Undercover In Conard County. Rachel Lee
biggest problem she usually dealt with was fishermen who were either unlicensed or who took more than their catch limit. That was rare enough around here because there weren’t a lot of good fishing holes. But there were a few. Conard City hadn’t been built without an eye to a nearby water source. And of course, there was always some game poaching going on.
She sat with her feet up on a battered coffee table, trying to decide if she wanted to watch television or just enjoy the peace and quiet when there was a knock on her door.
Aw, man, she thought, putting her hot stew aside and going to answer it. There, in the dark of early autumn, stood Kel Westin.
She blinked at him as he said, “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “This is hardly undercover.”
“No one saw me. No one who matters anyway. I walked and you’re a little outside town.”
“A little.” Slowly she stepped back. “Well, I guess you’re more interesting than TV. Come in.”
He grinned. “Better than TV? I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not.”
“Keep wondering,” she retorted as she closed the door behind him. “Want me to heat you some stew? I was just about to eat.”
“I ate at the diner. Go ahead and dig in.”
So she returned to the battered sofa and picked up her bowl and spoon. She watched as he wandered around familiarizing himself with the layout.
Something about the way he was looking, moving...she’d seen it before. “Military background?” she asked.
He faced her, hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Rangers.”
“It shows. When you’ve got the place memorized, have a seat.”
He looked almost rueful. “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s seen it other times. We have a lot of vets in this county, a lot of special-ops types. So yeah, I know how they get the lay of the land.”
So she waited while he finished scoping the place. He probably wouldn’t be comfortable until he knew the exits and windows, and whatever else might concern him. But eventually he sat in the armchair across from her.
“To what do I owe this honor?” she prodded.
“We really didn’t get a chance to talk before you got called out.”
She arched a brow, spoonful of stew halfway to her mouth. “There’s more?”
He half smiled. “Isn’t there always? You know the guys with the forest service?”
“Most of them.”
“They’re working with us.”
She nodded slowly. “So that’s why Craig Stone called to remind me they were closing to hunting.”
“The state public land abuts the forest. But you know that. Anyway, we’re hoping by closing that area, we can create a bit of a funnel effect. Nobody wants their hunt blown up on a trespassing charge.”
“Of course not.” She forgot her dinner. “Do you have any idea how much difficulty those rangers have patrolling the forest service land? Talk about porous. Barring hunting there is going to make about as much difference as no poaching is making.”
He shook his head a little. “You know you have to have road access on all public lands. No off-roading. Craig said they even shut down their ATV trails two years ago. Anyway, since you can’t drive willy-nilly over open ground and have to stick with the roads, then you’ve got to ask yourself how far a trek can you manage to get your trophy out of there. Craig’s got enough manpower to close the forestry roads over there. Anybody coming that way with hunting gear is heading for trouble. So they gotta stay on the state land and the public access roads.”
She thought it over as her stomach rumbled and reminded her that she needed to eat. She picked up her bowl again. “I could use a hundred more people at least.”
“Sorry, we don’t have them.”
“I know.” Far too few wardens for the land area they needed to cover. And when you got up into those mountains, it wasn’t like there were houses scattered around with people who were willing to call and complain about suspected poaching. There was nothing up there except a couple of park service shacks, and most of them would be closed for the winter.
She glanced at Kel again, liking the lean toughness of his face. Liking his lead-gray eyes. Ah well. Finally she acknowledged there was only one way to go at this, much as she didn’t like it. “Your idea is probably the best.”
“To get the outfitters ring? Yeah. Won’t stop any other poaching, though.”
“I know, but since we can’t staple a warden to every animal or herd, let’s get the most egregious offenders. I can’t tell you how angry it makes me, Kel. Furious to think that people are profiting this way off these animals. Poach to feed your family? I get that. But these guys, dangling bait in the water and charging lots of money for guiding someone who only wants a trophy and doesn’t care if it’s illegal? There’s something about that...”
She trailed off and tried to continue eating. She couldn’t really explain the difference in so many words.
“I get what you’re saying,” he said while she ate some more stew. “It’s in no way excusable. Charging thousands to bring in people from out of state and lead them illegally to an animal when all they want is a trophy? I can understand the hunters better than I can understand the outfitters.”
“I can’t,” she admitted after she swallowed. “I hate trophy hunting above all. The guys helping are after the money. Greed is a motivator for a lot of people. But the hunters? All they want is bragging rights hanging on their walls.”
He nodded. “And we’ve got a little quirk in Wyoming law that hinders us finding these guys.”
She swallowed some more stew and looked at him. “You mean that anyone can guide two other licensed people with him on a hunt as long as he doesn’t get paid? Yeah. Hard to prove the no pay part.”
“Regardless, the licensed professional outfitters are working with us. They’re no more happy about the poaching than we are.”
“Cuts into their business?”
He nodded. “When the illicit guys offer the hunts for a lower price because they’re not licensed and because their clients don’t have to get through a drawing to get one and pay for it...they have an advantage, moneywise. Plus, they’re reducing the number of trophy animals available. The pros are out there all year scouting.”
“No kidding.” She finished her stew and carried her bowl to the sink to rinse it out. Then she got them both some fresh coffee. “I run into some of the nearer outfitters when I’m out tracking the herds. I have to admit, they help by sharing information.”
He looked at her over his mug. “But you don’t like them.”
She flushed faintly. “I don’t dislike them, but I was raised to hunt for myself. My dad went out every year to bring home venison for the family larder, usually with a buddy or two because packing that animal out required more than one pair of shoulders. But it wasn’t the clambake method with a bunch of guides, cooks, tents, horses...”
“I get it,” he said when she trailed off. “You don’t like lazy hunting.”
“It’s not really sporting, to my way of thinking. What animal stands a chance when it’s been tracked by spotters for months, when there are people there to find it again, help the hunter aim his rifle and take his shot? And the outfitters aren’t supplying hunts to those who need the meat to eat. But...they exist, they’re legal, and my personal opinion can’t matter.”
“I hear you,” he said. “But the law allows it, so...”
“And