Free Fire by C.J. Box

“there are a few more killed down there than you have licenses for.”
    The hunter winced. He didn’t like Joe saying it outright.
    “At least four cows if you’ve got a cow permit,” the hunter whispered. “A spike too. That’s good eating, them spikes.”
    Spikes were young bulls without fully developed antlers. Cows were female elk. Five extra animals wasn’t just a mistake, it was overkill. Joe felt a dormant sense of outrage rise in him but tried not to show it.
    He said, “So a guy could drive down there with an elk tag and take his pick?”
    The hunter nodded. “If a guy was willing to pay a little finder’s fee for the directions.”
    “How much is the finder’s fee?”
    The hunter looked around to see if anyone could hear him, but the only other people out were back at the building.
    "Say, four hundred.”
    Joe shook his head. “That’s a lot.”
    The hunter grinned. “How much is your time worth, is what I think. Hell, we’ve been up here five days. You can go get you a nice one without breaking a sweat.”
    “I see.”
    “I’d go three seventy-five. But no less.”
    “Three hundred and seventy-five dollars for a cow elk?” Joe said.
    Again, the hunter flinched at Joe’s clarity. Again, he looked around.
    “That’s the deal,” he said, but with less confidence than before.Joe’s manner apparently created suspicion.
    Joe glanced down at the plates on the hunter’s pickup. Utah. He memorized the number.
    “Would you take a check?” Joe asked.
    The hunter laughed unpleasantly as his confidence returned. “Hell, no. What do you think I am?”
    “I’ll have to run back to Dayton to get cash from the ATM,” Joe said. “That’ll take me an hour or so.”
    “I ain’t going anywhere. Them elk aren’t either.”
    “An hour, then.”
    “I’ll be in the bar.”
    Joe leaned across the hood and extended his hand. The hunter took it, said, “They call me Bear.”
    Joe said, “They call me a Wyoming game warden, and I’ve got you on tape.” With his left hand, he raised the microcassette recorder from where he always kept it in his pocket. “You just broke a whole bunch of laws.”
    Bear went pale and his mouth opened, revealing a crooked picket fence row of tobacco-stained teeth.
    “Killing too many elk is bad enough,” Joe said. “That happensin the heat of battle. But the way you take care of the carcasses?And charging for the illegal animals? That just plain makes me mad.”
    Joe called dispatch in Cheyenne on his radio. He was patched through to Bill Haley, the local district warden.
    “GF-thirty-five,” Haley responded.
    “How far are you from Burgess Junction, Bill?”
    "Half an hour.”
    Joe told him about the arrest.
    “His name is Carl Wilgus, goes by Bear,” Joe said, reciting the license plate number. “Cabin number one. Five extra elk, Wanton Destruction, attempting to sell me an elk and the location.You can throw the book at him and confiscate his possessionsif you want. We’ve got him down cold, on tape, telling me everything.”
    While Joe talked on the mike, Bear was handcuffed to the bumper of his pickup, embarrassed and angry, scowling at him.
    “You going to stick around?” Haley asked. “Grab a burger with me?”
    “I’m here just long enough to give you the tape and turn him over,” Joe said. “I’ve got a meeting to get to in Yellowstone.”
    “I heard you were back,” Haley said. “How’s it going, Joe?”
    “Outstanding,” Joe said.
    “We’re all trying to figure out what’s going on with you. Did Pope give you a district?”
    “Nothing like that,” Joe said, not wanting to explain the situationfurther.
    “What are you up to, then?”
    Joe thought. “Special projects,” he said, not knowing what else to say. Special projects sounded vague yet semiofficial.
    “Well, welcome back.”
    “Thanks, Bill.”
    “See you in a few.”
    “GF-fifty-four out.”
    “Fifty-four? They gave you fifty-four? For Christ sake.”
    The speed