The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

“He’s always reading about animals,” said Larry.

  “The kid is makin’ this crap up,” said Sloan. “There’s no way he could tell what Ray was shooting at from way up there.”

  “He saw ’em with his dad’s binoculars,” said Larry.

  “What?” said McCullough.

  “Hank saw the geese with his dad’s binoculars. They’re still up on the hill with our backpacks.”

  “Ned,” said Tibbets, “there has been a family of wild geese around here lately. I saw ’em just yesterday.”

  “Thanks, Les.”

  “Warden McCullough, me and Larry can probably find the goose they shot. Do you mind if we go look for it?”

  “Okay,” said McCullough. “While you boys look for the goose, I’ll get some information from these two gentlemen.”

  “What for?” said Sloan. “That kid ain’t proved nothin’.”

  “To start with, there’s a matter of the loaded shotgun I found in your car.”

  “Ray, you dumb sonofabitch, I told you to make sure that gun was unloaded.”

  “I thought it was,” said Beacham.

  Henry and Larry searched for the next half hour but were unable to find any trace of the goose. “I’m sorry, Warden McCullough,” said Henry. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

  “That’s okay, boys. You did your best. These fellas say you took their car keys.”

  “I took ’em so they wouldn’t get away,” said Henry.

  “Would you please give them to me.”

  “I’ll have to go find ’em,” said Henry, pointing to the opposite side of the road. “Before I find the keys, I wanted to tell you one more thing.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Hey, warden,” said Sloan. “They didn’t find the goose because there ain’t no goose. Those two kids made the whole thing up. If you’re gonna write my friend a ticket for havin’ his shotgun loaded, then do it so we can get the hell outta here. I have to be at work by three o’clock.”

  “You guys hold your horses until I hear what this young man has to say.”

  “I saw something that looked like blood on the back bumper of their car,” said Henry.

  “You’re a very observant young man,” said McCullough. “Maybe someday you’ll decide to be a game warden yourself.”

  “I’m gonna be a major-league baseball player when I grow up.”

  “And I’m gonna be president of the United States,” said Sloan. “The kid’s got quite an imagination.”

  “What position do you play?” said McCullough.

  “Pitcher.”

  “You must be pretty good.”

  “He’s really good,” said Larry, watching Henry cross the road to search for the keys. “Hank threw two no-hitters last year and one already this season.”

  “How much more of this crap do we have to listen to?” scoffed Sloan.

  “Found ’em!” shouted Henry, from the other side of the road.

  “It’s a good thing,” said Sloan. “We got better things to do than hang around here all day. You ain’t got no right to keep us here any longer.”

  Ignoring Sloan’s latest outburst, McCullough walked over to the Chevy sedan, inserted the key, and popped open the trunk. Inside, he found seven cottontail rabbits, a hen mallard, and a great horned owl.

  “We didn’t shoot that owl,” said Beacham. “We found it lyin’ dead on the side of the road.”

  McCullough reached inside the trunk and picked up the owl. It was still warm to the touch and fell limp in his hand. Running his fingers through the breast feathers, McCullough found a tiny hole where a .22-caliber bullet had penetrated. Laying the owl on the hood of his patrol car, McCullough gathered the duck and all seven rabbits. As Sloan and Beacham watched, McCullough reached into the back seat and retrieved the .22 rifle he had examined earlier. After removing the clip, he placed the rifle on the hood of his patrol car.

  “So what’s gonna happen?” said Sloan.

  “The owl, the duck, the rabbits, and both of your weapons are being seized into evidence,” said McCullough. “I’ll be filing a criminal complaint with the Riverside County District Attorney, charging you both with unlawful possession of a protected owl, a mallard duck during closed season, and seven cottontail rabbits during closed season. You also had a loaded shotgun in your car on a public road and were hunting without hunting licenses.”

  “That’s tellin’ ’em,” blurted Larry, grinning from ear to ear.

  Henry gave Larry a nudge.

  “Will we be able to get our guns back?” said Beacham.

  “Don’t press your luck,” said McCullough. “I’m not going to charge you with shooting the goose, only because we couldn’t find it and I don’t want to have to pull the boys out of school to testify. Based on what I found in the trunk of your car, I have no doubt that everything the boys said is true. I should book you both into the county jail, but since you have valid IDs, I’m going to let you go on your way. You’ll be notified when to appear in court. It won’t bother me one bit to come down to that slag heap where you two work and slap the cuffs on you, so make sure you show up. Now you’re free to leave.”

  McCullough stayed and chatted with Lester Tibbetts and the two boys after Sloan and Beacham had left. “I want to thank you boys for the fine job you did helping me apprehend those two violators. That took a lot of courage, but I feel I need to caution you about reaching into someone’s car and taking their keys.”

  “Was that wrong?” said Henry.

  “It wasn’t really wrong, but you could have been hurt. Those two men weren’t exactly model citizens, and they could have pulled a knife or even a gun on you. In the future, you may want to just take down the license number and get to a phone as soon as possible. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes,” said Henry, “but I was so mad about ’em shooting that goose, I wanted to make sure they didn’t get away.”

  “I understand, but some of these poachers can be dangerous and unpredictable.”

  “Speakin’ of dangerous,” said Tibbets, “I been meanin’ ta ask you about a story I read three or four years back. It was in the Riverside paper.”

  “I’m all ears,” said McCullough.

  “It was about a game warden up north somewhere who disappeared. I forgot his name. Apparently, they never found him or his car.”

  “I know what you’re referring to,” said McCullough. “The warden’s name was Norman Bettis. I met him many years ago at a training conference. Norm’s patrol district was north of Sacramento, near a little town called Gridley.”

  “Did they ever find out what happened to him?”

  “No, they never found him or his car. There were plenty of theories floating around the department, but none of them ever panned out.”

  “What were the theories?”

  “His neighboring wardens figured old Norm had stumbled into something he wasn’t capable of handling. Bettis was in his sixties and not in very good physical shape. He was one of those old-timers who refused to retire.”

  “Look where it got him,” said Tibbets. “You guys have a dangerous job.”

  “It can be, at times,” said McCullough. “We’ve lost a few good officers over the years. Some of those market hunters who hunted the rice fields up north would have just as soon shot a game warden as looked at him.”

  “Is that kind of thing still goin’ on?”

  “Any time there’s money to be made, there’s potential for someone to get killed or badly hurt. I’ve known outlaws who would kill the last wild animal on Earth to make an easy buck.”

  “I hope they eventually catch the dirty bastards who did it,” said Tibbets. “Excuse my language, boys. I forgot you were still here.”

  “That’s okay,” said Larry. “My pop talks like that all the time.”

  “I need to
take care of all this evidence,” said McCullough, “so I best be running along.”

  “Warden McCullough,” said Henry.

  “Yeah, son?”

  “If we can find the goose after you leave, would it be okay if I take it home and try to save it?”

  “Sure,” said McCullough, loading evidence into the trunk of his car. “You boys are welcome to try. If the goose only has a broken wing and isn’t wounded internally, it might survive. Here, I’ll give you a card with my phone number on it. Call and let me know if you find it.” McCullough and Tibbets climbed into their cars and drove away.

  With the landowner’s permission, Henry and Larry climbed the fence and began searching the high grass for the wounded goose. It wasn’t until Larry almost stepped on it that the bird jumped up and furiously flapped its uninjured wing.

  “Grab him,” shouted Henry. “Don’t let him go.” Henry removed his gray sweatshirt and placed it over the goose’s head and body. “This will keep him still until we get to our backpacks,” he said.

  The boys walked their bikes up the hill, Henry pushing with one arm and cradling the goose in the other. Reaching the top, Henry emptied his own backpack and jammed all his belongings into Larry’s. It took the strength and agility of both boys to slip the goose inside Henry’s backpack, feet first. Only the gander’s neck and head were sticking out when Henry pressed a couple of snaps and secured the agitated bird inside.

  “I wonder if anyone will ever find him,” said Henry on the three-mile ride home.

  Who?” said Larry.

  “The game warden who disappeared. What are you laughing about?”

  “I’m laughing at the goose. He’s trying to peck you on the back of the neck.”

  “They haven’t even been able to find his car,” said Henry. “Don’t you find that strange?”

  “What car?”

  “The game warden’s car. Weren’t you listening when Warden McCullough told us that story?”

  TEN

  “I’d like to thank everyone for comin’ out to the ballpark on this warm August afternoon,” said the announcer. “This is the last game of the 1967 summer season here at beautiful Evans Field in downtown Riverside. It’s turned out to be a classic pitchers’ duel between right-hander Gary Miller of Redlands and the big left-hander from Riverside, Hank Glance. Going into the bottom of the eighth inning, the score remains Redlands nothing and Riverside nothing. Leading off for Riverside is shortstop Don Hartline.”

  “Hank, whaddaya hear from Stanford?” said catcher Larry Jansen, sitting on the bench next to his best friend.

  “The coach said I could finish up my last semester at Riverside City College and enroll in time for baseball season next spring.”

  “Do ya think you’ll make the team?”

  “He seemed to think so,” said Henry, trying to concentrate on the game. “They need a good left-handed pitcher.”

  “That’s the first walk given up by Miller,” said the announcer. “Batting for Riverside is third baseman Dale Bagley.”

  “Come on Bags, you can hit this guy,” shouted Coach Ron Carroll from the bench. “Keep that left shoulder in.” Bagley hit Miller’s first pitch for a single up the middle.

  “What if you don’t make the team?” said Larry.

  “Then I’ll probably have to find another school. Stanford is more than I can afford without a scholarship.”

  “Do you have anything in mind?”

  “I was thinking about Chico State, up north.”

  “My cousin went to Chico State,” interjected center fielder Mitch Rider.

  “How’d he like it?” said Larry.

  “He said it was the best four years of his life. It’s a beautiful old school with ivy-covered walls, just like the traditional schools back East. And a trout stream runs right through the middle of campus. Every spring, they have this event called Pioneer Week, when the fraternities and sororities build a Western town and throw keggers.”

  “What’s a kegger?” said Larry.

  “It’s a party, usually outdoors, where everyone drinks beer out of a giant keg. Fred said it gets pretty wild sometimes. Last year there was a party on just about every corner for several blocks.”

  “What about girls?” said Larry.

  “According to my cousin, the girls outnumber the guys three to one. Chico State has this outdoor quad and rose garden in the center of campus where all the jocks sit on benches and watch the babes walk by on their way to class.”

  “Chico State sounds like my kind of school,” said Larry. “What about you, Hank?”

  “Sounds pretty good,” said Henry, watching the ball game and not really engaged in the conversation.

  “Now batting for Riverside, catcher Larry Jansen.”

  “Jansen!” shouted Coach Carroll. “Where’s Jansen?”

  One of the players pointed toward the far end of the dugout.

  “Jansen!”

  “Yeah, coach.”

  “Leave Hank alone and get your ass out there. You’re up.”

  Larry Jansen hit a line shot that almost tore Miller’s glove off, but the skillful Redlands pitcher snagged it for the first out. Jansen was followed by second baseman Pete Moran. Moran hit a weak fly ball that fell in just out of the second baseman’s reach, allowing Hartline to advance to third and Bagley to slide into second. With bases loaded, right fielder Darryl Weeks flew out to center field, allowing Hartline to tag up and score Riverside’s first and only run. Left fielder Tim Erskine grounded out to shortstop, ending the inning.

  The Riverside team took their positions for the top of the ninth inning. “Go get ’em, big guy,” said Coach Carroll, as Henry Glance left the dugout and walked toward the mound.

  Henry looked back at the coach. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Riverside’s left-hander had struck out the first two Redlands batters and was one out away from a no-hitter when he heard a familiar voice coming from the on-deck circle. “I’m gonna take you deep, Glance.”

  It was Henry’s longtime nemesis, Robert “Big Bob” Power. Ever since Little League, the powerful slugger had been spoiling games for Henry Glance. Known as one of the most dangerous amateur hitters in Southern California, Bob Power was also famous for his lack of civility and penchant for shouting obscenities at the most inappropriate times. Four-letter words flowed from his tobacco-stained lips like water. Bob had once dropped a barbell on his toe during a workout session at Vic Tanny’s Gym. So objectionable was his verbal outburst, he was asked to leave and not come back.

  As Power burrowed into the left-hander’s batter’s box, Coach Carroll called time-out and walked to the mound. The entire Riverside infield followed suit and gathered around their pitcher.

  “I’m wondering if we shouldn’t just put this jerk on,” said Carroll. “That foul ball he hit in the fifth inning still hasn’t come down.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Glance. “I won’t give him anything good to hit.”

  “Okay, but be careful,” said Carroll, walking off the mound and heading back to the home-field dugout.

  No one could get Bob Power’s goat like Larry Jansen. Larry knew how to push all the right buttons—anything to throw the powerful slugger off his game and cause him to strike out or pop up. In his catcher’s squat and about to set the target, Jansen looked up at the burley Redlands catcher. “Hey, Bob, did you forget to shave this morning, or are you tryin’ ta grow a beard with all that peach fuzz on your chin?”

  Power looked back at Jansen and made an unintelligible grunting sound. “Keep it up, Jansen,” said Power. “I’ll shove this bat up—”

  “That’s enough,” said the umpire. “Let’s play ball.”

  Henry Glance’s first pitch to Bob Power was a letter-high fastball that sizzled as it passed over the outside corner of the plate. The resounding WHOP of the
ball exploding into Jansen’s catcher’s mitt was heard as far away as the parking lot, evoking a comment from one of the late arrivals. “Hank Glance must be pitching today.”

  “Hooah,” shouted the umpire, pivoting to his right and extending his right arm.

  “Wow! That one hurt my hand,” said Jansen, standing up and tossing the ball back.

  Stepping from the batter’s box, Power took two quick practice swings and stepped back in. Glance’s second pitch was an off-speed curve that dove downward and off the plate. “Ball,” shouted the umpire. “One and one.”

  Henry began rubbing up the ball as he turned away from home plate and inspected his outfield. All three outfielders had shifted to the right and were positioned with their backs against the fence. Believing that the cagey Riverside pitcher wasn’t about to give him anything good to hit, Bob Power inched closer to the plate. Turning to face his opponent, Henry made note of what Power had done. The two fierce competitors were locked in a game of ball-field chess. It was up to Henry to make the next move.

  “Hey, Glance, if you’re afraid to pitch to me, maybe you guys would like to forfeit right now,” shouted Power, squirting a thin stream of tobacco from between his two front teeth.

  “That’ll be enough, Bob,” warned the umpire.

  Henry’s next pitch was a head-high fastball that missed the powerful batsman by inches and sent him diving to the ground. “Ball,” shouted the umpire, pointing his finger at the Riverside pitcher, as if to say You’ve been warned.

  Power climbed to his feet, brushed himself off, and gave Henry an angry stare. Before stepping back in the box, he turned to Larry Jansen. “I bet you two don’t have the guts to throw me another strike.”

  “That last one just missed your head,” said Jansen, looking the enraged slugger straight in the eye. “You know how wild Hank can be sometimes.”

  “That’s enough, Larry,” said the umpire.

  Smiling, Jansen dropped to the crouch position and extended two downward-facing fingers. Henry stared in at his lifelong friend and shook his head. Without moving the target, Jansen extended one finger. Again, Henry shook him off. “Time out,” said Jansen, running out to the mound. “Whaddaya wanna do, Hank? The last time you threw this beast a changeup, he hit it half a mile.”