In Plain Sight

Joe thought about the animal on his door, the steak knife pinning it there, the single streak of dark red blood that coursed down and pooled in a crack. And of Sheridan’s horrified expression when she realized what it was, what it meant.

“Excuse me,” Joe said, and slid out of the booth.

“Joe . . .” Robey said, his voice hard, but Joe didn’t turn around.

He approached the bar. Hank had his back to Joe, although the man Hank had come into the bar with watched Joe intently. Joe measured Hank’s companion, met his eyes dead-on. This one is a thug, Joe thought. There was nothing cowboy about him. He was tight through the chest, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed enhanced forearms with coils of cablelike muscle writhing under tattooed skin. His face was thin and pinched, his mouth full and rubbery. He had a soul patch under his lower lip and a ponytail. He wore the wrong jeans and his boots were black Doc Marten lace-ups, not real working cowboy boots. The man’s hat was Australian outback, not cowboy. And there was something about him, Joe thought, something familiar. When he looked at the man’s face he saw somebody else he was familiar with, or the shadow of that person. But Joe couldn’t remember if he had ever seen this man before.

The beer Joe had been drinking with Robey surged through him, deadening what should have been self-preservation warning bells going off like a prison break.

“Hank,” Joe said, to Hank’s back.

“Is there a problem here?” the man with Hank said in a low southern accent.

“I was talking to Hank,” Joe said, looking from the ranch hand to the mirrored back bar, to see that Hank saw him and was staring back with his dead sharp eyes.

The ranch hand spun on his stool and rose to his feet, but Hank said, “It’s okay, Bill, he’s just the game warden.”

Bill relaxed, stepped back, sat down.

Hank took a long drink from his glass of bourbon, then swiveled around, not getting up. Joe was three feet away, and he tried not to let his face twitch as Hank frowned and leveled his gaze on him.

“What can I do you for, Game Warden?” He said Game Warden with detached sarcasm. Hank’s voice was high and tinny. He bit off his words, as if speaking them were painful in itself.

“I wanted to ask you about something that happened at my house,” Joe said.

Hank flicked his eyes toward Bill, then back. His voice was a low hiss. “I don’t believe you’ve met our local game warden before, Bill. He’s the one who arrested our last governor for fishing without a license, and shot and killed both Wyoming’s greatest stock detective and our best outfitter. He’s sort of our own Dudley Do-Right. Joe, this is Bill Monroe, my new foreman.”

Monroe snorted and squinted and showed his teeth, which were white and perfect replacements for teeth that had been knocked out sometime in his career.

Joe looked at Hank, felt his rage build. Hank’s face was still slightly yellow—bruised from his fight with Arlen a month before. His nose was askew.

“Bill,” Joe said, trying to stanch his fear, “why don’t you take a walk? Go out and buy some new cowboy clothes, or something? I need to talk to Hank here.”

“Fuck you,” Monroe said.

“Settle down,” Hank said without looking at Monroe. “What was that about your house? I’d like to have a drink in peace.”

“Somebody stuck an animal on my door,” Joe said. “A Miller’s weasel.”

Hank stared for a moment, then smiled with his mouth. “I’m not exactly sure why you’re asking me about that, Game Warden. Do you think I had something to do with it?”

“That’s why I brought it up,” Joe said. “My daughter was pretty upset.”

Hank said, “Her name is Sheridan, right?” Saying her name as if it were the first time he’d ever enunciated it. “She’s Julie’s friend, isn’t she? I’ve seen her. She’s a nice girl, from what I can tell. Not as damned goofy as her father. Why would I want to upset my daughter’s best friend?”

Hank was enjoying himself at Joe’s expense. And Joe felt humiliated. But it made Joe even angrier, because he sensed there was something Hank knew about the incident.

Joe said, “Hank, I don’t care what you say about me to your rent-a-wrangler here. But don’t screw with my family.”

Hank smiled.

Monroe rose again, said, “‘Rent-a-wrangler’?”

“Sit down,” Joe said to Monroe, his voice harsh. “Or I’ll make you sit down.” As he said it he couldn’t believe it had come out of his mouth. But it worked, and Monroe leaned back on his stool, poised on the edge, ready to lunge forward if necessary. His eyes bored into Joe’s face like dual twin lasers, something was going on behind those eyes that was violent and seething. Joe thought, I’ve got to watch out for this guy.

Hank chuckled drily. “That sounded a lot like a threat, Joe. That’s big talk from a state employee. Especially one who has sided with my brother. Or at least his wife has. I’d watch what you say, Game Warden.”