by JT Sawyer
After Mitch had signed off, he sat down in his shelter, letting his boots extend out towards a small line of red-hot coals near the edge.
“So your little skinny dip down at the spring got interrupted by some Asian dude fileting bear steaks, eh?” said Marco, who was staring at the animal blood on Mitch’s jacket from his wrestling bout with Tung.
“That other dead bear I mentioned this morning that I came across on my hike here had a set of motorbike tracks around it. The area by the spring didn’t so I’m wondering where he stashed that rig. Can’t be too far.”
Marco pointed his thumb at the .300 Winmag beside him. “He wouldn’t be hoofing it with that beast.” He reached over and examined the rifle.
“Beeeautiful workmanship on this baby,” he said, running his fingers over the polymer stock as if it were fine walnut. “But this scope right here probably costs three times the entire package.” He held up the rifle, his thick arms hardly straining from the weight.
Mitch leaned forward, interlacing his hands and stretching. “My back is out of whack after tussling with that fella. He was a small guy but he moved liked a damn leopard.”
Marco glanced at his watch. “Sounds like Waline and whoever else he was with—that woman barking in the background—are gonna drive out here within the hour.”
“She’s a fish cop—you know, game warden.” Mitch stood up and grabbed his gear. “So let’s cover this fire with some snow then head down to the springside area and wait for ’em.”
Marco slid the rifle sling over his meaty torso and hoisted up his pack. “What do you think the chances are Waline would bring a pizza with him if we requested it? I mean we’ve been through a lot in the past hour—no time to make dinner and all.”
Mitch tilted an eyebrow up while brushing caked dirt off his jacket. “You’ve been sitting around the fire since I left, homeboy. That sounds a hell of a lot less grueling than what I just went through.”
“OK, then you ask for the damn pizza. I don’t even care if it’s that Red Baron crap you get from the gas station—I’m sick of eating cattails and bark.”
“We should have some critters in the traps by nightfall so squirrel stew will be on the menu tonight, my famished friend.”
“Squirrel—there’s a reason you don’t see that sold in grocery stores, you know.”
Chapter 16
Once the radio report came in from Mitch about the poached black bear, Dana’s suspicions about Tung and Nieman were confirmed. Though there was no indication of the latter in Mitch’s report, she was certain he would be making a hasty retreat back to his vehicle now that his accomplice was caught.
She pulled her Ford pickup alongside Waline, who was just climbing into his mud-encrusted Suburban near the cook shack.
“You sure you don’t want to ride with me?” she said. “It’s only about thirty minutes from here with the backroads I know.”
He motioned with his thumb to the back of his vehicle. “Nah, I’ve got my mobile radio back here and too much gear to sort through, plus I might be coming back with Kearns and Rigby, not to mention you’re probably gonna have a full wagon with those two dirtbags.”
Dana nodded then briefly explained the route. Speeding off down the gravel-strewn road, she radioed the Forest Service dispatcher to request backup from their law-enforcement officers. It was unlikely they would get there in time as their field office was a ninety-minute drive to the north but she needed to follow protocol. Without Waline and his soldiers in the field assisting, she would have been more reluctant to pursue two notorious criminals like Tung and Nieman. Most of the game rangers who had been killed in the U.S. in the past ten years were ambushed by poachers whose backcountry tradecraft rivaled the officers pursuing them. Dana knew she would be at a disadvantage tracking down these men without support and was grateful to have someone of Waline’s obvious skillset to accompany her.
The suspension systems on their vehicles took a beating as Dana kept up a frenetic pace, bobbing along the rutted roads for half an hour, eventually landing them at the same dead end road where Nieman’s Bronco and trailer were parked.
She slowly exited, yanking the AR-15 in the passenger’s seat out as she scanned the empty vehicle then examined the faded bootprints in the mud. Dana then shot a glance ahead down into the valley for any signs of movement while Waline made his way up alongside her.
“Want me to slash all his tires now?” said Waline, who was about to lean forward to spit then refrained.
“You know, even though we’re out in the woods, I’m still a cop.” She started walking down the trail, studying the dirt bike tracks, whose edges had partly eroded away, telling her no one had returned to the vehicle since they arrived.
She pointed to a narrow valley to her right. “This will take us around towards that spring your man mentioned. It’ll trim off an hour from following these bike tracks.” Dana paused and scanned from right to left, then tilted her head. “You hear that? Sounds like a faint hum.”
Waline pointed to his head, resting one hand on his holstered pistol. “Can’t hear shit these days; too many explosions over the years.”
She motioned to him to sidle over by the trunk of a large spruce tree. “That’s gotta be Nieman on his bike.” Dana pointed to a well-worn game trail to her left, which undulated around the base of a thumb-shaped hill. The two of them got into position on either side of a large conifer, their weapons leveled ahead at the approaching sound.
A hundred yards out, they saw a stocky figure on a camouflage motorbike coming into view, his shape partly concealed by a tangle of briars in the trail. The man sat idle on his bike, his head swiveling around the forest. Then, he removed a small pair of binoculars from his pannier and scanned the ridgeline above by his vehicle.
“Dammit—he’s made us,” Dana mumbled, stepping out from the tree with her AR raised. “Idaho Game and Fish. Get off the bike and put your hands in the air,” she said, her booming voice resounding off the valley floor. She knew it was unlikely to stop a determined criminal like Nieman but she hoped it would startle him enough to close the gap between them so she could persuade him with the sight of her weapon.
Instead, Nieman revved his engine and swung the bike around. The rear tire spun out soupy flecks of mud as he headed back along the trail. Dana aimed her rifle, the red dot scope affixing on his back, then she reluctantly lowered the barrel while seething out an exhale.
“Why didn’t you take the shot?” said Waline in a monotone voice.
“Pfft, this isn’t the Taliban.”
Waline shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe not outwardly but still the same vermin.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t plug a suspect in the back.”
He shook his head and smirked. “Gone are the good ole days—pity.”
She backpedaled to her right and began trotting down the other valley. “Unless he’s willing to drive straight uphill, I’m guessing he’ll go back in the direction of that spring. We can head him off if we hustle.”
“Hang on a sec.” Waline stopped and removed the backpack, extracting the battery pack and transmitter for his portable radio.
“Devil Dog, do you copy, over?”
He looked up at Dana and winked. “My boy Kearns is probably already there. And trust me, he and Rigby won’t mind getting a piece of this guy.”
Chapter 17
Cresting the cusp of the ridge above the spring, Mitch and Marco saw a small bear lumbering towards the tree where Tung was secured. They were only forty yards away and could see the poacher covered in some oily substance with discarded cans littering the ground beside him.
“Looks like it’s dinner time for that bear,” Marco said. “And that guy doesn’t have a chance in hell of avoidin’ being the main meal.” He waved his shovel-like hands at the fileted carcass to the right of Tung then back at the approaching bruin. “Good for the bear after what that hunter did to his buddy.”
Mitch had removed his pack and was floundering throug
h his first-aid kit. He remove a red pen flare and began stripping off the top. “I’m not gonna let him chow on that guy, as much as I hate him for what he did.”
“Why the hell not? This is western justice if ever there was any, my friend. Isn’t that what you’re always talking about—the old laws, an eye for an eye?” He rubbed the black stubble on his chin. “Besides, I never seen a dude get torn apart by a bear before.”
The cinnamon-colored bruin had paused to sniff the air fifty yards from Tung. “Justice is what that poacher will get but not here. We let that bear eat him and the game warden will have no choice but to track that creature down and kill it because of the risk of attacks on other people.”
“Hmm, good point.” He wrinkled his forehead while grinning. “Still, these would have been good seats for the show.”
Marco moved next to Mitch, snapping his finger and requesting the device from his friend. “I’m the better shot.”
“Like hell,” said Mitch.
“Really, when’s the last time you used one of these?”
Mitch was silent for a moment then shoved the pen flare into Marco’s hand.
Marco walked down the hill further, quietly stepping whenever the bear’s head turned away. The pen flare had been issued for emergency signaling and was only to be used in dire situations. The tubular device was made of metal and not much larger than a ballpoint pen. The hollow end housed a spring-loaded firing pin. Marco inserted a red, pinky-sized flare into the open end then pulled back the thumb-activated trigger screw which compressed the spring.
Marco figured using the pen flare would be a more successful scare tactic than firing a pistol round in the dirt, which could alert other accomplices of the detained poacher, as well as the inherent hearing damage which neither Marco nor Mitch could afford. One of the biggest risks from a pen flare was having it land in a pile of dry leaves and start a forest fire. Since the ground was still damp from the spring rains, Marco wasn’t worried about that being an issue.
Approaching what he knew was the pen flare’s maximum range of six hundred feet, Marco squatted low and steadied his hand with the device. His plan was not to hit the bear—that would be the same as a small caliber bullet striking it—but to send a ribbon of red sparks across its front end. As the lumbering bruin waddled along the trail, picking up its pace with each frenzied inhale of the tempting scent of sardines, Marco leveled his arm and focused on a distant stump that the bear was about to cross in front of.
He silently counted down from five and then pressed on the trigger screw with this thumb. Marco heard the spring release and the firing pin strike the primer on the flare as a small boom resounded off the tree next to him. A red streak seemed to emanate from his outstretched sleeve as the flare shot forward. The bear was moving too fast though and had just crossed in front of the stump as the flare struck the ground underneath the immense creature’s belly, sending a hail of sparks up into its fur, then ricocheting up into the treetops. The startled beast acted as if it had stepped on a pocket of lava and flung itself to the left of the trail, rolling in the pine needles as it emitted a guttural roar. The black leviathan righted itself and spun in a circle, trying to locate the source of its bewilderment, then immediately bolted down the gulley in the opposite direction.
Marco snorted, then turned around, glancing at Mitch, whose face was petrified. His friend began nodding his head while licking his lower lip. “No way in hell anyone’s gonna take us seriously if we mention this.”
Marco stood up, laughing while looking over the diminutive pen flare. “I only ever used this thing one other time and that was probably five years ago.”
Mitch frowned and slapped Marco on the back. “Bro, you’re a real handy guy to have in a tight spot, not to mention a piss-poor liar. I knew you hadn’t fired one of those things in years but figured those elephant trunk arms of yours would better handle the force.”
“Yeah, sure.”
They both stood in silence for a moment while reflecting on the incident. Mitch cleared his throat and grabbed his pack while trying to refocus his thoughts.
After they were sure the bear had retreated for good, they started to descend the ridgeline near Mitch’s deadfalls when they both heard the double-squelch on their radios, indicating an incoming message from Waline.
“Devil Dog, this is basecamp leader, over.”
Mitch pulled the handheld device from a side pouch in his pack and turned up the volume. “This is Devil Dog, go ahead.”
“Inbound tango on a motorbike headed your way. He’s no doubt connected with the other one you secured. You’ve got a green light on our end to disable his forward progress, if you get my meaning.”
Marco slapped Mitch on the arm while smiling.
“Copy that, basecamp leader. We’ll handle it and see you shortly. Devil Dog out.”
Mitch returned the radio to the pack and followed Marco down the hill, both of them taking a zig-zag route through the slippery leaves to maintain their footing. Arriving at the bottom, they both craned their heads in response to the faint drone of the approaching motorbike. Mitch waved his right hand, motioning for Marco to move to the other side of the trail and conceal himself behind a boulder. Mitch backpedaled ten feet up the incline they’d come from and hid behind a rotting spruce stump. As the hum of the bike increased, Mitch squatted with one foot forward while slowly dropping his shoulder bag to the ground.
The camouflaged rider was in view now as the bike took the curve in the muddy trail, its rear wheel fishtailing slightly. Thirty yards…twenty…ten… Mitch shifted his weight to his back leg and took a deep breath. The rider was hugging the trail nearest him. This was going to be bad breath range and Mitch knew he’d only have one chance. Five yards…three…two—he pushed off and shot upward, his right knee tucking tightly into his chest while his left leg shot out in a rigid kick aimed at the rider’s torso. Mitch had jumped too high and drove the knife-edge of his muddy boot into the man’s neck instead, which sounded like a sledgehammer striking a rubber tire.
The rider was violently flung off the seat as if plucked from the side by a winged predator. The bike careened sideways, crashing into the boulder near Marco, who ducked low in anticipation of it being upended.
Mitch landed off-balance on a small branch and staggered to his feet, then ran up to the groaning figure who lay with his head contorted as an espresso-colored puddle congealed around his figure.
Mitch bent over and removed the man’s pistol and knives, then searched his pockets. The man tried to straighten his body and sit up but was met by Mitch’s boot in the chest. “Stay put where you are, fella.”
“We got company at our six,” whispered Marco, who was trotting up to Mitch. Hunching with their weapons ready, they were about to seek cover off the trail when they saw Waline and a lithe woman running towards them. Both of them paused momentarily as they saw Tung hogtied to a tree beside a mangled bear carcass.
The two came to a halt at Nieman’s feet. Dana was slightly more winded than Waline and the two swiveled their heads around at the grim scene while catching their breath.
“Helluva job, fellas,” said Waline.
“I’ll say,” chimed in Dana while removing her handcuffs and squatting beside Nieman. “These guys were probably going to lay waste to all the bears in this region if they had the chance.”
“Chuck Norris over here put an end to that,” said Marco, nudging Mitch with his elbow. “That should be his new call sign, instead of Desert Mutt—I mean Devil Dog, sorry.”
Mitch was about to respond when his eyebrows rose at the sight of Nieman grinning. “You can’t treat me like this—I was just out on my bike exploring these woods.”
Dana grabbed his cuffed hands and walked him over towards Tung, who was beginning to stir. “Uh-huh, we’ll see what your pal says about that.”
“You guys got nothing on me and I’ll sue your asses and the state of Idaho for recklessness and false imprisonment.”
Wa
line cleared his throat, trying to get Dana’s attention. She stopped and looked back at Nieman’s backpack, which the sergeant major had emptied out on the ground. “There’s nothing in here except hiking gear and water bottles.”
She grit her teeth and yanked on his sleeve. “You dumped the gallbladders along with that rifle I saw on your bike, didn’t you.”
“Lady, you honestly have nothing on me. I am a local simply out exploring these woods. No law against that last time I checked.”
She continued walking with him towards Tung, who was now sitting up, his back shoved against the tree and his shirt soaked with an amalgam of dirt, bear blood, and sardines.
Dana shoved Nieman before his hunting partner to see which one would crack first and sell the other out. At least that’s what she was hoping would happen.
Tung leaned forward an inch and scowled, then spit on Nieman’s legs. “This bastard set up the whole fucking operation—he was planning to clear out the valley then sell the goods in Jackson Hole.”
Nieman’s face turned frostbitten and his cheeks went taut. He rushed forward and kneed Tung in the head, dislodging his jaw, which hung crooked at an oblique angle. The man shrieked in agony and began kicking wildly. Dana went to grab Nieman but instinctively stopped as she saw a blur of motion shoot past her face from Waline’s right hook, which struck the poacher square on the nose. The crunching sound of cartilage was followed by a trickle of blood as Nieman toppled to the ground from the fierce blow.
Dana stood back and frowned at Waline, then waved him off. “That’s enough.” She was already wondering what kind of media circus this was going to turn into with the local paper, let alone when it got back to Boise. She didn’t disapprove of Waline’s actions but also didn’t want to give Nieman any ammunition in court to thwart his eventual trial.
“That one is squarely on my shoulders and you can tell your boss that,” Waline said. “Why, I’ll call him myself and explain why I coldcocked this murderin’ trash out of hell.”