When Batista closed his phone and extended his hand in greeting, Rulon didn’t move. He shouted, “What’s this I hear about sending unmanned drones into my airspace without permission and without notifying my office?”

“We’re in the middle of an operation—” Batista began calmly, when Rulon cut him off by talking over him.

“I don’t care what you’re in the middle of, you’ll order those things back where they came from or I’ll order the Wyoming National Guard to fly up here and blast them the hell out of the sky!”

Joe frowned. He’d seen the National Guard air fleet before and couldn’t recall a single fighter plane among the helicopters and C-130 cargo planes. But maybe Batista didn’t know that . . .

“It’ll be shoot to kill!” Rulon thundered. “I don’t care if I start a damned war between Wyoming and the EPA, because I’ve been threatening to start one for years.”

“Look,” Batista said, his eyes shooting around for support from his special agents and the others, “I know we started out on the wrong foot a few years ago. But right now we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and . . .”

Rulon jabbed his finger an inch from the EPA administrator’s nose: “There are right ways to do things and wrong ways to do things in my state. When I got a call that two of your people were gunned down in Twelve Sleep County, I pledged support. We want this guy caught as much as you do. But I should have known not to trust any of you bastards, that you’d turn out to be the jackbooted thugs I always knew you were.”

Joe smiled to himself and shook his head. He almost missed his boss approaching Rulon and grabbing gently at his arm, urging him to calm down.

Rulon said, “Now I hear you’ve not only offered a reward for the capture or execution of one of my constituents, you’ve also ordered a goddamned drone from Nebraska, where you spy on cattle feedlot operations, to fly over my airspace and spy on my land and my people. Just who in the hell gave you the authority to bypass the elected government of the state of Wyoming and trample over our citizens?”

Rulon’s face was red, and when he paused for a breath, Batista said quickly, “First, we’ve retracted the reward offer. Second, I’ve got the authority to administrate my region.”

“Governor,” Greene-Dempsey pleaded, pulling him back, “Please . . .”

Then Rulon waved his arms at the assembled and astonished crowd, and said to Batista, “Get them all the hell out of here! Take down your stupid tents and go the hell away! The only agency who should be here right now is the sheriff of Twelve Sleep County. The rest of you,” he said, glaring at the special agents and rangers one by one, “beat it!”

Batista shook his head and said, “I doubt you’d talk this way to me if I looked more like you.”

“What?” Rulon sputtered, confused.

“You heard me,” Batista said, crossing his arms over his chest and daring the governor to say more.

“You’re accusing me . . . of what?” Rulon said. “Because you’re . . .”

“A Hispanic American,” Batista said, raising his chin.

Rulon shook his head, as if momentarily stunned. Then he said, “Well, I’m a Governor American, and I want your ass out of my state. We’ll find your shooter, and he’ll get justice. We don’t want you or your thugs involved.” Joe noted the governor’s tone had softened, despite the words.

“And now we know why,” Batista said, still smug.

Joe shook his head. In that brief exchange, Rulon seemed to have lost his momentum. And the crowd seemed to agree.

Greene-Dempsey managed to pull Rulon away again, and when he turned, Joe saw a look of spent rage crossed with befuddled realization in his face. He’d never seen the look before, and he wondered if Rulon had truly lost it after all. Rulon seemed to have the same thought, and he threw his shoulders back and gathered himself, then looked down at his feet for a moment.

Batista turned to the group of officers and said, “The show is over. It’s time to get back to work.”

“Jesus Christ,” Underwood said, and whistled. “Your governor is a nutjob.”

Joe said, “He might be. But he’s not a racist.”

Underwood said, “He is now.”

—

WHILE UNDERWOOD WALKED his horse over to his team to get them ready, Joe dismounted and walked to the black state Suburban. He found Governor Rulon slouched in the driver’s seat, shaking his head. When Joe peered inside to locate his boss, Rulon said, “She’s not here. She’s up in the tent apologizing to Juan Julio What’s-His-Face for my racist outburst.”

Joe grunted.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Rulon said. “It took the wind out of my sails. He’s a cunning little bastard. I would have thought these imperial Feds wouldn’t be used to seeing a governor yelling into their faces, but I was wrong.

“And to play the race card like that . . . It’s the lowest form of debate, because it just closes the subject down. And it’s not true. I don’t hate Hispanics. I hate federal brownshirt thugs named Juan Julio Batista.”

“Governor?” Joe interrupted. “Can I ask you a question?”

Rulon looked over wearily. “Shoot. I’ve never lied to you.”

Joe hesitated, and Rulon smiled and said, “Well, not much.”

“Anyway, what I was wondering is . . .”

“Why I hired her,” Rulon said, finishing the wrong question. But Joe wanted to hear the answer anyway.

“I was pressured into it. But don’t quote me.”

“I won’t,” Joe said. “We had breakfast this morning. Then she came on a ride-along.”

Rulon laughed and thumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. His usual buoyant mood returned. “I heard about that. She’s still a little stunned. Bear spray, Joe?”

“It works.”

“So I take it. Anyway, she’s got some notions, I hear,” he said. “She thinks you and your kind are too inbred. She thinks you’ve all gone native out here—too close to the locals.”

Joe nodded.

“Have you?”

“I don’t think so,” Joe said. “We’re like local beat cops, is the way I think about it. We know the people, so we can do our jobs better.”

Rulon nodded, and said, “‘Government closest to the people governs best,’ some wise man once said. Do you agree?”

“I guess I do.”

“So do I,” Rulon said with finality. Then: “Next question?”

Joe hesitated, then said, “She told me you approved her lending me out on this investigation, that it was my duty to assist the best I can.”

Rulon raised his eyebrows and said, “So?”

“I’m not sure I can do it,” Joe said, surprising even himself with the words. “I know Butch Roberson. I’m not sure I can go along with this the way they’re doing it.”

“Why? Do you think he’s innocent? Isn’t this exactly what LGD is afraid of?”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t think he’s innocent. Not from what I know.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Joe felt tongue-tied. After a beat, he said, “I’m just not sure how much longer I can keep doing this.”

“What? Being a game warden?”

“Being a state employee,” Joe said. “She offered me a desk job in Cheyenne. I’ve never worked behind a desk before.”

Rulon, for once, didn’t fire another question. Instead he said, “Do what’s right, Joe. That’s what you’re good at. This is your decision.”

Joe waited for more that didn’t come. He wasn’t sure what that would be, though.

Rulon, as he usually did, changed the subject again. “We’ve had a couple of interesting adventures together, haven’t we, Joe?”

“Yup.”

“I thought for a while there you were going to lose me my job,” Rulon said. “You just have a knack for getting right into the middle of trouble, don’t you?”

Joe nodded. He said, “Marybeth says I have a singular skill in that regard.”

“She’s smart and too good-looking for you,” Rulon said. “You don’t deserve her.”

“I know that.”

“What about your friend, the maniac? That stone-cold killer with the falcons you hang around with? What’s he think about all this?” Rulon said, knowing Joe didn’t like to talk about Nate Romanowski.