Page 45 of Battle Mountain

“Do they invite members of the community to come to any of their activities?” he asked.

“Not really—none I know of,” she said. “Of course, they have to hire people to work there during the week. Waitstaff, housekeeping, extra fishing guides and wranglers, and such. The Centurions bring staff and security folks, but they can’t fly all of their people out here. Locals who go out there for the week have to sign an NDA.”

“Who told you all of this inside stuff?” Joe asked with a sly smile.

“The night after I went out there to check licenses, I eavesdropped on a couple of the pilots who were having a few too many beers at the bar at the Hotel Wolf,” she said. “The Centurions put their pilots up there for the week while they go out to the ranch and do whatever it is they do.”

She looked over at him as she drove. “It’s always amazing what people say around me when I’m not in uniform. One of them offered to buy me a drink.”

“I understand,” Joe said. He guessed that Kany looked pretty good in her street clothes, and then he felt immediately guilty for thinking it.

“Maybe you’ll run into a couple of them,” she said.

“Maybe,” Joe said. “But I hope not to stay here more than a night or two.”

“And get out of my hair? No offense.”

“Yup,” Joe said. “None taken.”

—

The massive aspengrove cleared and the road crossed a rocky alpine meadow before plunging into a heavy copse of pine trees. Joe glimpsed the signs of a camp between the trunks of the trees as they approached.

“Rankin’s camp is straight ahead,” Kany said. “It’s tucked into those trees.”

Joe liked the location for an elk camp. It was about four miles from the state highway and the road seemed to dead-end at the copse. The mountains rose sharply to the east, and the terrain eventually sloped on the west to the rugged North Platte River canyon wilderness area. From that camp, Rankin would have easy access to hundreds of thousands of acres of mountains, scrub, scree, foothills, and river bottom.

It was still but cool outside with scattered clouds that looked close to the summits of the nearby peaks. A mottled carpet of snow lay on the ground in the shadows of the trees.

Kany slowed even more as she entered the elk camp. Joe admired that. One of the worst traits of overeager new game wardens was to rush into a camp and panic the inhabitants, who were very likely armed and not expecting visitors. It was much better to enter an elk camp in the most transparent way possible, unless they were there to surprise people.

The camp was clean, simple, and well-planned, Joe thought. There was a natural opening in the heart of the copse and the camp was surrounded by trees. Two large taut wall tents had been erected on either side of the clearing, and a larger tent in the middle likely served as the communal eating and gathering place. Theside tents were big enough for four and no doubt filled with cots and sleeping bags.

Most traditional elk camps were laid out by experienced outfitters, so their clients had their own sleeping quarters and privacy. The guide tents were far enough away not to interfere, but close enough to keep an eye on their people and to make sure no one wandered off in the dark.

There was an outhouse a hundred feet behind the tents, and stripped pine poles had been lashed high to the trunks of the tallest trees to hang game carcasses. To the side of the camp was a parking area that extended into the trees. A single vehicle was in it—an aged Ford Bronco with local plates.

A big firepit bordered by heavy, round river rocks occupied the space in front of the communal tent. A pile of folded camp chairs sat on a wooden pallet next to a neat row of firewood that looked freshly split. A teepee of kindling had been built in the firepit, ready for a match.

The camp looked ready for hunters to arrive, but they were not there yet.

Smoke wafted from a round tin chimney pipe that poked through the canvas roof. Joe could smell woodsmoke when he climbed out of Kany’s pickup. He always loved the smell of smoke during fall in the high mountains.

“He’s here,” Kany said with triumph as she gestured toward the communal tent.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Joe said, thinking,Mark Eisele better be with him.

He wasn’t.

—

The right canvasflap of the communal tent was thrown back as Joe and Kany approached it, and a fireplug-shaped woman wearing an apron, a red flannel shirt, and worn Carhartt bib overalls peered out at them.

“Hey there,” Kany said with a smile.

“Good afternoon,” said Joe.

The woman came out of the tent, but left the doorway open. Joe could see a Dutch oven filled with red chili simmering on the woodstove inside, as well as a pot of coffee. The cook peered at them and looked over the top of Kany’s truck toward the road behind them. Her expression was pained.

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