The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

  “Let me tell ya a little story. I’ve probably sold ten thousand ducks to the old man and a few thousand more to his kid over the years. When the feds busted all them poor bastards back in 1939, me and the old man were about the only ones that didn’t get roped inta that mess.”

  “Wha’d ya do?”

  “We kept our mouths closed and shut down our business for four or five years until the whole thing blew over.”

  “Were ya scared they’d come after ya?”

  “Maybe once or twice, when we’d hear a rumor or read somethin’ in the paper. As it turned out, the fines them guys paid weren’t much at all. The old man and me made more money off one night’s kill than all the fines put together. I think a few a the dumber sonsabitches did time in jail, but it weren’t much, considerin’ all the time and money them federal game wardens spent tryin’ ta catch us.”

  “How long did this go on?”

  “I ain’t exactly sure. I know some a them federal game wardens was workin’ in plain clothes and managed ta buy a few ducks from fellers I know over in Willows. I can’t believe them boys was that stupid. Why, I can spot a game warden a mile away, don’t matter what he’s wearin’. He could be wearin’ skivvies and I’d—”

  “Yeah, I get the picture. What else is this Pinky into?”

  “Let’s just say they’s a whole lotta ways ta stuff a turkey.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I already done said too much. You’ll see when we get there.”

  Leaving Marysville, Bogar and Gastineau traveled southeast for seventeen miles before turning east on Coon Creek Road. Entering a vast landscape of undisturbed grasslands, five-hundred-year-old valley oaks, and meandering wetlands, Gastineau said, “What do they call this area?”

  “I’m not sure what they call it,” said Bogar. “I know Lincoln’s up ahead a few miles, and Sacramento’s over thataway. I kinda like bein’ able ta see a long ways without any buildings spoilin’ the view.”

  “Seems like a waste ta me. All that land just sittin’ out there doin’ nothin’.”

  “It ain’t gonna be that way forever,” said Dud, glancing at his young protégé. “The way Sacramento’s growin’, I expect this’ll all be houses someday.” Gastineau didn’t respond, but Dud could tell from the look in his eyes that the wheels were turning.

  Several minutes had passed when Gastineau began thinking out loud. “If I had the money, I’d buy up as much of this land as I could.”

  “What would ya do with it?”

  “I’d just hold onto it for now. When the time’s right, I’d bulldoze it all flat and build those houses you were talkin’ about. Lots and lots of houses. Before ya know it, I’d be richer than my old man.”

  “What about your old man? With all that farmland he owns, Ralph Gastineau must have more money than Carter’s got pills.”

  “Yeah, but he might not be givin’ any of it to me. The other day, he told me if I get in trouble one more time, he’s gonna throw me outta the guesthouse.”

  Bogar and Gastineau drove another two miles on Coon Creek Road before turning north onto a well-traveled dirt road toward Coon Creek. Crossing under a wooden archway reading BUTLER FARMS, Dud said, “Ya better roll up your winda. It’s gonna get a little dusty from here on in.”

  About the time Gastineau finished rolling up his window, a refrigerated delivery truck roared by, headed in the opposite direction. “Damn!” he said. “That guy almost ran us over.”

  “We’ll sit here a minute or two and let the dust clear,” said Dud, coughing again. “Ya gotta watch for them delivery trucks when you’re drivin’ in and outta this place. They don’t slow down for nobody.”

  “What was that picture I saw on the side of the truck? It looked like a chubby kid with grease all over his face, holdin’ a drumstick.”

  “That chubby kid was Pinky.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Gastineau, laughing.

  “His old man put that pitcher on the side of all his trucks back when Pinky was about sixteen years old. It became their trademark. Look! It’s even plastered on the side a that turkey shed up ahead.”

  “I can’t wait to meet this Pinky character,” said Gastineau, chuckling.

  “Ya best not be makin’ fun of Pinky if ya know what’s good for ya. He’s the friendliest guy you’d ever wanna meet if he likes ya, but he can turn mean in a hurry if he don’t. I walked inta one a them turkey sheds last winter while Pinky was teachin’ one a his braceros a lesson.”

  “A lesson for what?”

  “The way I understood it, Hector was talkin’ to some a the other farmhands about joinin’ together and askin’ Pinky for mas dinero. Trouble was, Pinky overheard the conversation.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I’ll tell ya what happened. Pinky beat the hell outta him with his bare hands. Pinky told that poor sonofabitch if he ever caused trouble or even thought about askin’ for more money again, he’d throw him in the meat grinder. I think that’s Hector over there, wavin’ to us.”

  “He looks happy enough now.”

  “You damn right he’s happy. He’s happy he ain’t been turned inta turkey food.”

  “How big’s this Pinky?”

  “He’s about your height, maybe six-one or six-two, but he must weigh 300 pounds.”

  “What’s Pinky’s last name?”

  “It’s Butler, you dadgum moron. Didn’t ya read the sign we just passed? It was on the side a that truck too. Before I forget, don’t ask Pinky how you’re gonna get paid. When it’s time ta pay ya for the ducks you brung him, he’ll just pull a big wad a cash outta his pocket and hand it to ya.”

  “Wow! I’ve never seen so many turkeys.”

  “What?” shouted Dud, opening his car door and stepping outside. “I can’t hear ya over all this noise.”

  “I said, ‘Have a few turkeys,’” shouted Gastineau.

  “I told ya this was a big place. Make sure ya roll up your winda and close the door. I don’t want the inside a my car smellin’ like turkey shit.”

  Pinky was sitting behind a wooden desk piled with scattered bills, a half-eaten baloney sandwich, and two empty beer bottles when Dud Bogar and Blake Gastineau entered the small office near the farm’s entrance. The zipper on Pinky’s blood-spattered, white overalls had given way to pressure, partially exposing his enormous belly. Hanging on the wall behind Pinky’s desk was a framed photograph of an older, baldheaded gentleman bearing a striking resemblance to Pinky. Under the photograph hung a wooden plaque inscribed with the words HEAD TURKEY.

  “Where the hell ya been?” boomed Pinky. “I thought you said you’d be here by ten.”

  “Pinky, this here’s Blake Gastineau, the young man I told ya about. Come this winter, he’ll be the one deliverin’ the goods.”

  “Is that so?” said Pinky. “How do I know this pimple-faced punk ain’t some kinda cop, or worse yet, a damn game warden?”

  “Your old man and me done business together for twenty years,” said Dud, pointing to the photograph on the wall. “Ain’t it enough that I’m vouchin’ for him?”

  “Yeah, I’m just givin’ ya a hard time,” said Pinky, standing and extending his hand to Gastineau. “Welcome aboard, partner.”

  Gastineau extended his own hand and found it quickly engulfed in the vice-like grip of Pinky’s massive paw. “Thanks,” said Gastineau, grimacing as Pinky stared into his eyes and continued to apply pressure.

  “You kill ’em, gut ’em, and deliver ’em to me. If you keep your mouth shut and nobody else finds out about our arrangement, we’ll get along just fine.”

  “Do ya want anything besides ducks?” said Gastineau.

  “Whaddaya have in mind?”

  “I don’t know—quail, pheasants, deer?”

  “Sure,” said Pinky, finally releasing Gastineau�
��s hand. “I’ve got customers who’ll pay good money for quail and pheasants. If I can’t sell the venison, I’ll throw it in the grinder and feed it to the turkeys.”

  “Turkeys eat deer meat?” said Gastineau, flexing the fingers of his right hand.

  “Turkeys will eat damn near anything, as long as it’s small enough to slide down that long gullet a theirs. I’ve seen ’em fightin’ over frogs, mice, even snakes.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Gastineau, feeling more comfortable in the company of his new business partner.

  “My super-duper grinder crushes everything I toss in the hopper, even bones. Whatever comes out, my birds eat. They don’t call ’em gobblers for nothin’.”

  “We better be goin’,” said Dud.

  “Yeah,” said Gastineau, “my old man’s gonna wonder where I went with his flatbed.”

  “Pinky, if I don’t see ya again, it’s been good doin’ business with ya,” said Dud.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Pinky, ignoring Dud’s gesture and grasping Gastineau by the back of his neck. “I’ll be seein’ you this fall, young fella. Make sure you remember what I said about keepin’ your mouth shut.”

  Driving out through the gate, Gastineau asked Dud where Pinky lived. Dud stopped and pointed in a northeasterly direction, toward Coon Creek. “See that two-story house sittin’ under the big oak tree? Pinky’s old man built it years ago. As far as I know, Pinky and his wife still live there.”

  “You mean Pinky’s married?”

  “He got married to Tina shortly after his pappy kicked the bucket. I think Pinky was lonely in that big old house all by himself.”

  “I can’t imagine any woman wanting to marry that guy.”

  “Neither can I. Did ya see the way that sonofabitch gave me the brush-off when I tried to shake his hand? Why, I’d sooner be married to a razorback hog than Pinky Butler.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “She’s a mousy little gal. Usually stays up at the house. I was bringin’ Pinky a trunkful a ducks early one morning when I heard him cussin’ her up one side and down the other: ‘Tina, get your ass back in this house and make me breakfast!’”

  “Do you ever deal with her when you’re deliverin’ the ducks?”

  “No, and, come ta think of it, I ain’t seen Tina in quite a while. Pinky don’t talk about her much anymore neither. Is you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

  “I don’t know; those turkeys all look fat and happy to me,” said Gastineau, chuckling.

  FOUR

  The sun was going down as Jimmy Riddle, Blake Gastineau, Hollis Bogar, and Richie Stillwell proceeded north on Pennington Road, past several miles of wetlands, riparian forests, and farmlands—most of it recently designated as a state wildlife area by the California Fish and Game Commission. With all four windows rolled down, the foursome turned west onto Old Colusa Highway. “See anything yet?” said Riddle, concentrating on a fast-moving truck headed in the opposite direction.

  “A few small flocks circling,” said Gastineau, “but nothin’ big.”

  “Here we go!” said Bogar, from the back seat. “Must be ten thousand birds gettin’ up right now.”

  Riddle swerved the car to the side of the highway and cut the engine. As if engrossed in a drive-in movie, all four men sat quietly in their seats and watched as an enormous congregation of over 10,000 ducks rose from the wetland, circled overhead, and disappeared into the night sky.

  “Looks like they’re headed into Colusa County,” said Riddle.

  “I think I know right where they’re goin’,” said Gastineau. “There’s an entire section of harvested rice stubble about five miles northwest of here. Keep headin’ this way, and I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  Minutes after crossing the Colusa County line, Jimmy Riddle turned north onto a one-lane county road, slowed the car to a turtle’s pace, and cut his headlights. With no traffic visible in either direction, all four men remained silent and listened for any sign of nearby waterfowl activity. Familiar with every county road, rice field, dirt road, ditch bank, and levee within twenty miles, Riddle had no problem navigating in the light of a full moon.

  Riddle and company had traveled another mile or so when Gastineau said, “Stop!” Riddle complied, pulling the car to the east side of the road. Gastineau opened the front passenger door and stepped out into the cold night air. The dome-light bulb in Riddle’s car had been removed so there was no chance of a light coming on and alerting any state or federal game wardens who might be lurking in the area. Walking to the front of the car, Gastineau cocked his head toward the northwest and listened.

  The group repeated the drill several times throughout the evening. Each time, Riddle would bring the car to a stop and Gastineau would climb out and listen for the tell-tale chatter of feeding ducks. Three hours had passed when the gang of outlaws turned west onto an unpaved levee road that led into one of the largest rice-stubble fields in the valley.

  “Whose place are we on now?” said Bogar.

  “What difference does it make?” snickered Stillwell. “You think the game warden’s gonna care whose place we’re on if he catches us out here poaching ducks in the middle of the night?”

  “What a joke,” said Bogar. “Bettis ain’t caught nobody poachin’ ducks or anything else in years. Every time I drive by that coffee shop south of town, I see his game-warden car parked in back.”

  “I seem to remember him catchin’ you with a giant pile a pheasants a few years back,” said Stillwell. “And didn’t you have ta serve thirty days in juvie?”

  “That happened eight years ago, when I was a dumb-ass kid,” said Bogar.

  “Well you ain’t no kid anymore,” said Riddle and Gastineau simultaneously.

  Stillwell finally caught on to the joke. “But you’re still a dumb ass,” he said, laughing so hard he fell against the back door, causing it to fly open.

  “Richie, we need to get serious and find those ducks,” said Gastineau. “Besides, that’s a sore subject for me and Jimmy.”

  “I forgot you and Jimmy were involved in that too,” said Stillwell.

  “Yeah. I never knew for sure who snitched us off, but I have a good idea.”

  “Quiet!” said Riddle, cutting the engine. “Do ya hear that?”

  “Whaddya hear?” said Gastineau.

  “Listen,” whispered Riddle, pointing to the west. “They’re right out there.”

  “I hear ’em,” said Bogar. “A bunch just got up and landed again.”

  “There must be ten or fifteen thousand birds,” said Gastineau, stepping from the car. “I think they’re about a half mile out, movin’ southwest. Let’s turn this thing around and head back toward the main road.”

  Riddle turned right at the county road and slowly headed west toward Colusa. Every quarter mile, he pulled to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Each time, Gastineau climbed out of the car and listened for the tic-a-tic of feeding ducks.

  It was approaching 2:00 a.m. when Gastineau finally heard the sound he’d been waiting for. “Boys, I think we hit the jackpot,” he muttered. “It’s time to pull a drag.”

  FIVE

  With the precision of a military drill team, Blake Gastineau, Hollis Bogar, and Richie Stillwell walked to the trunk of Riddle’s car and began loading their respective 12-gauge, semiautomatic shotguns, each equipped with an extender capable of holding eleven live rounds. When the shotguns were loaded, each man filled his pockets with just enough extra shotgun shells to serve his purpose, but not so many as to restrict his running ability. Three army surplus canvas bags, all bearing shoulder straps, lay at the back of the trunk. Each bag was stuffed with individual, two-foot lengths of twine.

  “Okay, the three of us are gonna head northwest and intercept the feedin’ ducks,” said Gastineau, pointing in that direction. “Jimmy, I want you to check out th
e area for any sign of game wardens and pick us up in three hours on the levee road where we first heard the ducks. If any of us get split up, just remember to head toward the levee road and wait for Jimmy’s signal. Jimmy, if you see anything that looks suspicious, give us two quick honks, wait thirty seconds, then honk once more. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Riddle hopped in the driver’s seat, lit up a cigarette, and slowly headed west. When he’d gone a half mile, he flipped on his headlights and began searching every county road within five miles for any sign of a game warden.

  Gastineau, Bogar, and Stillwell crouched forward and began a slow trudge through the recently rained-on rice stubble. Every time they came to a rice check, they ducked into the weeds and listened to the distant tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic of feeding ducks. Once they were within a hundred yards of the oncoming birds, Gastineau motioned with his hand for the others to drop to their knees and begin a tedious belly crawl up to the anticipated firing line. With knees and elbows caked in mud, all three men crept forward, stopping at fifteen-yard intervals to rest and listen.

  Like a massive harvesting combine, the ravenous ducks ate their way across the field. In a continuous effort to store nutrients and maintain muscle mass for the long migration back to the breeding grounds, they played a game of avian leapfrog—jumping into the air, flying a hundred feet or more, then landing again and feeding at the front of the line.

  The roar of wingbeats and constant chatter had become almost deafening by the time Gastineau, Bogar, and Stillwell reached a point directly in the path of the approaching flock. Gastineau pointed at Stillwell and gestured for him to take the left flank. Stillwell slowly backed away and crawled forty yards to his designated shooting location. Bogar, who had engaged in this exercise countless times before, already had assumed his position forty yards to Gastineau’s right.

  The first wave of ducks, for some unknown reason, veered to the west and avoided coming within range of the poachers’ shotguns. All three men remained perfectly still, lying on the wet ground while peering through the three-foot-high weeds and matted grass that occupied each rice check.