The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

  At the stroke of 1:00 p.m., Austin’s squeaky shocks announced his return. “How’d it go?” he whispered, stepping from the car.

  “It happened just like you said,” whispered Henry. “I watched them carry their fish down a path and into that jungle of willows next to the campground.”

  “Okay, hop in. We’ll go down and pay these guys another visit.”

  Austin pulled into the camp to discover one of the fishermen sitting at the table, drinking beer. He didn’t have to ask where the other fishermen were. He could hear them snoring from ten yards away.

  “Wha’d ya do, forget somethin’?” shouted the glassy-eyed old codger wearing overalls and a straw hat.

  “What’s your name?” said Austin, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Barney.”

  “Well, Barney, please tell your friends I’ll be back in a few minutes. Ask everyone not to leave camp.”

  Austin locked his car and followed Henry across the road toward the adjacent wetland. Just before entering a grove of stunted old-growth willows, Henry glanced back at the camp and saw Barney watching from his lawn chair, his neck outstretched and his mouth agape.

  “Looks like an army has marched through here,” mumbled Austin, ducking under an overhanging tree limb.

  “The path forks here,” said Henry, “but most of the boot tracks continue this way. It’s getting squishier as we approach the creek.”

  Reaching the stream bank, Henry saw that the footprints made a sharp right turn and continued upstream for another ten yards before stopping at a three-foot-high pile of branches. “Here’s something,” he said.

  “Wha’d ya find?” said Austin.

  “I think there’s something hidden under these branches. It looks like a tarp of some kind.”

  Breathing heavily, hands resting on his hips, Austin approached his young protégé. “Look,” he said, pointing to a nearby willow tree. “They must have brought along a chainsaw to cut all these branches.”

  “Do you want me to remove them?”

  “Before you do, let me walk back and see if there’s any film in my camera. It’s been a while since I’ve used it.”

  When Austin returned to his patrol car, all six fishermen were awake and milling around the picnic table.

  “What ya up to?” said Virgil, a slightly built, baldheaded man smoking a pipe. “Barney said ya wanted ta talk to us.”

  Reaching into the trunk of his patrol car, Austin pulled out an Argus C3 camera enclosed in a leather case. He closed the trunk and raced back down the trail.

  “Before you remove the branches, let me take a few photographs,” said Austin. “I wanna show the lengths these characters have gone to in an effort to hide their fish.” He photographed not only the pile of limbs but the chainsaw cuts on the surrounding trees.

  When Austin had finished taking photographs, Henry pulled back a tattered shower curtain to reveal three large aluminum ice chests: two silver and one red and white.

  “Okay, pop the lids, and we’ll see what these guys have been up to,” said Austin. All three ice chests were filled to the brim with iced-down trout packed in plastic bags. After taking several more photographs, Austin and Henry carried the three ice chests back to the fishing camp.

  The six anglers had gathered around the picnic table. “Which of you put your fish in this red-and-white ice chest?” said Austin.

  “None a them ice chests belong to us,” said Barney. “They musta been left here by somebody else.”

  Henry signaled Austin from the car and pointed to the chainsaw sitting on the tailgate of one of the pickups.

  “Who does the chainsaw belong to?” asked Austin.

  “It’s mine,” said Jimmy, identified as James Cameron.

  “Mr. Cameron, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to confiscate it.”

  “What for?”

  “You used it to cut all those tree branches by the creek. Then you used the branches to hide your fish.”

  Jimmy was a woodcutter by trade. It suddenly dawned on Pete, identified as Peter Smith, that if Jimmy were to lose his chainsaw, he might be living out behind Smith’s barn and burning his electricity forever. “No need for that,” said Smith. “All those ice chests belong to us.”

  With Henry tallying their findings on a notepad, Austin counted a total of 132 rainbow trout inside the three ice chests. Warden Austin explained to the fishermen that he would file a formal complaint with the Plumas County District Attorney’s office. Each of the six men would be charged with joint possession of seventy-two trout over the legal possession limit. Henry had looked forward to testifying in court, but all six fishermen forfeited bail, each paying $300.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Hey, sad sack, why all the gloom?” said Larry, climbing into Henry’s VW Beetle.

  Henry’s first semester at Chico State had ended in late May 1968. He should have been ecstatic, having received A’s in ornithology, mammalogy, ichthyology, and organic chemistry, and a hard-earned B in quantitative analysis.

  “It’s nothing,” said Henry.

  “Nothing, my ass. I’ve been around you long enough to know when something’s troubling you. What is it—that girl you’ve been seeing?” Henry made a U-turn in the middle of Chestnut Street and headed east toward Highway 99. “Come on, I’m gonna bug ya all the way to Temecula unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’ve called Anne three times this week. Every time I call, her little sister answers and says she’s not home.”

  “Did you ask where she is?”

  “I don’t get the chance. She always hangs up the phone. I’ve thought about going over there, but I’ve never met Anne’s parents, and I don’t want them to think I’m some lovesick kid who can’t live without their daughter.”

  “Have you heard from the state park?”

  “That’s another thing. The ranger I spoke with said he’d let me know if I got the job by this week. I’m supposed to go back to work at Dale’s Market on Monday. I can’t go to work in the grocery store on Monday and, a couple days later, tell the store manager I just got a call from Smokey the Bear so I’m leaving to work in the mountains of Northern California for the summer.”

  “I see your point,” said Larry. “I’ll probably stay in Temecula and work in my uncle’s hardware store like I did last summer.”

  “I know what that’s all about,” said Henry, bursting into a belly laugh.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Could her name be Jeanette Rogers? You thought I was sleeping, but I heard you talking in the hallway last night. How many quarters did you put in that phone? Every time I started to nod off, I’d hear ka-ching-ka-ching. ‘Jeanette, sweetie, are you still there?’”

  “If this is what it takes to hear you laugh again, it’s worth it,” said Larry. “When are we gonna stop and get something to eat?”

  Henry and Larry arrived in Temecula just after midnight. Everyone was in bed at the Glance farmhouse. Weary from the ten-hour drive, Henry flipped on the study lamp in his bedroom and found a pile of mail sitting on his desk. At the top of the pile was a light-blue envelope with a Chico postmark stamped in the upper right-hand corner. About to rip open the envelope, Henry was interrupted when the bedroom door opened and a dear friend walked in with her tail wagging. “Daisy!” whispered Henry, dropping to his knees and giving her a hug. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  With Daisy now lying at his feet, Henry sat at his desk and began reading from a greeting card with a photograph of Yosemite Falls on the front cover.

  Dear Henry,

  I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see you before Sara and I left on our trip. My last final exam was a few days before yours, and Sara was eager to get going. She’s driving, so I didn’t have much to say about it. I called your Chico number before we left. No one answered, so I t
hought I’d write you at your home address. Remember? You gave it to me the day we visited the wildlife refuge. You wrote it on a napkin at Wasney’s restaurant and said I might need it sometime.

  Sara and I have wanted to visit Yosemite National Park since the sixth grade. We figured this was a good time to go, since our summer jobs begin next Monday. We’ll be working in the Plumas-Eureka State Park visitor center. They even have a little cabin for us to stay in. I’m so excited!

  It looks like we won’t see each other again until classes begin in late August, so have a great summer, and I’ll look forward to seeing you then.

  Love,

  Anne

  Henry rummaged through the remaining mail, searching for any correspondence from Plumas-Eureka State Park. Finding none, he folded his arms, closed his eyes, and laid his head down on the desk. Sensing Henry’s disappointment, Daisy sat up and nudged Henry’s bare leg with her wet nose. “Daisy,” said Henry, lifting his head and smiling. “I can always count on you to make me feel better. Let’s go to bed.”

  It was 8:10 Friday morning when Henry awoke to the sound of the kitchen phone ringing. “Hello,” said Mary Glance. “Henry’s still sleeping, Mr. Travers. May he call you back?”

  “Mom, I’m awake,” shouted Henry, jumping out of bed and putting his pants on. “Don’t hang up. I’ll be right there.”

  “Henry’s on his way to the phone, Mr. Travers. Nice talking to you. Here he is.”

  “Mr. Travers,” said Henry, catching his breath. “Sorry about that. I didn’t get home until late last night.”

  “I understand,” said Travers.“I know this is kinda late notice. Are you still interested in working at the park this summer?”

  “You bet I am!”

  “When can we expect you?”

  “When would you like me there?”

  “All of the other seasonals start on Monday. Can you be here by then?”

  Henry started to answer then remembered his commitment to George Brennan at the market. “Mr. Travers, can I call you back in an hour? There’s something I need to take care of before I can give you a definite answer.”

  “Sure, Hank. I’ll be here in the office for the next hour.”

  “I’ll call you right back. Thanks so much.”

  “Mom, I have to go down to the market and see George Brennan.”

  “Can’t you call him on the phone?”

  “No. I think it would be better if I see him in person.”

  “Well, you might want to put on a shirt and some shoes.”

  George Brennan was the manager of Dale’s Market. He’d also been Henry’s Little League baseball coach and had followed Henry’s remarkable baseball career all the way through high school and junior college. As desperately as Henry wanted the state-park job, he wasn’t about to leave his mentor and longtime friend in the lurch.

  “Good morning, Thelma,” said Henry to the veteran grocery clerk who was about to wait on a customer.

  “Well if it isn’t Hank Glance. Are you back from that college up north?”

  “That’s what I need to talk to George about. Is he around?”

  “He’s in his office. You know where it is.”

  “There’s a sight for sore eyes,” said George, seeing Henry walk through the swinging green doors. “The last time I saw you, you were just comin’ outta surgery at the hospital in Riverside.”

  “A lot’s happened since then,” said Henry.

  “Hank, I’m so sorry about what happened with your pitching arm. Every time I think about that big sonofabitch slamming into you, it makes me sick.”

  “It was disappointing for a while, but I’ve moved on now.”

  “That’s good. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Business has been real slow since that subdivision went in across the highway and they built the new shopping center. Dale told me this morning that we can’t afford to hire any extra help this summer. I argued with him for twenty minutes, but he wouldn’t budge.”

  “I appreciate your trying to save my job, George, and everything else you’ve done for me over the years.”

  “It’s been a pleasure,” said George, shaking Henry’s hand. “You were a hell of a ballplayer, but I’m even more proud of the young man you’ve become.”

  “That means a lot coming from you, George. I’ll keep in touch,” said Henry, bolting for the swinging doors, waving to Thelma, and dashing toward the open storefront.

  “Where ya goin’ in such a hurry?” said Thelma.

  “To the High Sierras,” Henry shouted back.

  “Don’t forget to write.”

  “I won’t. Yahoo!”

  EIGHTEEN

  Averaging sixty miles an hour, it took Henry almost twelve hours to make the trip up Highway 395 to the mountain village of Graeagle. It was just after dark on a moonlit Sunday evening when he entered Plumas-Eureka State Park. Ron Travers had told Henry to make himself comfortable in the cabin on the left. The refrigerator would be operating, and a porch light would be left on above the door.

  Henry’s VW Beetle putted past the visitor center and down a narrow, unpaved path before it chugged to a stop between the two cabins. It was the first week in June, but at 7400 feet, there was a nip in the air when Henry stepped from the car in his OP shorts, Mexican sandals, and T-shirt. Stretching his tired back, he noticed a 1965 Chevy sedan parked near the cabin next door. All the lights were off in the cabin, so Henry figured Anne and Sara had already gone to bed.

  “Something about him looks familiar,” said Sara, peeking from the window.

  “Sara, go to bed,” said Anne, tucked in her warm sleeping bag.

  “Looks like he’s gonna unload his stuff.”

  “Sara, we have to get up early tomorrow.”

  Henry had begun to open the cabin door when the overhead porch light lit up his face. “Anne, it’s Henry!”

  “What?”

  “Our new neighbor is Henry.”

  “Sara, please stop joking around. I’m tired, and I need to get some sleep.”

  “I’m not joking, Anne. Doesn’t Henry drive a VW Bug? I tell you, it’s Henry.” Anne climbed out of her sleeping bag and hurried to the window. “He just went inside,” said Sara. “He’ll be back out in a minute.”

  Anne’s heart raced as she and Sara waited for their new neighbor to reappear. “My God, it is Henry!” said Anne.

  “How do you know? He hasn’t come out yet.”

  “His car. He left the passenger door open, and the dome light is on.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Henry puts sweatshirts over the vinyl seatbacks to keep from burning his back in the summertime. I recognize that old gray sweatshirt.”

  “Here he comes,” said Sara.

  Henry walked to his car, leaned in, and pulled a cooler from the back seat. Pushing the door closed with his foot, he returned to his cabin.

  “Hello, Henry,” came a soft voice from the wooden deck next door. Setting the heavy cooler down on the front-porch step, Henry turned to find Anne staring at him. She was dressed in her bedroom slippers and a bathrobe.

  “I bet you’re surprised to see me,” said Henry, hopping up next to her.

  “That’s an understatement,” said Anne, extending her arms and inviting a hug. “Did you get my letter?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “That’s how I knew you and Sara were here.” Henry noticed Sara watching them from the doorway. “Hi,” he said, a euphoric smile on his face. “Do you remember me from ornithology class?”

  “How could I forget? You’re the one who kept me from getting an A.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah, you and Anne set the grading curve so high, I missed out by one point.”

  “Why don’t
we all go inside,” said Anne. “It’s chilly out here.”

  “Just for a couple minutes,” said Henry. “I’ll explain why I’m here and say goodnight. Tomorrow’s gonna come early.”

  The entire summer crew had already assembled in the visitor center when Henry walked in on Monday morning at 8:00. Ron Travers introduced Henry to head ranger Jack Ketchum, a stern, gray-haired veteran who ran the park like a finely tuned instrument. Then he described the duties each seasonal was expected to perform. Anne Sharp and Sara Nichols would meet and greet visitors, answer questions in the visitor center, and conduct interpretive presentations. George Cooper, Merlin Reams, and Henry Glance would work for maintenance supervisor Harry Craddock, cleaning antique mining machinery, hosing down restrooms, hauling garbage, and clearing trails.

  Off work at 5:00, Henry would clean up and meet the girls for dinner at 6:00. Both excellent cooks, Anne and Sara offered Henry a deal he couldn’t pass up: Henry would chip in on the groceries and wash dishes in return for a homecooked meal every evening. So pleased was Henry with this arrangement, he used part of his first paycheck to buy fishing licenses for Anne and Sara.

  One morning near the end of June, Henry was reading a large map on the visitor-center wall. Finding a tiny blue dot near the eastern park boundary, he said, “This looks interesting.”

  “What looks interesting?” said a female employee standing behind the counter.

  “Madora Lake. I wonder if it contains fish.”

  Overhearing the conversation, Ranger Jack Ketchum walked out of his office. “The fishing’s no good in Madora Lake. It’s overgrown with weeds, and the mosquitoes will eat you alive,” he said.

  “That’s good to know,” said Henry. “Thanks for telling me, Jack.”

  Suspecting something fishy about Ranger Ketchum’s unsolicited advice, Henry questioned Harry Craddock about it that afternoon. “Is that what he told you?” said Craddock, a smile on his face.

  That evening after dinner, Henry asked Anne and Sara if they’d like to take a hike into Madora Lake. Usually eager to go along on outings, Sara claimed she had some reading to do and declined the offer. “I’ll go,” said Anne. “What do I need to bring?”