footprints. You saw them?” I asked.
“Between the car and the tower?”
“Yeah. You got a look at them?”
“A short look, yes.”
“I’m no woodsman,” I said, “but the way I read those tracks, whoever it was just made one round trip. One trip to and one trip from.”
Somewhere inside that Eskimo hood, she caught on, and her eyes narrowed. “Let me see that.”
Then all over sudden she was rolling on me like one of those heavyweight wrestlers you see on TV, like the Iron Russian or Two-Ton Frank or somebody like that, trying to get a look at those tracks without making a target of herself. Reminded me of once when I was a kid I got sat on by a horse, only this didn’t have that rosy afterglow. She sprawled across me, squinting into the snow, studying the footprints best she could, her breath making heavy steam in the cold air, then she rolled back off me, praise God.
“I can’t be certain.” She pulled her eyebrows together—it was to help her think, I guess, but it made her face look like a clenched fist. “There’s been a great deal of snow, and whoever made those tracks walked back in his own footprints.”
“Another thing,” I said. “Those tracks are at the passenger side of the car, closest to the tower.”
“I don’t see your point, I’m afraid.”
“Did someone get out of the car and went to the tower, they would most likely have used the driver-side. But did someone go from the tower to the car…”
“…they would have gone straight to the passenger side, which is closer,” she finished. “My, you
are
a detective, aren’t you?”
“Don’t need to be a detective to tell where those shots came from,” I said.
“So it’s your conclusion that someone went from the tower to the car, then back.”
“Where they took a shot at us, whoever it was.”
“Officer Drapp, I’m getting a terrible suspicion…”
“And I’m thinking maybe you better tell me about this Captain Scranton.” I hugged my coat a little tighter around me. “And do it quick.”
She thought on that a second. Then something inside her relaxed and let it come pouring out, what she’d been trying not to tell me.
“Well, they have ways of getting back at one…” She said it like a sigh. “You may remember I told you that.”
“Those folks that didn’t think you ought to be a Park Ranger?” I leaned back on the jerry can mounted next to the spare tire on the tailgate of the Jeep, and pulled my feet up a little closer. “Them, you mean?”
“The ones who didn’t think any woman should be in a job like this.” She almost snarled it. “And believe you me, there are plenty of them out there.” She pushed her back against the spare tire, and I felt the Jeep sway. “So when they saw they had to keep me on, they sent me here to work with Captain Scranton; I believe they supposed he’d drive me into quitting all on my own.”
“He’s tough on you? Tough to get along with?”
“Like Hitler on a bad day, only not nearly so calm and rational,” she said. “And not much of a ranger either, if you ask me. He frequently comes to work drunk—or so badly hung-over as makes no difference. He swears at visitors sometimes, and I rather suspect him of pilfering.”
“You figure he’d shoot us over pilfering?”
“Well he also likes to hunt here.”
“Didn’t know could you hunt in a park like this.”
“It’s against the rules,” she said patiently, “very clearly and plainly against the rules. And as if hunting in a nature preserve weren’t bad enough, he’s begun bringing in paying guests. Other hunters, I mean. Men who would pay him to hunt on the park grounds here where game is plentiful.”
“Hunting in a park?” I shivered in the cold and tried to look around us, wondering about whoever was in that tower—and was he up to something else yet. “Why don’t they just shoot birds in a bag?”
“Not to mention the danger presented to hikers and campers.”
“So what
“Between the car and the tower?”
“Yeah. You got a look at them?”
“A short look, yes.”
“I’m no woodsman,” I said, “but the way I read those tracks, whoever it was just made one round trip. One trip to and one trip from.”
Somewhere inside that Eskimo hood, she caught on, and her eyes narrowed. “Let me see that.”
Then all over sudden she was rolling on me like one of those heavyweight wrestlers you see on TV, like the Iron Russian or Two-Ton Frank or somebody like that, trying to get a look at those tracks without making a target of herself. Reminded me of once when I was a kid I got sat on by a horse, only this didn’t have that rosy afterglow. She sprawled across me, squinting into the snow, studying the footprints best she could, her breath making heavy steam in the cold air, then she rolled back off me, praise God.
“I can’t be certain.” She pulled her eyebrows together—it was to help her think, I guess, but it made her face look like a clenched fist. “There’s been a great deal of snow, and whoever made those tracks walked back in his own footprints.”
“Another thing,” I said. “Those tracks are at the passenger side of the car, closest to the tower.”
“I don’t see your point, I’m afraid.”
“Did someone get out of the car and went to the tower, they would most likely have used the driver-side. But did someone go from the tower to the car…”
“…they would have gone straight to the passenger side, which is closer,” she finished. “My, you
are
a detective, aren’t you?”
“Don’t need to be a detective to tell where those shots came from,” I said.
“So it’s your conclusion that someone went from the tower to the car, then back.”
“Where they took a shot at us, whoever it was.”
“Officer Drapp, I’m getting a terrible suspicion…”
“And I’m thinking maybe you better tell me about this Captain Scranton.” I hugged my coat a little tighter around me. “And do it quick.”
She thought on that a second. Then something inside her relaxed and let it come pouring out, what she’d been trying not to tell me.
“Well, they have ways of getting back at one…” She said it like a sigh. “You may remember I told you that.”
“Those folks that didn’t think you ought to be a Park Ranger?” I leaned back on the jerry can mounted next to the spare tire on the tailgate of the Jeep, and pulled my feet up a little closer. “Them, you mean?”
“The ones who didn’t think any woman should be in a job like this.” She almost snarled it. “And believe you me, there are plenty of them out there.” She pushed her back against the spare tire, and I felt the Jeep sway. “So when they saw they had to keep me on, they sent me here to work with Captain Scranton; I believe they supposed he’d drive me into quitting all on my own.”
“He’s tough on you? Tough to get along with?”
“Like Hitler on a bad day, only not nearly so calm and rational,” she said. “And not much of a ranger either, if you ask me. He frequently comes to work drunk—or so badly hung-over as makes no difference. He swears at visitors sometimes, and I rather suspect him of pilfering.”
“You figure he’d shoot us over pilfering?”
“Well he also likes to hunt here.”
“Didn’t know could you hunt in a park like this.”
“It’s against the rules,” she said patiently, “very clearly and plainly against the rules. And as if hunting in a nature preserve weren’t bad enough, he’s begun bringing in paying guests. Other hunters, I mean. Men who would pay him to hunt on the park grounds here where game is plentiful.”
“Hunting in a park?” I shivered in the cold and tried to look around us, wondering about whoever was in that tower—and was he up to something else yet. “Why don’t they just shoot birds in a bag?”
“Not to mention the danger presented to hikers and campers.”
“So what
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