Sheriff Dawson shrugged off the images and moved quickly, his long legs striding mechanically as deputy Bruce had to almost jog to keep up with him.
“It’s damn creepy in the park this morning,” Bruce offered, his eyes red from a lack of sleep, and his ears tingling over the constant tongue lashing the good sheriff kept dishing out to him.
“Keep those men in line,” the sheriff barked, referring to the six deputies scurrying single file behind Bruce.
“It’s hard,” Bruce countered. “There are some icy patches, and the snow is slippery at best.”
“Damn you, Bruce,” Dawson spat out. “We’re chasing heavily armed murderers, not out on a Sunday School picnic! Get those men to drag their asses faster. Even the Indian chief here is keeping up with me.”
“Yeah, but I’m in line for that hundred grand reward,” he shouted happily. “That would add a spring to anyone’s step.”
A light beige jeep suddenly came into view, bouncing wildly over the treacherous terrain, veering off so that it blocked the progress of the eight rifle toting men.
The jeep came to a screeching halt, sending pebbles and chunks of ice flying.
Two park rangers leapt out, stepping in front of the sheriff and his men.
One of them eyed Dawson angrily, his bottom lip trembling in rage. “You were told to wait until we could rally more rangers and then let us go deep into the park together.”
“We don’t need your help,” Dawson growled. “When we want some candy asses we’ll send for the national guard.”
“I can’t let you through here,” the ranger insisted. “It’s either we hunt the men together, or you’ll have to leave the park. The FBI are on their way to assist as well. And we have sniffing dogs on route. They should help us locate where the murderers are hold up. We want our law enforcement officer numbers to be at least a hundred strong before we go half cocked through the park, shooting off rounds where innocent bystanders might be.”
Sheriff Dawson was suddenly enraged, his nose flaring wildly, and his face reddening. He grabbed the park ranger by the collar and flung him hard up against the jeep.
“Those four men committed murders in my jurisdiction and they are going to be captured by me dead or alive, and brought back to my jurisdiction. And if you get in my way, I’ll slap you silly six ways to Sunday. Besides, by the time the FBI, dogs, and your precious reinforcements get here, we’ll have captured or killed those bastards anyways. The Indian chief here says he can find them through some hocus pocus bullshit, and as much as I hate to admit it, I believe him. Isn’t that right chief?”
“I sense their auras. They’re only about two hours away, just over that ridge and tucked into a cave.”
“You hear that park ranger? Only two hours away! And cornered in a stone room like rats in a trap.”
Dawson let go of his collar and signaled to his men to start moving again. They followed him with gusto, single file, ascending the rocky hillside as best and as fast as they could.
The sun was glaring brightly now, unfettered by a cloudless sky as a blinding white reflected off the shimmering snow.
The climb was arduous, but the eight trotted onward and upward, ignoring the curses from the two park rangers as they scrambled back in their jeep and made the bouncing four wheel trek back down the hill towards park headquarters.
****
“Are you sure it’s them? It’s so large a group?”
“Positively,” answered the chief excitedly. “Only the group of stags has grown dramatically into six shape shifters, two does and three regular stags. That’s eleven in all.”
“So which are the four murderers?”
“Damn! Hard to say,” the chief spat out. “There are definitely six shapeshifters within the group, but because the eleven are all so close together, I can’t pick out the individuals.”
“Why don’t we just shoot all eleven?” Bruce exclaimed. “All this walking on the ice and snow is giving me frostbite.”
“Good idea,” the chief replied, his anxious eyes lighting up like two saucers. “As soon as you kill the deer, they’ll revert back to human form, then you’ll have you murderer’s bodies.”
Dawson raised his rifle, but the sudden loud whir of an arriving helicopter caught his attention. The ensuing voice caused him to lower his rifle.
“This is special agent Daniels from the FBI. Please remain where you are and hold your fire.”
A second helicopter now came in view, and both of them quickly landed side by side on the flat stone ridge overlooking the valley below.
A dozen men, all with FBI jackets strapped on, piled out of the first chopper.
Another dozen men, all park rangers with distinctive yellow jackets, hopped out of the second chopper.
In mere moments the sheriff and his men were surrounded, and were asked to throw down their weapons.
****
The coffee was hot, and hit the spot.
“That’s the one good thing you can do well,” Dawson remarked to Bruce, “is make great coffee.”
“Thanks, but I still can’t believe they forced us to go out of Yellowstone empty handed.”
“Neither can I. But I can’t say I blame them for not believing the chief’s story about the stags really being the human murderers.”
“Do you believe it?” Bruce asked.
“Would I have gone to Yellowstone National Park if I didn’t?”
“Damnedest thing, humans being able to take deer form. I suppose I don’t quite believe it myself. So what happens now?”
“We’re banned from the park,” Dawson said with a sigh. “So I suppose nothing happens. It’s against the park rules to hunt in the park and the FBI thought I was a raving lunatic talking about humans taking the shape of deer.”
“That old Indian wasn’t too happy about not getting any reward money.”
“Yeah, well I wasn’t too happy about not being able to bag my murderers either. Yellowstone Park will probably turn out to be their best hiding place, just hanging out among the stags.”
A Presidential Closet: Going Boldly Where No Gay Has Gone Before Page 9
