Rather than turn around and give chase, Joe floored it in reverse. He was filled with sudden anger at Connelly, at Stenko and Robert, the choices he’d made that consumed him with guilt, at everything. Getting the Mad Archer would be another one in his good works column.
“Joe,” Nate said calmly as the motor revved, “are you sure you want to do this?”
“Brace yourself,” Joe said to Sheridan and Nate.
Joe used the rear bumper and tailgate of his pickup to T-bone Connelly’s pickup on the passenger side as Connelly tried to make his turn. The impact knocked the Dodge six feet sidewise, and Joe saw Connelly’s hat fly off and his arms wave in the air. The collision wasn’t as severe in the Game and Fish pickup because they’d been accelerating straight backward, had braced themselves for the collision, and were cushioned by the seat.
“Got him!” Sheridan cried, raising a triumphant fist in the air.
“Not yet,” Joe cautioned, swinging the pickup off the road into the ditch and aiming his grille at the Dodge.
Joe threw the transmission into park and launched himself out the door. He could see Connelly on the passenger side in his pickup instead of behind the wheel due to the impact on his passenger door, which had thrown him across the cab. Connelly sat stunned, shaking his head from side to side. Blood streamed down his face and into his mouth from a cut in his forehead.
Joe wanted to get to Connelly and subdue him before the Mad Archer tried to resist or run again. He was halfway there, his boots thumping on the asphalt, when Connelly looked up and saw Joe running in his direction. Connelly dove for the wheel and used it to pull himself back into the driver’s seat. He righted himself and started fumbling for the gearshift.
The engine growled and the blue Dodge lurched forward. Connelly cackled and maniacally turned the wheel away from Joe, who pulled up and reached for his Glock as the bumper of Connelly’s pickup grazed his thigh as it turned. “Later!” He laughed to Joe through a mouthful of bloody teeth.
The deep-throated concussions of Nate’s .454 Casull coughed out once, twice, and seemed to briefly suck the air out of the morning. The blue Dodge bucked as if it had hit a set of hidden ditches head-on. The engine went silent and the truck rolled lazily forward off the road. The front tires bit into loose sand and it lurched to a stop. As intended, both slugs had penetrated the engine block. Green radiator fluid pooled on the dirt and plumes of it hissed and rose in the air, coating the windows of the Dodge.
Gun drawn, Joe ran to the driver’s side of the pickup from the back. He yelled, “Thanks, Nate!”
“My pleasure,” Nate said, standing wide-legged on the other side of the road, still holding his revolver in a two-handed grip. “I like killing cars.”
Connelly opened his door cautiously. He looked at Joe coming at him. He turned his head to see Nate and his .454 in a cloud of green steam that made him look like an apparition from the Gates of Hell. Connelly was half in, half out of the cab. Joe could see only one of Connelly’s hands, the one holding the handle of the door.
“Let me see ’em both,” Joe said, raising the Glock and sighting down the barrel as he approached. He hoped he wouldn’t have to fire. Nate was not far out of his line of fire through the windshield, and ricochets could threaten Sheridan.
Connelly hadn’t moved in or out an inch. He seemed to be weighing his options. Was his other hand gripping a gun?
“I said, show me your hands and climb out slowly,” Joe said. “You’re under arrest for skipping bond in Carbon County.”
Connelly smiled slightly, said, “Don’t you think this is excessive force? Since when is it okay for a damned game warden to injure a man and total his pickup for missing a hearing for a misdemeanor?”
Joe said, “Ever since you shot a dog with an arrow. Now shut up, get out, and get down on the ground.”
Nate emerged from the steam and aimed his .454 at the side of Connelly’s head. “Let me shoot him and tear his ears off, Joe. You know, for my collection.”
Joe stifled a smile and watched as Connelly leaped out of his pickup empty-handed and eagerly threw himself face down into the sand.
As Joe snapped handcuffs on Connelly’s wrists, Connelly said, “How in the
Joe said, “Just good police work,” and winked at Sheridan, who had watched the arrest openmouthed.
WITH RON CONNELLY cuffed to the front strut of his dead pickup on the side of the highway, Joe called in the arrest to central dispatch. In the days since the Mad Archer had vacated Baggs, he’d obtained a new compound bow and a set of broadhead arrows, as well as a Ruger Ranch Rifle and a stainless-steel .45 semiauto. In the glove box were cartridges, a bloody knife still covered with deer hair, and plastic vials of crystal meth. Tim Curley, the game warden out of Sundance, heard the call and broke in.
“Joe, how the hell are you?”
“Fine,” Joe said, remembering Curley as a big man with dark eyes, impressive jowls, and a gunfighter mustache. “Can you come get this guy?”
“This is the one they call the Mad Archer?”
“Yup.”
“I thought I heard you already caught him and threw him in the pokey.”
“I did. But that was last week. You know how it goes sometimes.”
“What—a sympathetic judge who let him out on bond?”
“Tim, we’re on the radio.”
“Oh, yeah. Hey—you gonna stick around? It’s been a while since we got caught up. I want to hear your version of what happened to Randy Pope.”
