Stone Cold by C. J. Box

Author:C. J. Box [Box, C. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, Western
ISBN: 9780399160769
Amazon: 0399160760
Barnesnoble: 0399160760
Goodreads: 18079649
Publisher: Putnam Adult
Published: 2014-03-11T05:00:00+00:00

Sand Creek Ranch

“Hello there,” Joe called out. “Are you having any luck?”

At the sound of Joe’s voice, the man upstream froze in midcast. He didn’t jump or wheel around but his fly line dropped and pooled unceremoniously around his ankles. As it did, he slowly turned his head, but his expression was stoic.

Joe had encountered enough fishermen over the years to know the reaction was unusual. Usually, anglers were startled and immediately started talking or reaching for their licenses when they saw his red shirt. Only once had it been otherwise, four years before in the Sierra Madre, and what led from that response had been harrowing.

The man was young, trim, and athletic-looking, although like the red stone structure on the way up, he seemed out of place. The fly fisherman wore British Wellington boots instead of modern waders, form-fitting cargo pants, a crisp button-down long-sleeved shirt, and a cream-colored sweater-vest with a V-neck. Joe thought he looked like a Hollywood actor, with his high cheekbones, slicked-back dark hair, and intense blue eyes. The fisherman held an expensive-looking bamboo fly rod and wore a throwback wicker creel over his shoulder.

“How’s fishing?” Joe asked.

“Fine, sir,” the man said. The word spoken was southern and syrupy: fahn.

“I saw some big rises on the water a while ago,” Joe said. “Are they still coming up to the surface?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing better than fishing for big trout with dry flies, is there?”

The fisherman was still locked in place, the rod suspended in the air. He slowly lowered it and said, “No, there isn’t. Even in the fall there are midmorning hatches. But I believe, sir, you might be trespassing.”

Joe said, “Maybe so.”

High above them, Joe could still hear the sound of voices from Latta and Critchfield. Apparently, they were still parked on the road. Joe shot a look toward the slope to confirm that he was still out of their view due to the angle, as was the fisherman.

“My name is Joe Pickett. I’m a Wyoming game warden.”

“Ah,” the fisherman said with a nod, “the misplaced game warden.”

“Misplaced?”

“Back home, we’d call you a conservation officer.”

“Where’s home?”

“Not here.”

“Meaning you’re a newcomer here,” Joe said.

“But not misplaced,” he said with an edge.

So he was aware of him as well, Joe thought. Joe stepped a few steps to the side. The move was intended so he could observe the fisherman from a three-quarter angle from the back. He didn’t appear to be packing any weapons, although it was hard to discern what was under the sweater-vest.

“Mind if I take a look at what you’ve got in your creel?”

Something flickered across the fisherman’s face: a look of disdain. “This, sir, is highly unusual. May I ask you why you want to know?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re legal, which I’m sure you are. I’m guessing anyone who uses a twelve-hundred-dollar bamboo rod and an eight-hundred-dollar vintage creel would also be in full compliance with the fishing regulations.”

The fisherman kept his gaze on Joe as he approached. He said, “You don’t know your rods like you think you do.

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