Free Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) by Ben Rehder

a citation for possession of a firearm within the park boundaries. He could have been much tougher, arresting the young man and confiscating his rifle, a cheap bolt-action .22.
     
    The remainder of the morning was slow, so Marlin headed back home for lunch at twelve-thirty. While eating a sandwich, he noticed the light blinking on his answering machine. He hit PLAY.
     
“Yeah, John, this is Lester Higgs. I got something out here, and uh, well, I don’t want to get into it over the phone, but I really need to see you right away. It’s about eleven-thirty and I’ll be here at the house for a few minutes. But I’ve got to head back to the southern property line and you can find me there, near the back pasture. It’s urgent, John. You’ll understand when you get here.”
     
    Lester Higgs was a Blanco County native, about Marlin’s age, now foreman of the Hawley Ranch, a large hunting operation. People called the game warden all the time with “urgent” problems, but Lester’s tone told Marlin he’d better return the call right away. Marlin knew Lester to be a man who wasn’t easily ruffled. Many years ago, Marlin had seen Lester get kicked in the head by a horse during a rodeo. Lester went to his truck, stitched the wound himself, then rode a bull an hour later. Lester wasn’t the type to call the game warden every time he heard a late shot or saw a spotlight in an oat field after dark. Marlin dialed Lester’s number but got no answer. He grabbed his sandwich and headed out the door.
     
    Fifteen minutes later, Marlin arrived at the gate of the Hawley Ranch. There were no vehicles at the foreman’s quarters, so Marlin navigated the rutted dirt roads to the heavily wooded back pasture. He passed a red late-model SUV on the side of the road, rounded a curve, and spotted Lester’s white truck along the fenceline. Marlin parked beside it.
     
    Marlin shut his truck door and immediately heard Lester calling to him from behind a dense curtain of cedars. A tall deer blind loomed over the treetops.
     
    Marlin came through the trees and found Lester just yards away, squatted on his haunches with his dirty Stetson in his hands. In front of him was a body.
     
    Five summers ago, Emmett Slaton had been in the drive-through at the local bank when he’d glanced over at the parking lot of the grocery store next door. He noticed a rough-looking couple sitting on the tailgate of a jacked-up yellow truck. The man was dressed in a leather Harley-Davidson cap and a matching vest with no shirt underneath. The woman wore a green bikini top and greasy blue jeans. On her left biceps was a tattoo of a penis and a caption that read Born To Ride. Between them was a cardboard box that read, FREE PUPIES. Apparently, they were down to the last pup in the litter, a wormy-looking black-and-brown runt that lay panting on the hot pavement at their feet.
     
    The biker hoisted the puppy up into the bed of the truck and shoved a bowl of water in front of it. When the puppy went to drink, the man slid the bowl out of its reach. The puppy tried again, and the man moved the bowl once more. After three or four attempts, the puppy lay down with its head between its paws. The man picked up the puppy by the scruff of its neck and gave it a good shake, as if scolding it for giving up so easily. With his free hand, the biker roughly jabbed the puppy’s belly.
     
    Slaton had seen all he needed to see. He wheeled his Ford out of the bank line and pulled in next to the yellow truck. He grabbed a tire iron from behind his seat and held it beside his leg as he approached the man in the vest.
     
    “Son,” Slaton said, “don’t you know you shouldn’t treat an animal that way?”
     
    The biker glanced at Slaton, then gave the woman an exaggerated, I can’t believe this shit expression. “Who the hell are you?”
     
    “I’m Emmett Slaton, and I believe I’ll take that dog off your hands.”
     
    The biker looked down at the dog. “This’n here?