Winterkill. P.H. Turner

the lab report?”

      “Hell, I’m not talking to the press.”

      “Did you find anything specific about those rope fibers?”

      “What about ‘hell no’ do you not get?” Barton sniped.

      “Our viewers would appreciate a comment, Sheriff Barton.” Give me something, buddy. I found the rope fibers while you were diddling around the corpse.

      “I am speaking off the record. You screw me and I’ll be looking to book you for obstruction. Got it?” Barton asked.

      “Got it. What’d the lab report show?”

      “Can’t take a buffalo down by hog tying him.”

      “Did he use Ketamine and Xylazine?” I asked.

      “No, just Xylazine,” he answered.

      “Any burglaries of vet clinics?” I asked.

      Barton grumbled, “Drug’s not hard to come by. You can get in on the Internet. Ranchers use the stuff. Hunters use Xylazine illegally.”

      “So there are a lot of suspects?”

      “Yeah. You’ll damn well share with me if you get anything, or your ass will be cooling in jail.”

      “Got it. What physical evidence did you find?”

      “Damn little. Fibers came from common rope. Can’t lift footprints off dried grass. Some sick fuck was damned careful.” He stopped short. “Remember, that’s off the record. People around here are going to get real uneasy about their stock soon enough.”

      “Why Foster’s ranch? Was it personal?”

      “When a man’s prize bull gets his balls cut off, it’s personal. Hurts Foster’s bottom line.”

      “You talk to the men who work for him?”

      “Yeah, I know my job. He only has three men. Two of them have worked for him nearly twenty years. Other guy is the son of one of them. Nothing there. We got some sick bastard with a sharp knife.”

      “This wasn’t an impulsive act. Someone brought rope, drugs and a surgical knife.”

      Barton clammed up. I called Sam. “Tell me about the drugs, Sam.”

      “How the hell you know about that?”

      “My job. We can be off the record if you want.”

      “You quote me and I’ll deny it. Bastard used Xylazine. It’s a common large animal sedative. I use it for minor procedures like dental work and dehorning and before surgical anesthesia if I think my patient’s going to be difficult to anesthetize.”

      “So was the buffalo anesthetized, Sam?”

      “No, he wasn’t. Not the same. The bastard didn’t know to add Ketamine to the mix. Son-of-bitch tortured that animal.”

       8

      I hadn’t joined a gym yet, but I did get in a two-mile run before meeting Hunter. By eight, I was showered and presentable in my one go-everywhere-but-to-work outfit of a black cashmere dress and heels. Mom would find Hunter a suitable date. I had a few minutes so I called and let her tell me about the charity auction she was working on. Finally, she asked about my job and my house. I assured her the house was safe. “I’m working on a story about a mutilated buffalo bull.”

      “Sawyer, honey, I thought you were going to cover environmental stories up there or economic stories, whichever.”

      “I am Mom. Ray Foster raises buffalo for profit.”

      “Are you safe? Are you going to be okay? You’re not out there by yourself are you?”

      “No, Mom. I’m fine. Really it’s okay.”

      I closed my cell.

      * * * *

      “You look great.” Hunter gave me a quick hello kiss. I gave him the short tour of the house. “I like what you’ve done with the place.” He slipped his arm around my waist. I felt warm and protected with that big arm around me. “The ten miles into Cheyenne won’t be too much for you in the winter? The county does a pretty good job on clearing the road but sometimes it’ll be a tough commute.”

      “I learned to drive in Denver. I’ll be fine.”

      Hunter held the door for me. I slid into his Tahoe. “You need better tires than whatever you were using in San Antonio. That tire place on Main will make you a good deal on crossover tires. I run them on all my vehicles.”

      “You ever been to the Little Bear?” he asked as he buckled up.

      “No, I don’t remember ever going there.” I said.

      “Probably wasn’t open back when you were a kid. Used to be an old Inn and stage stop. When they started the remodel, they found a hundred-foot tunnel connecting the Inn to the stable. When a posse was after an outlaw, he could just drop in the trap door and make it to his horse.”

      “Can we see the tunnel?”

      “Tunnel’s still there, but it’s crumbling so badly no one can go in it. You’ll like what they did in the old saloon. They kept the old mahogany bar. The food is topnotch and I’ll make sure you get fine service from the staff.”

      A grove of trees sheltered the low-slung log building. A wide porch led to hobnail double doors. We crossed the distressed pine floors to a table set in front of a stone fireplace.

      Over a rich merlot and great ribeye that would have fed two, Hunter mentioned the mutilation on Shadow Mountain. “I heard around town Ray Foster lost a buffalo. You working on this story? I apologize. I don’t see the local news too often.”

      “Yeah, heck of a scene.”

      “What happened out there?” Hunter sipped his wine.

      I was careful to tell the edited version of the story.

      “Bad business.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Foster’s got a small operation out there. What’s he going to do?”

      “I asked him that. He’s worried. I don’t know how you babysit stock out on the range. Foster only has three hands and a lot of acres to watch.”

      “Yeah, that’s the problem. Stock mutilation is a form of terrorism. You’d have to have an army to watch your whole ranch. You either round up your stock, feed ’em and babysit them, which costs a fortune, or you turn ’em out and hope for the best. Either way, it doesn’t help a man sleep.”

      “What are you going to do?”

      “I told all my hands to be on the lookout for strangers, tire tracks, signs of anyone camping—anything out the ordinary. Not much else to do.” He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck.

      “I researched stories of stock mutilation. Found a couple in Montana. Do you remember anything from when you lived there?”

      Hunter wrinkled his forehead. “I remember some trouble around Missoula. I had a client at the bank who ranched. He had a cow mutilated on his place. It’s been awhile. I don’t remember all the particulars, but I do remember there weren’t any arrests.”

      “I didn’t see any arrests. The mutilations just stopped.”

      “You find any cases in Wyoming?” he asked.

      “A couple out of around Laramie, but that was seven years ago,” I said.

      “Not much of a pattern. I hope this is an isolated case out on Foster’s ranch, but it may not be.”

      The waiter was hovering. “Will you be having dessert this evening?”

      “Sawyer?”

      “Nothing more for me, thank you.”