Free Out of Range by C. J. Box Page B

shut off the motor. He swung out, clamped on his hat, and called, “Nice afternoon, isn’t it?” Joe had long ago learned that the first words out of his mouth often set the tone for an encounter. Since he was nearly always outnumbered and generally outgunned, he preferred a friendly, conciliatory introduction. But he had a few other tricks as well. Never walk right up to someone as if squaring off. Always be a little to the side, so they have to turn a little to talk with you. Keep moving laterally without being obvious, so no one gets behind you. Maintain enough distance so that no one can reach out and grab you.
    The two men digging the postholes stopped their work, which Joe sensed they didn’t really mind doing. Both were in their twenties, one thin and wiry, the other soft and fat.
    The soft, fat man had dark circles of sweat under the arms of his sweatshirt and his forehead was beaded with moisture. The wiry man wore tiny round glasses and was pale from exertion. They both looked to the woman to speak for them after Joe’s greeting.
    “I’ve never seen you around here before,” she said in a clear voice, “but I’m glad you like our weather.”
    “I’d guess that when the shadows from the mountains come over, it’ll drop twenty degrees.”
    “Maybe thirty,” she said.
    “Hope you can stay warm,” he said, looking at the tents.
    They were lightweight hiking models. He glimpsed a crumpled sleeping bag through one of the openings. He saw no sign of firearms.
    He walked within a few feet of her and to the side and tilted his hat back on his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets; another deliberate, nonthreatening gesture. He could see her relax, almost instinctively. She was not unattractive, he thought, despite her complete lack of makeup and unkempt long straight hair, not so much parted as shoved out of the way of her face. She had delicate features and sharp cheekbones. She wore a fleece pullover, faded jeans, and hiking boots.
    “You must be the new guy,” she said, looking him over.
    “Are you here to replace Will Jensen?”
    “At least for a while,” Joe said, and introduced himself.
    He reached out to shake her hand, which meant that she had to uncross her arms.
    “My name is Pi Stevenson,” she said, almost demurely.
    “Pleased to meet you,” Joe said, and introduced himself to the posthole diggers. The slim man was named Ray and the fat man Birdy.
    After meeting Birdy, Joe turned and looked at the sign that was lying flat on the ground, nailed to two long posts.
    “ ‘Jackson Hole Meat Farm,’ ” he said aloud. Under the huge block letters was a smaller line that read animal liberation network. Then he looked up at Pi. “What does that mean?”
    The defiance he had seen earlier returned to her eyes.
    “That’s what this refuge is, a meat farm. It’s a place where you feed and fatten wild creatures so that humans can slaughter them and eat their flesh in the name of socalled sport.” She spit out the last two words.
    As if hearing an unspoken command from Pi, Ray and Birdy lifted the sign and dropped the posts into the holes in the ground. The sign was now visible from the highway. Joe looked up and saw an RV slow, then pull off to the shoulder so the driver could read it.
    “This Animal Liberation Network,” Joe asked, “is that your outfit?”
    “It’s all of us,” Pi said, indicating Ray and Birdy as well.
    “We’re just a small part of a much bigger movement.”
    “Can Ray and Birdy talk?” Joe asked innocently.
    Pi flared a little. “Of course they can. But I’m our spokesperson.”
    “I bet you get lonely in Wyoming,” Joe said.
    “Yes,” she said, emphatically. “This may be the most barbaric place there is. You can’t even walk into a restaurant without being surrounded by the severed heads of beautiful animals.”
    “Then why are you here?” Joe asked.
    She crossed her arms again. “Because the best place to make a statement about injustice is