Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) by Mark Stevens

said.
    “I admire you all.”
    “And you’re from—”
    “Denver, just outside.”
    “I think reporters might be interested in your change of heart. Very interested.”
    If he remained decked out in camouflage garb, she realized, the story of his conversion could be extremely effective.
    “I’m not doing this for anything like that,” said the hunter.
    “Your story might pay certain dividends for us. I’d be grateful. I’ll introduce you to the whole PR team.”
    “I was going to head back to Denver, but I could stay.”
    “Splendid,” said Ellenberg.
    “Thank you,” said the man. “I’m starting to feel so much better already.”
    “If there are no reporters who are interested now, it might be tomorrow. I’m sure we can find you a spot to make camp. A tent, sleeping bag. We’ve got to get you out of those clothes for now. You’re likely to spook a whole bunch of folks around here.”
    “It’s all I had.”
    “That’s okay. Thanks,” said Ellenberg, holding out her hand for a shake. “And your name is?”
    “Applegate. Dean Applegate.”
    ****
    The more they asked questions, the more Allison realized how little she had seen and heard. A shot. A man. A shadow. A shape. A moment of activity. A dead elk lying in the rocks.
    The ring of officialdom had stopped their search planning long enough to listen to her tale. Sheriff Sandstrom had wanted to designate a low-level deputy to have her sketch her route and key landmarks on a topo map. But then she said it: “It might have been a human body.”
    Slater had helped her nail down a minute with Jerry Sandstrom, Sheriff Jerry Sandstrom, with the spiky ear hair and backwoods gruffness. He had been sheriff since Nixon was president and was recently given another four-year deal from the voters. Jerry On-The-Spot Sandstrom. He always liked to be there in murder cases before the last wisp of steam rose from the corpse, according to Slater. Sandstrom stood next to Slater’s boss, District Ranger Gary Bridgers, who was intent but clueless. He took notes and tried to look as if he might have a good idea any second now. A seasoned old cowboy stood near Bridgers. She recognized him from the trails. He was an overly nosy sort and one of Grumley’s crew.
    They all stood under the canopy that jutted off the barn that was the heart of Pete Weaver’s Ripplecreek Ranch. Weaver was long gone. He had headed off with the two groups of hunters, but not before Allison had pulled him aside and told him she’d probably be busy with the authorities and why.
    “What makes you say human body ?” said Sandstrom. “How far away were you?”
    “As the crow flies, hard to say,” said Allison. “It was the way load was being dragged, the way the man was pulling it.”
    “And you had a good look at it even through a friggin’ storm?”
    “With binos. Good ones.”
    They took her to the hood of a pickup truck with its nose protected by the canopy. A topo map was taped to the green metal. The map already sported a series of red dots and trails marked in felt-tip pen. One said “D.E.’s camp.” Dawn Ellenberg’s.
    “Where were you?” said Sandstrom.
    Sandstrom’s head shook and bobbed even when he wasn’t talking. The rooster-like flap under his jaw amplified the condition. He towered over Allison, so she got an unwelcome look at the quivering pouch.
    “Here,” said Allison, quickly finding the tight concentric circles that indicated Lizard’s Tongue. She showed him Black Squirrel Pass and where she had camped the night before. The officials huddled around Sandstrom and tried to figure out if it was possible for their missing protester to have traveled that far.
    “What time was this?” said Sandstrom.
    “Late morning. Maybe noon.”
    Allison found Slater’s face in the huddle of men and he offered encouragement with a faint smile.
    “Anything else unusual or out of the ordinary occur?” This was Bridgers, wedging himself into matters. “Anything you saw or