Behind a Thin Green Line: The Memoir of an Undercover Game Warden by Tony H. Latham

Author:Tony H. Latham [Latham, Tony H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: poachers, wildlife, Idaho, poaching, game wardens
Publisher: Tony Latham
Published: 2017-10-06T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

We headed out of the camp, turned south on the county road and drove up the valley.

Dowling pulled his guzzler out of the cupholder and took a drink. "Yesterday, I had my buddy chase them out to us on that ranch down there." He nodded towards the river. "The fuckers were hanging by that rich guy's airstrip. We were too late getting there. Too many fucking people. We should have been there at daybreak. Manuel chased them right to us. They was headed right at us, but these other assholes were down there in their fucking pickups running along the fence. There was like six trucks waiting for them fuckers and they was gonna come out." He set his guzzler into the cup holder and took a deep drag on his cigarette. "My buddy works on that ranch and was chasing 'em for us."

"He on a four-wheeler?"

Dowling nodded. "Yeah, he works for the guy that owns the ranch. But what the asshole doesn't know is that he's my buddy. He's a good Mexican." Dowling turned to me with a shit-eating grin. "He's Mexican but he's a good guy."

I knew who Manuel was. He'd been involved in another case that I had investigated overtly and he was well aware of what I did for a living. Chasing elk for hunters with a motorized vehicle was another rock in the box, but unless Manuel admitted it, it wasn't going to get prosecuted, since none of these people were going to testify against anybody. What pissed me off was that we'd had two witnesses report the Patterson group's shenanigans, so why hadn't someone reported these other road-hunting assholes, as Dowling had labeled them? My guess was that the other so-called hunters were locals from Challis. Locals protected locals, but hated flat-landers from southern Idaho who were killing "their" elk.

As we continued up the road, we passed alfalfa fields on the left and a sagebrush flat on the right that stretched all the way to the cottonwoods along the river. Dowling and Barnes chattered about bear baits they had placed in the upper valley and whether or not they should check to see if they'd been hit. I knew from their license history printouts that neither had purchased the necessary bait permits.

At the Big Creek bridge, we crossed the county line. I could see the red Dodge from Pennsylvania sitting off to the side of the road.

Dowling squinted his eyes. "This is where I killed ten of the fuckers last year."

He'd said the word "fuckers" like it was a piece of gristle that he'd spat out.

As he pulled up to the Dodge, I tried to catch the plate but failed. There were four aboard and I could see three rifle barrels sticking up. I scanned the passengers looking for Crooked Ears, but couldn't tell if he was on the far side. Dowling got out and talked with the driver while I engaged Barnes about the regulations.

"I'm confused about this cultivated field deal."

"You have

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