Rowdy emerges from the house, his jaw set, and returns to the truck. He drops the citation booklet on the dash and sighs.
“Did you find the sled?”
Rowdy starts the truck. “No. He must be keeping it somewhere else.”
I frown at the second house. “What about the wood?”
“He denied being in Crooked Pine that day, but he got in my face about the logging. The usual BS about it being his right because he’s an American citizen simply providing for his family and these are public resources blah blah.”
It’s not unlike the argument those shed hunters tried to throw in our faces.What’s the big deal? We’re on public land. We’re the public, ain’t we?
“Are we confiscating it then?” Now I know why he brought the trailer.
Rowdy’s lips press into a hard line. “Honestly, I’m torn. I think wood is their main source of heat. If we take it, the women and children might suffer.”
“You can’t burn wet wood though.” Meaning if he’s right,we’d be impactingnextwinter, and don’t we hope to have this whole cult nonsense shut down before then?
Rowdy nods, but his gaze is distant. “I think we take it,” he finally says.
A surge of energy pumps down my spine. “Yes, sir.”
Loading the contraband wood goes quickly. Probably because they’ve already squirreled some of it away, but it mounds up on the trailer and fills half of the bed. Rowdy and I don’t talk, and he keeps glancing past the truck as we load up, like he’s expecting someone. Or maybe he’s just being cautious because it wouldn’t take much for someone to draw up on us.
Back in the cab, both of us warmed up from the work, I pull off my gloves and gulp from my water bottle as Rowdy turns onto the gravel road. But when we pass the big barn, something in the loft window catches my eye.
“Stop.”
Rowdy flashes me an annoyed glance, then tracks to where I’m pointing.
In the condensation in the glass are the wordsHELP US.
Rowdy stomps on the brakes, and even though we’re not going very fast, it throws me against my seatbelt.
“That wasn’t there when we drove in,” I say.
“Fuck.” A tiny muscle in Rowdy’s jaw twitches. “I should call the sheriff.”
I don’t like that idea one bit. It took Harlan an hour to grace the scene with his presence on Friday. That feels like too big of a risk. “And pull him away from his donuts when it could be nothing? Let’s just check it out first.”
“We don’t have permission and we don’t have a warrant.” He glances back up at the window.
“That sure as hell looks like probable cause to me.”
He grimaces, then turns the truck toward the barn. “You will follow my lead, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
We both step down to the muddy gravel, thethunk, thunkof our truck doors shutting echoing in the expansive silence. Walking toward the barn’s yawning dark entrance, I take another sweep of the surrounding pasture to the twin bunkhouse structures on the far side of the property, then to the farmhouse with chimney smoke curling into the patchy blue sky. But it’s like everyone’s gone underground.
Working barns are muddy spaces built for function and efficiency, so I’m not surprised to find a gritty concrete pathway between two rows of partitions used to separate the cows, each littered with remnants of the hay breakfast they must enjoy during the milking process.
A few steps in, the barn smells of cow shit, hay, damp wood, and something slightly sweet. A hint of nostalgia teases my thoughts. Sheep poop stinks too but thank god it comes in solid form.
“Hello?” Rowdy says, clear and firm. “This is Officer Whittaker and Officer Parks from Idaho Fish and Wildlife.”
“We want to help,” I add, gazing upward. Did I hear something from the loft?
A cow groans from somewhere out in the pasture, the sound tunneling through the open barn.