Page 35 of Dark Sky

“We were wondering where you were,” said the man who’d come up silently behind him. He spoke softly into his ear. “Don’t fucking move.”

Joe marveled that he had not heard the man approaching. And he didn’t move. He was too startled to be scared.

“I’m going to let go of your head, but the knife stays where it is,” the man said to him. “If you move, I’ll cut you.”

“Mmmmm.” Joe didn’t want to speak or nod. The grip was released on the crown of his skull.

He felt the man tug at his pack to remove it. Joe rolled his shoulders back to make it easier. Then the man pulled loose the safety strap of his revolver and drew it out of the holster.

“A Colt Python,” the man said with admiration. “Nice. I’ve always wanted one.”

Joe expected the man to reach up under the other side of his coat and pull out the canister of bear spray that was velcroed to his belt, and he did. Then his cell phone was removed from his breast pocket and the personal locator beacon was removedfrom his back pocket. A few seconds later, Joe heard the crunch of glass and components as both devices were crushed underfoot.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Joe said.

“Do you have any more weapons?” the man asked. As he did, Joe felt the pressure of the blade lessen slightly, which allowed him to talk.

“I’ve got knives and saws in the pack for field dressing,” he said. “No more firearms.”

Which was true. He’d left his rifle and shotgun in camp that morning. There was a spare can of bear spray in the side pocket of his daypack and a Leatherman multi-tool in the other, which he assumed the man would find if he searched it.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked the man. The harsh nature of the situation was starting to take hold.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“You know I’m a Wyoming game warden, right?”

“Oh, I know who you are.”

“Then you know you could be in big trouble. I’d like to avoid that and I’m sure you would as well.”

“We’ll see,” the man said. He took the blade away from his throat and a second later Joe felt the sharp point of it cut through the material of his coat, shirt, and underwear where it pricked the skin between his ribs. Joe flinched in surprise from the pain.

“I’m not fucking around,” the man said while applying a little more pressure to the point of the knife. “I’ll push it all the way into your heart if you try anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

“Walk slow.”

“Where are we going?”

“The camp, idiot.”

As he stepped away from the tree, Joe shot a glance over his shoulder.

“I know you,” he said.

“You should,” Kirby Thomas said. “You fucking arrested me once.”

Joe nodded and continued on. Six or seven years before, he’d been patrolling the breaklands in his pickup when he rounded a corner on a two-track road and saw that another truck was stopped and blocking his path. Joe had pulled around it to find a fatally wounded pronghorn antelope sprawled across the road in front of the truck and a man in the process of viciously kicking it in the head to kill it. The buck’s head snapped back with each blow and broken yellow teeth littered the ground. It was sickening, and Joe recalled the scene more clearly than he wanted to.

Kirby had obviously shot the antelope from the window of his truck directly from the road—two violations in one act—and instead of finishing off the wounded creature with a knife or fatal shot, he was manically kicking it with furious blows. That was until he looked up and saw the green Ford F-150 nose around his truck and he recognized who was driving it.

Joe would also never forget the look in Kirby’s eyes while he was kicking the pronghorn in the head. The young man looked out of control. Like he was really enjoying himself.

He arrested Kirby on the spot and cited him for the two clear violations as well as for not having a valid hunting license and conservation stamp and for wanton destruction of wildlife. The last charge was the stiffest and could result in jail time as well as the confiscation of Kirby’s truck and weapons and a ban on future hunting privileges, but Joe hadn’t been sure it would hold up in court. He hadn’t cared at the time, because he was both sickened and disgusted by Kirby’s acts and he wanted to make a public example of him.

Joe had learned from experience that men who violated hunting and fishing regulations, especially when they did so with sadistic glee, later turned out to be capable ofanything. Which was why he wanted to throw the book at Kirby Thomas.

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