The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

  “A likely story,” said Haskins, laughing. “I forgot y’all were in a different time zone.”

  “No problem. I’m just glad you called.”

  “What can I do for ya?”

  “Do you have a few minutes? This may take a while.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doin’ right now. You talk, and I’ll listen.”

  Kindred spirits, Henry Glance and Luke Haskins carried on their conversation for over an hour. Before getting down to the business at hand, Henry asked Haskins about his background and how he liked being an Oklahoma wildlife officer.

  Twenty-three-year-old Haskins had entered the University of Oklahoma on a partial baseball scholarship, intending to become a pharmacist, like his father. “I couldn’t handle all those chemistry classes and play baseball at the same time,” said Haskins, “so I switched my major to liberal studies, with an emphasis on criminal justice. About three years ago, I took the warden’s exam, and here I am.”

  “What position did you play?”

  “Game warden.”

  “No, I mean on the baseball field.”

  “I knew what you meant,” said Haskins, laughing. “I played catcher.”

  “Did you start for U of O?”

  “No. I was good enough to make the team but spent most of my college baseball career warming up pitchers in the bullpen. What about you?”

  “I pitched two years for Riverside City College and was offered a scholarship to play for Stanford but ended up breaking my left wrist. That was the end of my baseball career.”

  “That’s too bad. I bet you were pretty disappointed.”

  “I was devastated at the time, but things turned out better than I expected.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I ended up graduating from a great four-year school in Northern California, meeting the love of my life, and becoming a Fish and Game warden. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  Getting down to business, Glance told Haskins the story of Warden Norman Bettis’s mysterious disappearance. It was Haskins’s assignment, should he decide to accept it, to go to Kingfisher, find out if Tucker Stillwell or any of his relatives were still around, and learn as much as he could about the person who stole the .30-30 rifle.

  Haskins snickered.

  “Why are you laughing?” said Henry.

  “Do you have any other names you’d like me to check out?”

  “Two others. Why?”

  “Would either of them be Bogar?” Haskins heard Henry drop the phone.

  “Luke, is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  “The Stillwells and the Bogars have been poaching deer, bear, ducks, quail, squirrels, rabbits, paddlefish, and every other critter in these parts since way before I was born.”

  “Are the Stillwells and the Bogars related?”

  “They’re related all right. A bunch of ’em live over in Kingfisher. Another part of the clan lives in Watonga. And a few live up here in Blaine, where I am. Every time I get a call about somebody jacklightin’ deer in the middle of the night, it turns out to be a Stillwell, a Bogar, or both. There must be fifty of ’em, and they’re all related.”

  “Well, just so you know, the other two folks I’d like you to check out are Ardis Bogar and his son, Hollis Bogar. Ardis apparently went by the nickname of Dud.”

  “That figures,” said Haskins. “I’ll do some nosin’ around and see what I can come up with. I might take Sam Turner with me. He’s a veteran warden who’s chased these outlaws around for years and may know one or two of ’em willing to talk to us.”

  Henry heard back from Luke Haskins three days later, on Friday evening, May 1, 1970. “Hank, buddy, I got some information for ya.”

  “That’s great, Luke. I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “This afternoon, Sam Turner and I drove to Kingfisher and spoke with Grandma Stillwell. Sam said she was the matriarch of the Stillwell clan and the only one likely to tell us anything. Those folks do not like law enforcement, especially game wardens. We drove down a dirt road, passed a couple keep-out signs, and came to a half-dozen shacks out in the pucker brush. It was just like on Hee Haw: chickens runnin’ around and a hound dog sleepin’ on the front porch. Grandma Stillwell was out there on the porch with the dog, sittin’ in a rockin’ chair.”

  “Was she willing to talk to you?”

  “Grandma Stillwell, whose name is Emma, turned out to be the sweetest little thing you’d ever wanna meet. She told us everything we wanted to know, and more.”

  “I’m anxious to hear all about it.”

  “Okay,” said Haskins. “Stop me if I go too fast. Tucker Stillwell was Emma’s husband for over seventy years. He passed away two years ago, at the age of ninety. One of Tucker’s prized possessions was a Winchester .30-30 rifle that he kept in a leather case, hidden under the bed.”

  “The one I told you about, with the fancy engraving?”

  “That’s the one. Revis Stillwell was Tucker’s and Emma’s second son. He married Loretta Bogar. Revis and Loretta had a son they named Ferlin, after their favorite country singer, Ferlin Husky. Small for his age, Ferlin grew up fightin’, stealin’, and gettin’ in trouble. He hated being called Ferlin, so everyone called him Richie, seein’ that his middle name was Richard.”

  “I’m following you so far.”

  “Good,” said Haskins. “Ardis Bogar, known to friends and family as Dud, was Loretta Stillwell’s older brother. At the age of twenty-five, he was workin’ on a chain gang over in Guthrie when he escaped and ran off to California. Dud would later marry a woman named Virginia, who left him two years later with a stack of bills and a son named Hollis.”

  “What about the rifle?”

  “I’m gettin’ to that. Richie Stillwell had always admired his grandpa’s fancy rifle. One day, Tucker reached under the bed to get his rifle, and it was gone.”

  “Did she say when that was?”

  “I asked her, and she said it was either 1954 or 1955, but Tucker never reported it stolen until two or three years later.”

  “Why did he wait so long to report it?”

  “I asked her that too. She said a Stillwell would never snitch on another Stillwell. Apparently, ol’ Tucker felt that enough time had passed and Richie had probably sold the rifle or lost it somehow. Just in case the law ended up with it, Tucker wanted it back.”

  “Any idea where Richie Stillwell is now?”

  “Grandma said Richie came back from California just before Christmas, in 1956. When he showed up at the house without the rifle, Tucker told Emma to send him away. A week later, they heard that Richie had robbed a gas station in Oklahoma City and killed the attendant. Emma said her grandson Richie died in the electric chair two years later. I checked on that and found out Ferlin Richard Stillwell was executed at Oklahoma State Prison in 1958.”

  “Luke, were you able to find out anything about Hollis Bogar?”

  “Jeb and I talked to Loretta Stillwell about her nephew Hollis. She said nobody’s heard anything about him since Dud passed away.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” said Henry. “If there’s anything I can ever do for you, please give me a call.”

  “I will,” said Luke. “Please let me know if you crack that case. You have my phone number. I’ll be sure to mail you the documentation on Stillwell.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It was mid-August 1970 when Anne returned from Plumas-Eureka State Park, where she and her friend Sara had spent their third summer working as seasonal employees. Excited to see her future husband, she dropped Sara off in Chico and raced down Highway 99 to Henry’s rented farmhouse outside Gridley.

  Henry and Anne spent a couple of hours getting reacquainted and had dinner in town before venturing out on Henry’s front porch to watch the sun go down. “This is w
here I spend most of my time when I’m not working,” said Henry. “That noisy old swamp cooler doesn’t work so well when it’s this hot and humid.”

  “It’s nice out here,” said Anne. “I can feel a breeze coming from that alfalfa field.”

  “That’s because they just irrigated. I slept out here on the porch most of July, thinking about you up there in the mountains.”

  “Wasn’t it uncomfortable sleeping on this splintery old porch?”

  “Not at all. I just blew up my air mattress, covered it with a sheet, and brought out my pillow. Next thing I knew, it was daylight and Molly was licking my face.”

  “Molly? Who’s Molly?”

  “Molly is the neighbor’s black Lab. She trots down here every morning about the time Glen Darby turns on the barn lights and begins milking his cows. She visits for a while, then I give her a treat and send her back home.”

  “Will she be here in the morning, before I leave?”

  “What time are you leaving?”

  “I have a meeting with my teaching supervisor at 10:00, so I’ll have to leave for Chico by 7:30. I want to go home first and change clothes.”

  “Anne, are you going to mind living here for a while after we get married? I know this old farmhouse is pretty run down, but will it do until we can afford a place of our own?”

  “Henry, as long as I’m with you, I can live anywhere. Besides, I like being out here in the country. It’s so peaceful.”

  “You might think differently when Darby’s rooster starts crowing at four o’clock in the morning.”

  “I want our life together to be one big adventure, Henry.”

  “I have a feeling it will be, Anne.”

  Anne had left for Chico at 7:30, and Henry was about to open the barn door when the phone rang. “That’s probably the captain,” said Henry. “He calls like clockwork, every Monday morning. Come on, Molly. I’ll give you a dog biscuit, then you have to go home.” Running up the back steps and into the kitchen, Henry answered, “Good morning, Chuck. I think it’s gonna be another hot one today.”

  “Not where I am,” said the familiar voice on the other end of the line. “It’s colder than a well-driller’s ass in December here in Bozeman.”

  “Is this Gary?” said Henry, laughing.

  “It sure as hell is,” said Gary Lytle, Henry’s college friend from Mrs. Iverson’s basement.

  “Anne and I were just talking about you last night, Gary. How do you like living in Montana?”

  “The wind blows all the time, but I’m getting used to it. Speaking of Anne, did you guys tie the knot yet?”

  “We’re leaning toward next May, when she gets her teaching credential.”

  “Are you gonna have a wedding?”

  “If we do, you’ll be one of the first people we invite.”

  “I’ll look forward to that, Hank. You and Anne are two of my favorite people. I don’t know anyone I trust more than you. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling.”

  “I appreciate your saying that, Gary. Is your outfitter business going well?”

  “My dad has had some health problems, so he turned it completely over to me.”

  “Nothing like jumping right into the fire. What does that involve?”

  “I book clients, arrange trips, buy supplies, and make sure everyone gets paid, while our three foremen take care of the dudes.”

  “Dudes?”

  “That’s what our horse handlers call clients. Hank, do you have a few minutes? There’s something serious I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “I’ve got all day, Gary.”

  “If anything comes of this, after you hear what I have to say, I want it understood that I’ll only deal with you.”

  “I guess you better tell me what’s on your mind. This does sound serious.”

  “Last season, we took this wealthy oil executive from Piedmont, Oklahoma, and his twenty-two-year-old son on a Rocky Mountain bighorn hunt in Colorado. The oil executive’s name is Winthrop Thaddeus Burnside, if you can believe that. He told us to call him Thad.”

  “What is it about Oklahoma?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a long story, Gary. I’ll tell you about it some other time. Was the bighorn hunt successful?”

  “It was. Our client bagged a Boone and Crockett class trophy ram. Mr. Burnside had previously killed a stone sheep in British Columbia and a Dall sheep in Alaska. After killing that big Rocky Mountain ram in Colorado, he became obsessed with the idea of killing a desert bighorn and completing what they call a grand slam.”

  “I’m familiar with that,” said Henry.

  “That’s all this guy and his son talked about all the way back down the mountain. They must have asked five times if we could arrange a desert bighorn hunt.”

  “What did you tell ’em?”

  “I told ’em we weren’t licensed in Arizona or Nevada and I didn’t think California allowed desert bighorn hunts. That’s when Beau Burnside, Thad’s son, started whining about how difficult it was to get drawn for a sheep hunt and couldn’t we pull a few strings. Some of these wealthy clients are used to getting their way and don’t like taking no for an answer.”

  “So, did you pull a few strings?”

  “I didn’t, but I found out later that my foreman Ray Sutton had given Beau the name and phone number of a guide he knew in Arizona.”

  “What’s this guide’s name?”

  “His name is Porter Sledge, but Ray says he goes by Sonny.”

  “Is Sledge a legitimate licensed guide or just an outlaw friend of your foreman’s?”

  “I suspect the latter.

  “I’m all ears, Gary.”

  “This morning, I received a phone call from Beau Burnside. Beau tells me his father turns sixty in September and he’s arranged a desert bighorn hunt with this Sledge character as a surprise birthday gift.”

  “Sounds like trouble to me.”

  “I’m thinkin’, I hope you didn’t send him any money.”

  “Did he?”

  “What do you think? Sledge wanted a five-thousand-dollar deposit, so Beau sent him a check. The hunt is scheduled for the third week in September.”

  “Did Sledge ask Beau who had referred him? That’s usually a clue as to whether or not this guy is a legitimate guide.”

  “Sledge did ask, and Beau told him he got his name and number from Ray Sutton. After hearing Ray’s name, Sledge became quite accommodating.”

  “This is becoming more interesting all the time. What happened next?”

  “As it turns out, Thad Burnside has been working on this big oil deal in Saudi Arabia and will be out of the country the third week in September.”

  “Did Beau ask for his deposit back?”

  “He did, and what do you think Sledge’s answer was?”

  “Sledge told him his deposit was nonrefundable.”

  “You guessed it. Sledge said Beau was welcome to come in his father’s place but the check had already been cashed and the money spent.”

  “Did Beau press the issue?”

  “He did, and Sledge essentially told him to pound sand down a rat hole. According to Beau, Sledge sounded like he was drunk.”

  “What does this Beau expect you to do?”

  “Since Ray Sutton works for Big Sky Outfitters and Guide Service and he turned Beau onto Sledge, Beau thinks it’s our responsibility to somehow get his money back. I thought about hanging up on him, then I remembered you were a game warden and might be interested in this.”

  “Arizona and Nevada are out of my jurisdiction, Gary.”

  “I figured that, but you may feel differently when you hear the rest of the story.”

  “You mean there’s more?”

  “A lot more. I asked Beau to give me a day or two to try to come u
p with something. Then I called Ray Sutton and told him to meet me in my office.”

  “What kind of person is Ray Sutton?”

  “Ray’s a decent, hardworking cowboy who hasn’t always used the best judgment. I told him if he wanted to keep his job, he’d better come clean and tell me everything he knows about Sonny Sledge. Ray got married recently and his wife is pregnant, so the prospect of losing his job got his immediate attention.”

  “I bet it did.”

  “About a year and a half ago, Ray met Sledge in Las Vegas for a weekend of gambling, drinking, and who knows what else. They got drunk one night and Sledge spilled his guts about this little side business he’s been running. Sledge is a part-time mechanic and lives in Bullhead City, Arizona; Bullhead City is twenty miles from Needles, California. Every chance Sledge gets, he goes exploring in the mountains outside of Needles. Ray gave me the names of the mountains, and I wrote them down. There’s the Providence Mountains, the Old Woman Mountains, and the Turtle Mountains. All of them contain bighorn sheep. Sledge knows where the springs and water holes in these mountains are located. During the hot summers, the sheep must come to water, and that’s when they’re easy pickings. Those were Sledge’s words, according to Ray.”

  “Interesting,” said Henry.

  “There’s more,” said Lytle. “Sledge has an associate who lives two blocks from the Needles game warden and monitors his every move. The warden is an older man who maintains a predictable schedule. His days off are Mondays and Tuesdays so that’s when Sledge and his partner conduct their dirty business.”

  “What about taxidermy work? Does Sledge arrange to have his clients’ trophies mounted?”

  “I asked Ray about that. He said Sledge’s partner is an expert skinner. He capes the rams in nothing flat, and they drag the carcasses out in the creosote for the buzzards to feast on. Sledge is apparently in cahoots with an outlaw taxidermist in Las Vegas named Kurt Schuler. Schuler has a shop in Las Vegas but apparently does his real work in an old warehouse. Sledge didn’t tell Ray where the warehouse was but hinted that it was north of the city. He also told Ray he’s seen everything from polar bears to Siberian tigers in Schuler’s warehouse. Schuler has five or six Mexican laborers doing the skinning and grunt work for him. Since they’re in the country illegally, he pays them next to nothing.”