically nonexistent except for a single pickup ahead in Joe’s lane. The vehicle crept along with its right wheels on the shoulder.
“Let me pass this guy and get up ahead out of his view,” Joe said, “then I’ll drop you off.”
As he approached the slow vehicle—a late-model blue Dodge pickup with out-of-state plates and no passengers—and swung into the passing lane, Joe felt a rush of recognition. The Oklahoma plates—reading “Native America”—confirmed it.
The driver, Ron Connelly, looked over casually at first to see who was passing him as Joe shot by. Their eyes locked and Joe saw Connelly’s nostrils flare as he recognized Joe as well. Connelly slammed on his brakes and Joe shot by him on the highway. But Connelly’s face lingered as an afterimage and Joe was sure it was him.
Joe said, “Hang on—it’s the Mad Archer!”
Nate said, “The mad
“Brace yourselves,” Joe said, flinging his right arm out to help protect Sheridan from flying forward as he hit the brakes.
Joe cursed himself for being careless and alerting Connelly, who’d been moving down the highway much too slowly and too far over on the shoulder with no apparent car problems or flashing emergency lights. He’d been cruising the road with all the characteristics of a road hunter—scanning the terrain out the passenger window for game animals to shoot illegally from the comfort of a public road. And since most wildlife became acclimated to the singing of traffic on the rural highway, they no longer followed their instincts for caution. Over the years, wildlife had learned not to look up unless a vehicle stopped. Unscrupulous road hunters like Connelly took advantage of the new paradigm and jumped out firing.
“Is he the one who shot Tube with an arrow?” Sheridan asked as Joe came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the highway.
“That’s him,” he said, throwing the transmission into reverse. To Nate: “He’s the same one who shot your eagle.”
“Let’s get him,” Sheridan said through gritted teeth.
Nate said, “Proceed.”
Connelly had decided to run and was in the process of turning back the way he’d come, his back tires churning up fountains of dirt in the borrow pit, his front tires on the pavement. His pickup was bigger and newer, and Joe knew that on the open road Connelly could outrace him. He had to stop Connelly before he could get going.
