Shots Fired (2 page)

T
he tires of Joe Pickett's green Ford Wyoming Game and Fish Department pickup thumped rhythmically across the one-car bridge that spanned the Twelve Sleep River. Ahead was the Crazy Z Bar Ranch. Joe was there to deliver bad news to the ranch manager.

It was Saturday in early September during the two-week period between the end of summer in the high country and preceding hunting season openers. The morning had started off with the bite of fall but had warmed by the hour. The groves of aspens in the mountains were already turning gold, although the cottonwoods flanking both sides of the river still held green and full. The river was down but still floatable, and upriver in the distance he caught a glimpse of a low-profile McKenzie-style drift boat rounding a bend. The guide manned the oars, and
fly-fishermen clients cast from the front and back of the boat, long sweeps of fly-line catching the sun, toward a deep seam near the far bank.

He held his breath as he did every time he drove across. There were gaps between the two-by-eights that made up the surface of the bridge and he could see glimpses of the river flash by through his open driver's-side window. The bridge itself was over forty-five years old and constructed of steel girders held together by bolts. Auburn tears of rust flowed down the surface of the steel and pooled in the channels of the I-beams, which had long ago inspired a local fishing guide to deem it “the Bridge of Cries.” It stuck.

Out of view beneath the bridge hung a large metal hand-painted sign:

THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY

FISHERMEN, STAY IN YOUR BOAT

VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

BY THE CRAZY Z BAR RANCH

Joe knew from experience they weren't kidding. Even that time in high water when a raft filled with Boy Scouts capsized on the swells and rocks. Eight sodden but uninjured Scouts and their two Scoutmasters—one with a broken arm—had found the ranch headquarters at dusk. The former manager, following standing orders from the owner, loaded them all into the bed of his three-quarter-ton pickup and drove them to the Saddlestring jail to press charges.

The absentee owner of the ranch, Lamar Dietrich of St. Louis, had the signs put up when he bought the ranch. He meant what he said and played for keeps. And he wouldn't be happy at all, Joe knew, to hear why Joe had come.

•   •   •

D
AISY,
J
OE'S TWO-YEAR-OLD
L
ABRADOR,
raised her head from where she slept on the passenger seat to stare at the Angus cattle that grazed on the side of the dirt road. She was fascinated with cows, and Joe wondered if in Daisy's mind cows appeared to her as very large black dogs. A tremulous whine came from deep in her throat.

“Settle down,” Joe said, navigating a turn and plunging his truck through a thin spring creek that crossed the road. “Don't even think about chasing them.”

Daisy looked over at him with a puzzled expression.

“Chasing Dietrich's cattle is a death sentence. He's had dogs shot for it. I want to keep you around for a while.”

Daisy lowered her head.

“He's got a big binder he calls
The Book of Rules
that sits on a table in the foreman's house,” Joe said to Daisy. “I've seen it, and it's thick. He expects every one of his ranch managers to memorize it, and he has tabs for every conceivable circumstance and how they're supposed to deal with it. He's got tabs on trespassing and road improvement and cattle management and fifty or so other tabs on everything he can think of. If the ranch manager makes a decision that isn't covered in
The Book of Rules
,
that manager doesn't stay around very long. There's a tab on stray dogs. They're to be shot on sight so they don't run his cattle.

“So keep your head down, especially if Dietrich is around,” Joe said. “He's just plain mean.”

•   •   •

J
OE HAD MET
D
IETRICH
two times over the years, and both encounters were unpleasant. The old man was in his late seventies and appeared shorter than he actually was because his back was stooped and his shoulders slumped forward. Because of the deformity, his head was always down and when he looked up his eyes appeared menacing. His voice was a low soft growl and he didn't waste words. He had no time or respect for local officials, state game wardens, or incompetent ranch foremen.

Joe had heard that Dietrich had amassed his fortune by negotiating cutthroat deals with urban governments for waste management services. There were thousands of distinctive red-and-yellow Dietrich Waste Management trucks throughout the inner cities of the Rust Belt and the northeastern states. He'd taken on local political machines and organized crime families to secure long-term contracts. Then, like so many extremely wealthy men in America, he had looked around for a safe haven for his cash and opted to sink some of it in real estate and had chosen to buy massive ranches in the West, including this one in Wyoming. The Crazy Z Bar, with tens of thousands of acres of mountainous terrain, pastureland, sagebrush flats, and
fifteen premium miles of the Twelve Sleep River snaking through it. The purchase price, Joe had heard, was $22.5 million.

The first time Joe met Dietrich was when the then-foreman of the ranch, under orders from the owner, had strung barbed wire across the river to stop the passage of local fishing guides and recreational floaters. Joe had explained that state law allowed access to all navigable waters, that the land itself was private—even the river bottom itself—but the water was public. As long as the boaters didn't anchor or step out of their boat, they could legally cross the ranch. Dietrich exploded and ordered his then-foreman to beat up Joe right there and then. The foreman refused, and was fired. Joe filed charges against Dietrich for threatening him, but dropped them when Dietrich agreed to remove his barbed-wire fence.

The second time, just two months ago, Joe was at a hearing before the Game and Fish Commission on a plan Dietrich proposed to convert two thousand acres of his ranch into a wild game hunting operation. Dietrich's idea was to import water buffalo, gazelles, kudu, blackbuck, and scimitar-horned oryx from Africa to be hunted by his friends. Since Joe was the local game warden, he was asked to testify, and he testified against the plan. Exotic, non-native species were a threat to the antelope, deer, and elk populations, he had said, and there was no way for Dietrich to guarantee the animals would never escape or pass along diseases that could decimate local wildlife. Dietrich appeared briefly at the hearing and extended a crooked finger at Joe and called him “a no-account tinhorn jackbooted thug.”

Joe said: “I've never been called that before.”

Because the atmosphere in the hearing room was so poisonous, the commission chose to take the decision under advisement and issue a ruling at a future date.

That date had arrived. They had voted no. And Joe was tasked with delivering the verdict to the new ranch manager of the Crazy Z Bar, the Dietrich employee who had drafted and presented the proposal, Kyle Sandford.

Poor Kyle,
Joe thought.

•   •   •

A
LTHOUGH
L
AMAR
D
IETRICH'S
magnificent empty home—built of native stone and sheets of glass so heavy and large that they'd been delivered by a cargo helicopter—was set into the side of the mountain that overlooked the river bottom, the manager's house was humble and in need of paint and new shingles. It was located on a sagebrush shelf with a cluster of outbuildings including a metal barn, corrals, and a Quonset hut for housing vehicles and machinery.

There was never any need to knock on the doors of ranch homes, and no way to sneak onto a ranch. Daisy perked up again when a gaggle of motley ranch dogs boiled out from pools of shade and streaked toward Joe's pickup. They formed yipping, tumbling knots on both sides and accompanied him as he drove into the ranch yard, nipping at the tires and fenders, the cacophony signaling the arrival of a stranger.

“You stay,” Joe said to Daisy over the racket.

The three members of the Sandford family appeared from three different places in the ranch yard as if joining each other on a stage: Joleen came from the ranch house itself, drying her hands on a dish towel; Kyle Sr. looked out from the Quonset, gripping a Crescent wrench with an oily hand; and Kyle Jr. strolled from a pocket of willows that marked the bank of the river, his fly rod poking nine feet into the air.

Joe was most familiar with Kyle Jr., who was seventeen and ran in the same circle as his ward, April. He was a quiet ranch kid who had boarded the same bus as other ranch kids until he could drive himself, but hadn't been in the valley long enough—and wasn't an outstanding athlete, scholar, or leader—to belong firmly to a pack. He seemed like a floater, the kind of boy who hung back and to the side, keeping his mouth shut, occasionally surprising others with a good quip or an observation, but was never missed when he didn't show up and never mentioned when groups were forming to attend games, go out on Friday nights, or plan a party. Joe recalled April reviewing digital photos of her friends at a football game, pointing out characters and laughing about things they'd done or said. When she came across a photo of Kyle Sandford Jr., she shook her head and said, “I don't remember him being there, but I guess he was.”

Kyle Jr. was wiry and dark with a prominent Adam's apple and wispy sideburns. Joe had never seen the boy smile, but he had eyes that seemed to carefully take everything in.

Kyle Sr. nodded a reserved hello to Joe and Joe nodded back. Joleen withdrew into the house but stood behind the screen,
watching carefully. Kyle Sr. tossed his wrench into a bucket of tools behind him, clamped on a dirty short-brimmed Stetson Rancher, and greeted Joe by saying, “Joe.”

“Hello, Kyle.”

“Did you bring me some good news?”

Joe paused. “Nope.”

Kyle Sr. took a deep breath and stood still. His face betrayed nothing, but Joe saw Joleen shake her head behind the screen and turn away.

“It was unanimous,” Joe said. “The commission voted to not allow a game farm. They said it would be a bad precedent, even if your owner did all the security fencing and inoculations he said he would.”

Kyle Sr. said nothing. He just stared at Joe and his mouth got tight.

Finally, in a thin voice, he said, “Is there anything we can do about this?”

Joe was puzzled. Was Kyle Sr. offering a bribe?

“Like what?”

“Make another run at 'em, maybe. Adjust the proposal so they're happy about it this time, you know?”

Joe shook his head. “They'll meet again in a month, but I can't see them changing their minds.”

Kyle Sr. dropped his head and stared at the top of his boots. “You know what's going to happen then, right?” he asked.

“I'm guessing Lamar Dietrich won't be too happy,” Joe said.

Kyle Sr. snorted and said, “You got that right. But you know what else will happen?”

Joe said he didn't.

“Come with me,” Kyle Sr. said, gesturing with his chin toward the house. “I'll show you something.”

Joe started forward and remembered Kyle Jr. He looked over at the boy as he passed by. “Any luck?” he asked.

“They're hitting on prince nymphs and scuds.”

“Any size to 'em?”

“Eighteen, nineteen inches,” Kyle Jr. said. “I broke off one that was bigger than that.”

“Nice fish,” Joe said, impressed.

“Yeah,” Kyle Jr. said, his eyes worried, “they were.”

•   •   •

I
NSIDE,
K
YLE
S
R.
pointed toward
The
Book of Rules
and Joe knew then what was coming. The man slid the binder across the counter and used a greasy thumb to find the right tab. Joe read it:
LOCAL POLITICAL INFLUENCE.

Kyle Sr. folded back the tab to the first page of the section, and read:

“‘As Ranch Manager of the Crazy Z Bar, an important part of your responsibilities is to develop influential working relationships with officials on the county and state level. The purpose of these relationships is to further the goals of the property and implement projects deemed important by the owner. Failure to secure beneficial results and decisions may result in termination.'”

Joe contemplated that.

Kyle Sr. said, “Mr. Dietrich thinks anything is possible if
you've got the right relationships with the powers that be. That's how he got to be such a rich man. He thinks all his managers need to have that same ability. I guess I don't.”

“It's not that,” Joe said. “I was at the hearing, remember?”

“And you testified against us.”

“Yes, I did. But it wasn't because the proposal was sloppy or you weren't a good man making a strong bid. The game farm was rejected on its merits. It would have been the only game farm in the whole state, and policy was against you from the start. I think we have a lot of stupid policies, but that isn't one of them. No one wants to be out elk hunting and run into a water buffalo. Simple as that.”

“I know,” Kyle Sr. said softly. “But that won't matter to Mr. Dietrich. He'll see it as me being a piss-poor influencer of mucky-mucks. He won't look at the big picture and see how I've made our cattle operation go into the black or how I've sold more hay than any other manager here over the years. He'll look at this tab and cut me loose.”

Joe said, “He can't be that unreasonable.”

“You don't know him like I do,” Kyle Sr. said, shaking his head. “If someone doesn't do the job he wants, he cuts 'em loose. Haven't you ever wondered why this place has gone through six managers in fifteen years? I've stuck the longest—going on four years. But he'll find out about this decision and—”