Blood Trail

Blood Trail by C.J. Box

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Authors: C.J. Box
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cause.”
    “Hold it,” Robey said, realization forming. “Klamath Moore is the guy who—”
    “He’s the guy who thinks hunters should be treated the same way he thinks animals are treated by hunters,” Rulon said. “He’s the main force behind most of the protests you hear about where hunters get harassed in the field or game animals get herded away from lawful hunting types. He sends his people into the hills in Pennsylvania on the opening day of deer season tooting kazoos and playing boom boxes. The media loves him because he’s so fucking colorful and politically correct, I guess.”
    “Why is he coming here?” Robey asked.
    Rulon said, “Think about it for a second. The only reason he’d come to Wyoming is to give aid and comfort to whoever shot Frank Urman and the two other hunters we know about.”
    With that, Joe sat up. Now he knew what was in the two other files Pope had brought with him.
    Pope sighed.
    “Two we know about,” Rulon said. “There may be more for all we know. I’ve got DCI going over every ‘hunting accident’ that’s occurred in the last ten years. One to four people a year are killed during hunting season, and sometimes none at all.”
    That was true, Joe knew. Most of the fatalities were the result of carelessness within a group of hunters, and often involved family members—hunters who mistook other hunters for game, hunters who didn’t unload their guns, or, the biggest killer of all, hunters climbing fences or crawling through timber when their gun went off and killed a companion or themselves. Rarely were there hunting accidents where the shooter wasn’t quickly identified, and most of the time the assailant confessed in tears.
    “How long have you suspected this?” Joe asked Pope.
    Pope shrugged. “We couldn’t be sure. We still aren’t, but today . . .”
    “Whoever did that to Frank Urman wants us to know it,” Rulon said. “In fact, he wants the whole country to know it.”
    Kiner said, “Jesus,” and sat back in his chair. Robey moaned and put his head in his hands.
    “And it’s not only that,” Pope said. “This could kill us as an agency. It could just kill us. Hunting and fishing brings in over four hundred million dollars to the state. Licenses pay our salaries, gentlemen. If word gets out that hunters are being hunted in the state of Wyoming, we’ll all be looking for work. We’ll be ruined.
    “Think about it,” Pope continued, as Joe and Robey exchanged looks of disgust. “Using our economic multiplier, we know that every elk is worth six thousand dollars to us. Every bear, five thousand. Bighorn sheep are twenty-five thousand, every deer is worth four thousand, and every antelope is three thousand. The list goes on. If hunters aren’t hunting, our cash flow dries up.”
    “Try not to use that argument with any reporters, Randy,” Rulon said with undisguised contempt.
    “So that’s what this is about,” Joe said. “That’s why you’re up here personally.”
    “Of course,” Pope said. “Why else?”
    “Well, an innocent man got killed and butchered, to start,” Joe said.
    “Save me your sanctimony,” Pope spat, “unless . . .” Pope stopped himself. Joe had been braced and ready for Pope to light into him, to accuse him of insubordination, destruction of government property, playing cowboy—all the reasons he’d used to fire him in the first place two years ago. Joe wouldn’t have been surprised if Pope brought up the disappearance of J. W. Keeley, the Mississippi ex-con and hunting guide who’d come to Twelve Sleep County to get revenge and had never been heard from again—the darkest period of Joe’s life. But for reasons Joe couldn’t fathom given their acrimonious history, Pope bit his tongue.
    “Unless what?” Joe asked.
    “Nothing,” Pope said, his face red, his nose flared from internalizing his emotions. “This case is too serious to expose those old wounds. We need to work together on this. We need to

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