Free Ice Hunter by Joseph Heywood

shrugged and scratched the cat’s plump cheeks. “I figured you couldn’t avoid sticking your face in his. You just don’t get diplomacy the way I do.”
    â€œSome things just have to be done.”
    Nearly eight years ago Service had followed Allerdyce four consecutive nights, wanting to catch him alone, but he was usually with several of his miserable offspring. The night he finally got him alone, Limpy’s choice of fish bait was half a stick of dynamite. Ignited at the right depth, dynamite doesn’t make much noise in the river and stuns fish like nothing else. In Vietnam he and Tree had occasionally used grenades for the same purpose.
    That night they were on the lower Escanaba River, in the warmer water below St. Nicholas. Limpy touched off two charges in a deep hole and netted walleyes into his aluminum boat with a long-handled salmon net. Service waited on shore, and when Limpy beached the boat, he stepped forward to challenge him.
    The conservation officer had no idea where the shovel came from, but it caught him hard, breaking his right shoulder. Service tried to roll over when he fell, but a shotgun blast caught him in the left thigh. He was lucky it was a slug and a 20-gauge. It ripped out a chunk of meat but didn’t break the bone or take out the femoral artery. When he came to, Allerdyce was long gone. Charges were filed and a warrant issued, but Limpy disappeared.
    Service’s wounds kept him in the hospital nine days, and he had nearly three full months at home recovering after that. Eight years later his shoulder still ached when rain or a low front was moving in.
    While he recuperated, every police agency in the state searched for Limpy. Service knew they’d never find him. Limpy could live off the land indefinitely, but he had one major weakness: his appetite for women. He couldn’t go long without, but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to go where he might be grabbed. Maybe.
    Service used his downtime to work his informants. Limpy’s favorite women were his own daughter Vicki and daughter-in-law Honeypat. Neither of them lived in the compound with the rest of the odious family. Vicki lived in Gwinn and Honeypat in a house trailer in the Cyr Swamp west of Helena. Allerdyce wouldn’t be dumb enough to venture near a town. Service staked out Honeypat’s trailer.
    Every afternoon he left his truck in a friend’s garage at Little Lake and hiked nearly five miles through the Cyr Swamp, knowing that sooner or later Allerdyce would show.
    The first two nights Honeypat’s lights were on. The third night the trailer was dark from dusk on and Service heard them inside, but he was not ready to make his move.
    The next two nights all was normal again at the trailer, and again on the third night Allerdyce came. Service did not see Limpy arrive and had no idea what direction he came from, but there was no doubt he was there. They went at it with the exuberance of bobcats in heat. Again, Service held back.
    After three repetitions, Service knew he had the pattern. Every third night.
    On the next rep Service made his move. Using the noise of their passion as cover, he moved up to the cinder-block steps of the trailer’s door. When Allerdyce stepped out, the conservation officer reached up, got the front of his shirt, and pulled him down. Before Limpy could react, Service twisted his arms behind him and cuffed him. A naked Honeypat came shrieking out behind Allerdyce and jumped at Service, who sidestepped her, drove his foot into her nearest thigh, grabbed her hair, and pulled her into the ground. Before the two lovebirds recovered their wits, they were both handcuffed.
    A call to the county brought deputy sheriffs with help. The prisoners were placed in separate squad cars.
    Allerdyce sat with a grin on his face. “Ole Honeypat’s some sweet pussy,” he told Service. “You want some o’ that, help yourself. She don’t care who, even