Trophy Hunt by C. J. Box Page A

sometimes. But like I said, he hasn’t called me about anything.”
    Joe felt a twinge at the mention of Bud Longbrake. Marybeth’s mother, Missy, had already moved to his ranch and their wedding was looming.
    Hawkins turned his head to the south. “That’s the Timberline Ranch that way,” he said, and a grin broke across his face. “Do you know the Overstreet sisters?”
    McLanahan snorted from ten feet away and shook his head.
    “I know of them.”
    “When they aren’t scratching each other’s eyes out or in court suing each other over something, they’re accusing me or rustlers of making off with some of their cows,” Hawkins said. “I bet the sheriff’s been out here ten times over the years because one of those crazy Overstreet broads called and said they had cattle missing.”
    “At least ten,” Barnum sighed. “Never found anything, and the sisters can’t produce records of any missing stock.”
    The Timberline Ranch was the one for sale, Joe recalled. No wonder, he thought, if they couldn’t keep track of their cattle.
    “So whatever they say is less than . . . credible,” Hawkins said.
    “If anybody saw a flying saucer up here it would have been them,” McLanahan said. “I’ll guarantee you that.”
    “Shut up, please, Kyle,” Barnum said.
    As Joe listened to the exchange, another question came to him. “Were there any vehicle tracks up here before the sheriff arrived?”
    “Not that I could see.”
    “What are you saying, that we messed up the crime scene?” Barnum asked.
    “Not saying that at all.”
    Even McLanahan glanced over his shoulder at Barnum.
    “Well, you better not be,” Barnum said defensively. “This is my investigation and no one has requested you here.”
    “The wounds are similar to my moose,” Joe said. “It’s likely the same thing. No predation, either, even though all that beef has just been sitting out here in plain sight.”
    “That bothers me,” Hawkins said, shaking his head. “There’s just something real wrong with that. We should have knowed those cows were up here. There should have been big flocks of birds feeding on them. That’s how we usually find dead cows. And not one of these cattle has been fed on, or scattered.”
    Joe had received calls from Don Hawkins the previous spring about mountain lions that had killed several calves. Joe had looked for the cats and not found them. When the calls stopped, he knew that Hawkins had found them. Nevertheless, the ranch was prime habitat for lions, coyotes, and black bears.
    “Just like my moose,” Joe said. “Nothing will eat the meat. It makes you wonder why.”
    “Tell you what,” Barnum said as he lit a cigarette and exhaled a blue cloud of smoke, “you worry about your moose and I’ll worry about Mr. Hawkins’s cows.”
    “You’ve got jurisdiction,” said Joe.
    “You are correct.”
    “So I guess you’re planning to talk with Juan then, as well as Bud Longbrake and the Overstreet sisters?”
    “I know how to do my job, Pickett.”
    Not that you’ve always done it before, Joe thought but didn’t say. But he knew Barnum was practically reading his thoughts.
    “I sent tissue samples of the moose to the lab in Laramie,” Joe said, not mentioning where else he had sent them. “I asked that they expedite the analysis. When there are some results I’ll share them with you. You were going to get these cattle tested, weren’t you?”
    Barnum’s eyes narrowed and he didn’t answer.
    “Who is that ?” McLanahan said, pointing down the road at an approaching vehicle.
    They waited, watching, as an older pickup bucked and heaved up the washed-out road. Joe recognized her first. He had met her the winter before but couldn’t recall her name.
    “Reporter,” Joe said. “Works for the Saddlestring Roundup. She must have been listening in on the scanner.”
    “Damn it,” Barnum said, his face darkening. “I do not want this in the newspaper.”
    “Too late,” McLanahan