"Some campers reported seeing a wounded man on horseback ride straight through their camp last night," Wendy told Joe. "They said the suspect allegedly rode his horse right through their camp while displaying a weapon and threatening the campers with said weapon."
Joe could tell that Wendy loved this situation, loved being in the center of the action, loved telling Joe about it, loved saying things like "allegedly" and "said weapon." She did not get a chance to use those words often in Twelve Sleep County.
"I called out the entire sheriff's office and both emergency medical vehicles at seven-twelve a.m. this morning to respond."
"Did you get a description of the man on horseback?" Joe asked. Wendy paused on the telephone, then read from the report:
"Late thirties, wearing a beard, bloody shirt. A big man. Crazy eyes, they said. The suspect was allegedly swinging some kind of plastic box or cooler around."
Joe leaned his chair back so he could see out of the small room near the front door that served as his office. Both girls were still lined up at the back window, looking out. Marybeth hovered behind them, trying to draw their attention away by rattling a box of pretzels the same way she would shake dog biscuits at Maxine to get her to come into the house.
"Why wasn't I called?" Joe inquired calmly. "I live on the Bighorn Road."
There was no response. Finally: "I never even thought about it." Joe recalled what Marybeth had said about Vern Dunnegan but said nothing. "Sheriff Barnum didn't mention it neither," Wendy said defensively.
"The injured man was displaying and threatening a weapon with one hand and swinging a plastic box with the other?" Joe asked. "How did he steer his horse?"
"That's what the report says." Wendy sniffed. "That's what the campers reported. They was out-of-staters. From Massachusetts or Boston or some place like that."
She said the last part as if it explained away the inconsistency.
"Which campground?" Joe persisted. "It says here they was at Crazy Woman Creek."
Crazy Woman was the last developed U.S. Forest Service campground on Bighorn Road, a place generally used as a jumping-off site for hikers and horse-packers entering the mountains.
"Are you in radio contact with Sheriff Barnum?" Joe asked.
"I believe so."
"Why don't you give him a call and let him know that the man on horseback was Ote Keeley and that Ote is lying dead on my woodpile behind the house."
Joe could hear Wendy gasp, then try to regain her composure. "Say again?" she replied.
Joe hung up the telephone and started for the backdoor.
"You're not going back out there?" Sheridan whispered.
"Just for a minute," Joe said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.
He shut the door behind him and slowly walked toward the body of Ote Keeley, his eyes sweeping across the yard, taking in the bloodstained walk, the woodpile, the canyon mouth behind the house. He wanted a clear picture of everything as it was right now, before the sheriff and deputies arrived. He didn't want to screw up again.
Squatting near the plastic cooler, Joe drew two empty envelopes and a pencil from the pocket on his robe. Using the tip of the eraser, Joe flicked several small pieces of scat from the cooler into an envelope. He would send that to headquarters for analysis. He gathered several more pieces of scat and put them in another envelope. He sealed both and put them back in his pocket. He left the rest for the sheriff.
Back in the house, Joe dressed in his day-to-day uniform: blue jeans and his red, button-up chamois shirt with the pronghorn antelope patch on the sleeve. Over the breast pocket was his name plate, which read game warden and under that J. Pickett.
When he came downstairs, the girls were sprawled in front of the snowy television, and Marybeth was sitting at the table flanked by dirty dishes. She held a big mug of coffee in her hands and stared at something in the air between them. Her eyes raised until they met Joe's.
"It'll be okay," Joe said, forcing a smile. He asked Marybeth to gather up the children and some clothes and go into Saddlestring. They could check into a motel until this was over and the backyard was cleaned up. He didn't want the kids seeing the dead man. Sheridan's dreams were already vivid enough.
"Joe, who will pay for the room? Will the state pay for it?" Marybeth asked softly so the children couldn't hear.
"You mean we can't?" Joe replied, incredulous. She shook her head no. Marybeth kept the meager family budget under a tight rein. It was the end of the month.
She would know if they were broke, and apparently that was the case. Joe felt his face flush. Maybe they could stay with somebody? Joe dismissed that. While they had made a few friends in town, they were still new, and he didn't know who they could call to ask this kind of favor.
"Can we use the credit card?" he asked.
"Nearly maxed out." She said. "It might work for a night or two, though."
He felt another wave of heat wash up his neck.
"I'm sorry, honey," he mumbled. He fitted his dusty black hat on his head and went outside to wait.
***
After inoaSUrillO, marking, and photographing, the deputies sealed off the woodpile with yellow crime scene tape and unfurled a body bag.
Joe stationed himself outside with his back to the window so no one who looked out could see the deputies bend Ote Keeley into the bag, folding his stiff arms and legs inside so they could zip it up and carry it away. Ote was heavy, and the middle part of the bag hummed along the top of the grass as the deputies took the body out of the yard and around the side of the house to the ambulance.
Sheriff O. R. "Bud" Barnum had arrived first and had briskly ordered Joe to show him where Ote Keeley's body was. Despite his age, Barnum still moved with speed and stiff grace. His pale blue eyes were set in a pallid leather face and rimmed with paper-thin flaps of skin. Joe watched as the blue eyes swept the scene.
Joe had expected questions and was prepared for them. He informed Barnum that he had gathered the scat evidence to send to headquarters, but Barnum had waved him off.
"Yup, that's Ote all right," Barnum had said, before returning to his Blazer.
"You'll write up a report on it?" Joe nodded yes. That was all there was. No questions, no notes. Joe was surprised and felt useless. From the side of the house, Joe observed the sheriff as he held the mike of his police scanner to his mouth with one hand and gestured in the air with the other. By his movements, Joe could tell that Barnum was becoming frustrated with somebody or something. So was Joe, but he tried not to show it.
Joe went inside the house. Marybeth watched him nervously from her place on the couch.
"Is it gone?" she asked, referring to the body. She didn't want to say Ote's name.
Joe assured her that it was.
She was pale, Joe noticed. Her face was drawn tight. Marybeth rubbed her hand across her extended belly. She didn't realize she was doing it. He remembered the gesture from before, when she was pregnant with Sheridan and then Lucy. It was something she did when she felt that things were on the verge of chaos. She held her arms across her unborn baby as if to shield it from whatever unpleasantness was happening outside. Marybeth was a good mother, Joe thought, and she reared the children with care. She resented it when outside events intruded on her family without her prior consent, permission, or planning.
"He's the guy who took your gun a while back," Marybeth said with dawning realization.
"I've met his wife. In the obstetrician's office. She's at least five months along also." She grimaced. "They have a little one about Sheridan's age and I think one younger. Those poor kids ..."