“Sounds like a great idea. What happened when Gastineau’s father died?”
“When Ralph Gastineau passed away, his two sons, Blake and Chester, inherited all the land and a large sum of money. Chester wanted to continue in his father’s footsteps and leave everything pretty much the way their father had intended. Blake, on the other hand, wanted to subdivide the land and get out of the farming business altogether. When he found out that much of the land had been encumbered by the Williamson Act, he split with his brother and started this land-development company.”
“What did he use for money?”
“There was this huge court battle. It was in the papers for weeks. When it was finally settled, Blake received several million dollars in cash and sole ownership of all the parcels that hadn’t been included under the Williamson Act. Chester got a few thousand acres of farmland, the ranch, and all the farming equipment.”
“How much land did this Blake end up with?”
“Apparently, Ralph had been quite an investor. He owned interest in property all over the county, some of it in Chico. It wasn’t long before those land-company signs you were asking about showed up in front of property where almond and walnut orchards had been cut down and burned to make room for shopping centers, strip malls, and apartment complexes.”
“That’s quite a story, Anne. I hope all this depressing talk about land development hasn’t affected your appetite.”
“Not at all, Henry. It’s good to know that you feel the way I do about wildlife and our natural resources.”
“I’ve felt that way for as long as I can remember. Sometime, I’ll tell you a story about saving a Canada goose from two poachers when I was eleven years old.”
“I’d love to hear about that.”
“Right now, we’re gonna have dinner at this little barbeque place on Dayton Road.”
“You mean Wasney’s?”
“Yes. Have you eaten there before?”
“Henry, you’re adorable! Everybody in Chico knows about Wasney’s. My dad loves the place. He’s known the owner for years.”
“Is the food good?”
“Yes,” said Anne, laughing, “it’s very good.”
FIFTEEN
Fred Rider had talked about Pioneer Week, but Henry had to experience it for himself to appreciate the transformative effect this annual event had on the Chico State campus. The celebration, along with the warmer weather of early May, brought a recognizable change in the appearance and general attitude of the Chico State students. Where they had previously come to class in casual but socially presentable attire, students were now seen walking the halls, classrooms, and courtyards of Chico State in shorts, cut-off jeans, T-shirts, tank tops, Roman sandals, and in some cases, bare feet. For six days in May, students were unofficially absolved from the rigors of daily study and offered a time to relax, enjoy Chico’s glorious spring weather, and participate in the festivities.
On campus, fraternities and sororities converted the quad into an authentic Western ghost town. Competition was keen as organizations promoted their candidates for the coveted titles of Sheriff and Little Nell. Off campus, bleary-eyed, semi-inebriated students ventured from one kegger to the next, carrying plastic cups filled with lukewarm beer.
Friday afternoon, the day before the Pioneer Day Parade, Henry returned to Mrs. Iverson’s basement early. His last class of the day had been canceled because no one else had shown up.
“Hey, Gary,” said Henry, “I figured you’d be down at one of the keggers.”
“I would have been, but my friend Enos just showed up from Yuba City. He and I are gonna be in the parade tomorrow.” Enos, a short, heavyset man in his mid-twenties, smiled, shook hands with Henry, and handed him his business card.
“I didn’t know you belonged to one of the fraternities, Gary.”
“I don’t. Enos and I are gonna be what you might call last-minute entries.”
Just then, Brad and Dennis walked in the door. “Hey, guess who we just saw standing in front of Kendall Hall?” said Brad.
“The Durango Kid?” said Gary.
“How’d you know?”
“I think I read somewhere that he was gonna be grand marshal.”
“It was neat,” said Dennis. “He was wearing a sombrero and dressed in his cowboy outfit, just like on TV. The only thing different was his gray hair.”
“Was Cactus Jack with him?” said Enos.
“If I’m not mistaken, he’s up on Boot Hill,” said Gary.
“Gary, every time I walk by this room, something interesting is going on,” said Henry.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” said Gary. “Wait ’til tomorrow.”
“We’re going up to Bear Hole to go swimming,” said Brad. “Do you guys wanna go?”
“Sure,” said Henry. “That sounds like a lot more fun than sitting around drinking stale beer on a hot afternoon like this. I’ll bring my face mask, in case we see some fish. I heard in my ichthyology class that there were a few spring-run salmon in Chico Creek.”
“I didn’t know there were salmon in Chico Creek,” said Dennis.
“Historically, spring-run Chinook salmon would leave the Sacramento River and enter Big Chico Creek sometime between March and June,” said Henry. “They’d hold over in the deeper pools of Chico Creek Canyon during the summer months and spawn in the fall when the water had cooled. They’re still commonly seen swimming their way upstream through Bidwell Park.”
“Thanks for the biology lesson, Professor Glance,” said Brad. “Now let’s get going.”
With Henry bouncing around in the back seat, Brad drove his 1960 Ford Falcon off the pavement and up a bumpy road into upper Bidwell Park. They came to a primitive parking area occupied by one car and a beat-up, gray Ford pickup. “I think this is about as far as we’re gonna go,” said Brad.
Henry and Dennis followed Brad down a narrow trail, into a canyon of massive basalt cliffs. At the bottom flowed Big Chico Creek. Bordered by a riparian forest of willows, oaks, alders, and Indian rhubarb, the stream tumbled past car-sized boulders into a deep pool of crystal-clear, cerulean-blue water.
“Wow!” said Henry, feasting his Southern California eyes on the most gorgeous stream he’d ever seen. “We don’t have anything like this where I come from.”
While Henry used his face mask to scan the deeper water for trout and salmon, Dennis paddled around in the shallows and Brad flirted with two college girls sitting on a blanket nearby. The students had delighted in the pleasures of Bear Hole for thirty minutes, when a shotgun blast interrupted the serenity of the moment and reverberated up the canyon wall.
“What was that?” shouted Henry, coming to the surface. “It sounded like something exploded under water.” Dennis and Brad pointed upstream.
Henry, who was wearing a pair of old tennis shoes to protect his feet from the jagged rocks, climbed to the top of a boulder to get a better look. Within seconds, Brad and Dennis had joined him. Standing ankle-deep in the water below were two men in their thirties, one of them holding a 12-gauge, double-barreled shotgun. The smaller man, shirtless and wearing suspendered overalls, held a wriggling, three-foot salmon in his left hand. The shooter wore faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Lifting the shotgun to his shoulder, he waited for another school of salmon to navigate the shallow riffle between Bear Hole and the diversion dam just upstream.
“Here comes three more,” said the man holding the fish. “Shoot!” Two shotgun blasts rocked the stream bottom and sent a wall of water splashing onto the south shore. “Damn! You missed.”
Infuriated by what he’d seen, Henry picked up a rock and hurled it at the shooter’s feet. The splash caused both salmon poachers to look up. “That’s right, we saw what you did,” shouted Henry.
The shooter turned and scrambled up the steep trail toward the parking lot, his companion follo
wing close behind.
“Henry, where ya going?” said Dennis.
“I’m gonna get their license number,” Henry shouted back. “They’re probably the ones driving that old pickup.” Henry had remembered Warden Ned McCullough’s advice from years before: No need to confront the violators. Just get a license number and write down any pertinent information.
Henry reached the parking lot just in time to record the poachers’ license number. He watched the pickup rattle down the road towards Chico until it was almost out of sight. Just before it disappeared below the hill, the brake lights came on and the shirtless passenger stepped out of the truck. Reaching into the pickup bed, he grabbed something and tossed it into the weeds on the north side of the road.
Brad, Dennis, and Henry jumped in Brad’s Ford Falcon and rumbled down the hill. When they’d reached the point where the object had been thrown from the pickup, Henry hollered at Brad to stop.
“It had to be the fish,” said Henry, climbing from the back seat. “I think it landed right out there somewhere.” Henry picked up a discarded beer bottle and placed it upright on the side of the road. He jumped back in the car and urged Brad to drive on.
As luck would have it, a Chico police officer was parked near the entrance to Hooker Oak Park. Henry explained to the officer what had just transpired. “I saw that pickup go by a few minutes ago,” said the officer. “I’ll call my dispatcher on the radio and ask her to contact the local game warden.”
“Warden Austin will 11-98 with the reporting party at the entrance to Hooker Oak Park. ETA ten minutes,” said the dispatcher.
The three college students were standing outside Brad’s car, admiring the massive valley oak from which Hooker Oak Park had gotten its name. With a characteristic smile on his lean face, Warden Tom Austin pulled up next to Brad’s Ford Falcon and climbed from a dark-green, Dodge sedan. Crowned with a mop of graying hair, Austin was tall, willowy, and viewed the world through a pair of navy-blue-and-gold horn-rimmed glasses. “Are you the young fellas who requested a warden?”
“I’m Hank Glance,” said Henry, extending his hand. “These are my friends Dennis D’Agostino and Brad Foster. We were swimming up at Bear Hole when we heard a shotgun blast coming from the creek, just upstream. Two men had shot a salmon and took off in an older-model, gray Ford pickup. Here’s the license number. On the way down the hill, they threw something out of the bed of the pickup. I think it was the fish they killed. I marked the spot.”
“Why don’t we go up and see if we can find whatever it was these guys threw from the pickup,” said Austin. “Hank, you can ride with me if you’d like.”
“Are you sure? My shorts are still a little wet from swimming.”
“I’m sure. Go ahead and hop in.”
When Austin and Glance were six hundred yards west of the Bear Hole parking area, Henry said, “There’s that beer bottle. Stop right here.”
Everyone spread out and began searching the area north of the road. Within minutes, Dennis cried out, “I think I’ve found something. It’s a big fish.”
Having already run a radio check on the license number, Tom Austin called the boys over and explained his next move. “The license number you gave me comes back to an address in Chapmantown.”
“How far away is Chapmantown?” said Henry, believing it was another city.
“About ten minutes.”
“In that case, I’d be happy to go with you and identify those guys.”
Leaving Brad and Dennis behind, Henry rode with Austin to a heavily shaded neighborhood in south Chico. Slowly cruising down a quiet street, near what Austin described as Dead Horse Slough, Henry spotted a gray Ford pickup parked on the left side of the road ahead. “That’s the pickup,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. The shotgun I told you about is in the gun rack behind the seat.”
Austin pulled his patrol car off the pavement, into the shadow of a fruitless mulberry tree. “This house looks familiar,” said Austin, watching it from the opposite side of the street. “I’m thinking I may have been here before on a search-warrant detail.”
The pickup’s registered owner lived in a small, wood-framed house, bordered on three sides by a four-foot-high chain-link fence. Inside the fence were two mixed-breed barking dogs. The open garage at the west end of the house contained an assortment of car parts, a work bench, and an upright freezer. A red Ford sedan, its rear bumper bashed in, sat in the oil-soaked gravel driveway.
“I hear a woman’s voice coming from inside the house,” said Henry. “Sounds like she’s pretty angry.”
“Yeah,” said Austin. “Somebody’s getting quite a tongue lashing.”
Just then, a shirtless man wearing suspendered overalls opened the screen door and began walking out to the street. “That’s one of them!” said Henry. “He’s the one who was holding the salmon.”
Spotting Austin’s patrol car, the shirtless man did an about-face and started walking back toward the house. “Hello,” said Austin, crossing the street. “I’d like to talk to you.”
Austin’s voice had been heard from inside the house. A slender woman with shoulder-length, bleached-blond hair and a cigarette dangling from her lips opened the screen door and stepped outside. “Blackie,” she shouted, “get your ass out here.”
“What the hell now?” came a male voice from inside the house. Seconds later, a heavyset man wearing cutoff jeans and a partially torn, dark-blue tank top kicked open the screen door and stormed outside. “Mona, I’m tired of your—”
“We’ve got company,” said Mona. “Shut up and go see what he wants, as if I didn’t know.”
“That’s the shooter,” said Henry through the open window of Austin’s patrol car. “He changed his clothes.”
“I’m Warden Austin. Were you fellas in upper Bidwell Park this afternoon?”
“Why?” said the shooter. “What’s this all about?”
There’s my answer, thought Austin. “Did you shoot a salmon?”
“We was up at Bear Hole a little while ago,” said Blackie, “but we never shot no salmon.”
“Do you gentlemen have identification?”
“Both men handed Austin their driver’s licenses. The shooter was identified as Orville Blackman. The other man, who lived two houses down the street, was identified as Donald Knox. “Is this your pickup, Mr. Blackman?”
“Yeah, it’s my pickup. I told you we ain’t shot no salmon. You can search my truck, my house, anything ya want.”
“Is your pickup locked?”
“Course it’s locked. I don’t trust these kids around here.”
“Would you please unlock it for me.”
Blackman unlocked the pickup and stepped back while Austin checked the shotgun to see if it was loaded. Both barrels were empty. Austin laid the shotgun on the hood of his patrol car then led the two poaching suspects to the trunk, where he revealed the salmon Blackman and Knox had discarded earlier. “I have at least three witnesses who saw you gentlemen shooting at salmon in Big Chico Creek. They also saw you in possession of the salmon you see here. We found it by the side of the road, where you left it. Big Chico Creek is closed to the take of salmon, and at no time can you shoot them with a shotgun.”
“So, what’s gonna happen?” said Blackman, realizing his goose was cooked.
“I’m going to file a criminal complaint with the Butte County District Attorney, charging you both with the violations I just described. Mr. Blackman, your shotgun will be held in evidence until the judge determines what to do with it.”
“I didn’t shoot the salmon. Why are you charging me?” said Knox.
“I’m charging you with possession of an unlawfully taken salmon. You were seen holding the fish while your partner did the shooting, and based on what my witness saw, you were the one who threw it from the truck.”
<
br /> “Do you think this will go to trial?” said Henry, on the ride back to his room on Chestnut Street.
“I doubt it,” said Austin. “If it does, I’ll need you and your friends to testify.”
“I’d be happy to testify, and I’m sure my friends would also. How much will those two salmon poachers be fined?”
“Not nearly enough, but I’m gonna recommend that the shotgun be forfeited.”
“Before you drop me off, I’d like to ask you about something.”
“What’s that?”
“There was this warden down in the Gridley area who disappeared ten or twelve years ago. Based on everything I’ve been told, they never found him or his patrol car. Do you know anything about that?”
“You bet I do. I was still up in Greenville when Norm Bettis disappeared, but I participated in the search, along with half the Department of Fish and Game and every sheriff’s deputy in Butte, Glenn, and Sutter County.”
“Do you have any idea what might have happened to him?”
“Everybody seemed to think he got bumped off by the duck draggers. There were some bad hombres down in that Butte Sink area. Some of them felt it was their birthright to kill as many ducks as they wanted and any state game warden or federal agent who got in their way would get what he deserved.”
“Did they actually say that?”
“Not in so many words, but that was the general feeling. Most of the people I interviewed clammed up and wouldn’t say anything. Mike Prescott and I drove back into some holes you wouldn’t believe, down along the river. We’d see these homemade, wooden signs saying NO GAME WARDENS BEYOND THIS POINT and FISH COPS, ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK—most of ’em misspelled.”
“Who is Mike Prescott?”
“He’s the warden over in Willows.”
“What about the car? Did they ever find Warden Bettis’s patrol car?”
“Apparently, someone reported seeing what looked like a Fish and Game patrol car headed west on Highway 162, near Butte City. It was raining hard the day Norm disappeared, so whoever it was who saw that car couldn’t get a good look at the driver.”
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 11