{"product_id":"open-season-isbn-9780399576614","title":"Open Season","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe   first novel in the thrilling series featuring Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett from #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author C. J. Box.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Joe Pickett is the new game warden in Twelve Sleep, Wyoming, a town where   nearly everyone hunts and the game warden—especially one like Joe who won't   take bribes or look the other way—is far from popular. When he finds a local   hunting outfitter dead, splayed out on the woodpile behind his state-owned   home, he takes it personally. There had to be a reason that the outfitter,   with whom he's had run-ins before, chose his backyard, his woodpile to die   in. Even after the \"outfitter murders,\" as they have been dubbed by   the local press after the discovery of the two more bodies, are solved, Joe   continues to investigate, uneasy with the easy explanation offered by the   local police.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As Joe digs deeper into the murders, he soon discovers that the outfitter   brought more than death to his backdoor: he brought Joe an endangered   species, thought to be extinct, which is now living in his woodpile. But if   word of the existence of this endangered species gets out, it will destroy   any chance of InterWest, a multi-national natural gas company, building   an oil pipeline that would bring the company billions of dollars across   Wyoming, through the mountains and forests of Twelve Sleep. The closer Joe   comes to the truth behind the outfitter murders, the endangered species and   InterWest, the closer he comes to losing everything he holds dear. | \u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eOpen Season\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Meet Joe Pickett: He’s going to be a mystery star.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“C. J. Box is a great storyteller.”—Tony Hillerman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A great crime novel.”—Lee Child\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A muscular first novel…Box writes as straight as his characters shoot, and he has a stand-up hero to shoulder his passionate concerns about endangered lives and liberties.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Intriguing, with a forest setting so treacherous it makes Nevada Barr’s locales look positively comfy, with a motive for murder that is as unique as any in modern fiction. Pickett is a refreshingly human and befuddled hero...But it’s Box’s offbeat way of telling the story that puts it on the best of the year track.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“C.J. Box might represent an endangered species himself: a first novelist who is getting his due…Box’s book has it all\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003esuspenseful plot, magnificent scenery and a flawed male hero who is tough but truly connected to his family…profoundly memorable.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eBoston Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Every few years a first novel appears that immediately sets itself apart from the crowd. As readers, we feel that special shock of recognition that announces, ‘Here is something special.’ Taking dead aim with his first sentence…Box remains square on target throughout this nearly word-perfect debut...Best of all, the soft-spoken Joe Pickett is a Gary Cooper for our time.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A high-country \u003ci\u003ePresumed Innocent\u003c\/i\u003e that moves like greased lightning.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Pickett [is] an engaging change from the fast-driving, trigger-happy male heroes of so many contemporary crime novels.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eWashington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e | \u003cb\u003eC. J. Box\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of twenty-five Joe Pickett novels, eight stand-alone novels, and a story collection. He has won the Edgar, Anthony, Macavity, Gumshoe, and two Barry awards, as well as the French Prix Calibre .38, the Western Heritage Award for Literature, and two Spur Awards. An avid outdoorsman, Box has hunted, fished, hiked, ridden, and skied throughout Wyoming and the Mountain West. He has been executive producer on television series based on his books, including ABC TV’s \u003ci\u003eBig Sky\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eJoe Pickett\u003c\/i\u003e on Paramount+. | \u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e A \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e One of the \u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e’s Ten Best Mysteries of 2001\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e Edgar® Award Nominee for Best First Novel by an American Author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eUNPRECEDENTED ACCLAIM FROM CRITICS AND PEERS FOR C. J. BOX’S\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eOPEN SEASON\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Buy two copies of \u003ci\u003eOpen Season\u003c\/i\u003e, and save one in mint condition to sell to first-edition collectors. C. J. Box is a great storyteller.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—Tony Hillerman\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Intriguing, with a forest setting so treacherous it makes Nevada Barr’s locales look positively comfy, with a motive for murder that is as unique as any in modern fiction. Pickett is a refreshingly human and befuddled hero. . . . But it’s Box’s offbeat way of telling the story that puts it on the best-of-the-year track.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Los Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“C. J. Box has hit the bull’s-eye his first time up. \u003ci\u003eOpen Season\u003c\/i\u003e  explores an honorable man’s love of family and the unflinching measures such a man is willing to take to protect them. Riveting suspense mingles with flashes of cynical back-country humor and makes Box an author to watch. I didn’t want this book to end.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—Margaret Maron\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“C. J. Box . . . certainly knows the Wyoming territory Pickett covers. . . . Pickett is deceptive and complicated himself, a struggling young husband and father who combines eagerness and ambition, strength and fragility into an interesting, original package.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Chicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Pickett [is] an engaging change from the fast-driving, trigger-happy male heroes of so many contemporary crime novels. . . . What really sets \u003ci\u003eOpen Season\u003c\/i\u003e apart, however, is the author’s ability to incorporate the viewpoints of his hero’s seven-year-old daughter into the story. Box does a very fine job of capturing the heart and fears of a young girl. . . . She is, indeed, an integral part of the story, and she adds a warm counterbalance to the relentless greed of the adults surrounding her. \u003ci\u003eOpen Season\u003c\/i\u003e is a very promising debut.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Washington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A fabulous debut—a great crime novel and a great modern-day western rolled into one. All the elements are here: a tremendous sense of Wyoming’s scenic grandeur, vivid characters, and a high-stakes plot that moves like a rifle bullet. Plus, as a bonus, hero Joe Pickett’s daughter, Sheridan, is the best-written child character I’ve read in a long time. C. J. Box is a keeper, and I for one hope he’ll write a few more like this one—soon.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—Lee Child\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOpen Season\u003c\/i\u003e rings true . . . Box nails the taste and smell of the place, and in the process, creates a sensory experience that can be rare in fast-paced, plot-driven crime fiction—without stalling the plot. He finds a way to weave the mysteries of landscape into the larger mystery at hand . . . Box’s yarn is full of the kind of grittiness a reader can expect from a place where blood and bone are not just the stuff of crime fiction, but of sport and survival, too.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Denver Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“C. J. Box knows the Wyoming high country inside out, and his protagonist, Game Warden Joe Pickett, is as real and refreshing as they come. This one is a hunting trip and then some.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—Les Standiford\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“C. J. Box has written a fast-paced, intelligent mystery that draws us into the wide open spaces of Wyoming and introduces a memorable hero: Game Warden Joe Pickett, unwilling detective and a man with a conscience. A page-turner and a remarkable debut.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—Margaret Coel\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Every few years a first novel appears that immediately sets itself apart from the crowd. As readers, we feel that special shock of recognition that announces, ‘Here is something special. ’ Taking dead aim with his first sentence . . . Box remains square on target throughout this nearly word-perfect debut. . . . Best of all, the soft-spoken Joe Pickett is a Gary Cooper for our time.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The unusual setting and flawed characters make for an enlightening, as well as suspenseful, read.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—New York Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOpen Season\u003c\/i\u003e is a lean, fast-moving thriller that proves you don’t need an urban landscape to make the pages turn. With the exception of James Dickey, I can’t think of another writer who has managed to wring so much white-knuckled terror out of rural America. This is a truly outstanding read.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—Loren D. Estleman\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOpen Season\u003c\/i\u003e is a western deco, vividly painted and fun as hell. I know nothing of the West, but C. J. Box is a superb guide—and also a very good novelist.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—Randy Wayne White\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“[A] debut mystery to be savored . . . Joe Pickett is a modern-day Gary Cooper, soft-spoken and good-hearted . . . [A] clever mix of mystery, western, and scenery-to-die-for . . . Box has created an enduring hero in Joe. . . . Once you stake out \u003ci\u003eOpen Season\u003c\/i\u003e, you won’t want to turn loose until the limit is bagged and the back cover is closed.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Jackson (MS) Clarion-Ledger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e Also by C. J. Box\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Joe Pickett Novels\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOPEN SEASON \u003cbr\u003eSAVAGE RUN \u003cbr\u003eWINTERKILL \u003cbr\u003eTROPHY HUNT \u003cbr\u003eOUT OF RANGE \u003cbr\u003eIN PLAIN SIGHT \u003cbr\u003eFREE FIRE \u003cbr\u003eBLOOD TRAIL\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBLUE HEAVEN\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePublished by the Penguin Group\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePenguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada \u003cbr\u003e(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia \u003cbr\u003e(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand \u003cbr\u003e(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, \u003cbr\u003eSouth Africa\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOPEN SEASON\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA Berkley Prime Crime Book \/ published by arrangement with the author\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCopyright © 2001 by C. J. Box.\u003cp\u003eExcerpt from \u003ci\u003eSavage Run\u003c\/i\u003e copyright © 2002 by C. J. Box.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, \u003cbr\u003ea division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., \u003cbr\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeISBN : 978-1-101-46380-2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBERKLEY ® PRIME CRIME \u003cbr\u003ePRIME CRIME Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, \u003cbr\u003ea division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., \u003cbr\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eTo Molly, Becky, Roxanne, and especially for Laurie—\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003emy partner, my anchor, my first reader, my love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAnd thanks to Andy Whelchel and Martha Bushko, who\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ebrought this to life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTable of Contents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDedication\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePrologue\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePART ONE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 3\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 4\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePART TWO\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 5\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 6\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 7\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 8\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 9\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 10\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePART THREE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 11\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 12\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 13\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 14\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 15\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 16\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 17\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePART FOUR\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 18\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 19\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 20\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 21\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 22\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 23\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePART FIVE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 24\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 25\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 26\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 27\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 28\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 29\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 30\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 31\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 32\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 33\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePART SIX\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 34\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 35\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 36\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 37\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePART SEVEN\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEpilogue\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn exciting preview of STONE COLD\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePrologue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eWhen a high-powered\u003c\/b\u003e rifle bullet hits living flesh it makes a distinctive—\u003ci\u003epow-WHOP\u003c\/i\u003e—sound that is unmistakable even at tremendous distance. There is rarely an echo or fading reverberation or the tailing rumbling hum that is the sound of a miss. The guttural boom rolls over the terrain but stops sharply in a close-ended way, as if jerked back. A hit is blunt and solid like an airborne grunt. When the sound is heard and identified, it isn’t easily forgotten.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen Wyoming Game Warden Joe Pickett heard the sound, he was building a seven-foot elk fence on the perimeter of a rancher’s haystack. He paused, his fencing pliers frozen in midtwirl. Then he stepped back, lowered his head, and listened. He slipped the pliers into the back pocket of his jeans and took off his straw cowboy hat to wipe his forehead with a bandanna. His red uniform shirt stuck to his chest, and he felt a single, warm trickle of sweat crawl down his spine into his Wranglers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe waited. He had learned over the years that it was easy to be fooled by sounds of any kind outside, away from town. A single, sharp crack heard at a distance could be a  rifle shot, yes, but it could also be a tree falling, a branch snapping, a cow breaking through a sheet of ice in the winter, or the backfire of a motor. “Don’t confirm the first gunshot until you hear the second” was a basic tenet of the outdoors. Good poachers knew that, too. It tended to improve their aim.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn a way, Joe hoped he wouldn’t hear a second shot. The fence wasn’t done, and if someone was shooting, it was his duty to investigate. Joe had been on the job for a only a week, and he was hopelessly backlogged with work that had accumulated since the legendary Warden Vern Dunnegan had retired three months before. It was the state’s responsibility to keep the elk herds out of private hay, and the pile of work orders on his desk for elk fence was nearly an inch high. Even if he built fence from dawn to dusk, he didn’t see how he could possibly get it all done before hunting season started.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was nothing really unusual about gunshots ringing out at any time of day or night or at any time of the year in Twelve Sleep County, Wyoming. Everybody owned guns. A rancher could be shooting at a coyote, or some of the boys from town could be out sighting in their rifles on a target.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003ePow-WHOP.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe’s eyes swung northwest toward the direction of the second shot, toward the foothills of the mountains where outstretched fingers of timber reached down into the high sage that reflected blue in the heat. The shot had come from a long way, three to five miles.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaxine, Joe’s eight-year-old yellow Labrador, also heard the shot, and bounded from her pool of shadow under Joe’s green Ford pickup. She knew it was time to go to work. Joe opened the passenger door with the Wyoming Game and Fish logo on it, and she leaped in. Before he closed the door, he unsheathed his Winchester .270 rifle and scope from its scabbard case behind the seat and fitted  the rifle into the gun rack across the back window. His gun belt was coiled in a pile on the floorboard of the truck, so he picked it up and he buckled it on. Even though regulations dictated that he wear his sidearm at all times, Joe hated driving with his holster on because the heavy pistol jabbed him in the back.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs he climbed into the pickup, there were two more quick shots, one after the other. The first shot wafted across the brush and hay. The second was definitely another hit. Joe thought it was likely that at least two—and possibly three—animals were down.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe shoved the pickup into four-wheel drive and headed west toward the mountains, driving as fast as he could without losing control of the wheel. There were no established roads, so he kept the left tires in a cow track while the right wheels bounced through knee-high, then thigh-high, sagebrush. Maxine leaned into the windshield with both of her large paws on the dashboard, balancing against the violent pitching of the terrain. Her tongue swung from side to side and spattered the dashboard with dog spit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Get ready,” Joe told her—although for what he didn’t know.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey plunged into a dry wash and ground up out of it, the tires independently grabbing dirt and shooting plumes of dust into the air. Joe nearly lost his grip on the steering wheel as it wrenched hard to the right and left, then he regained control and powered up a brushy slope. His mouth was dry, and he was, quite frankly, very scared.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eA game warden\u003c\/b\u003e in the field rarely encountered anyone who wasn’t armed. Hunters, of course, had rifles, shot-guns, and sidearms. Hikers, fishers, and campers all too often were packing. Even archery hunters had bows capable of rocketing a razor-sharp broad-head arrow through his pickup door. But that was during hunting season. This was  the middle of summer, and there were no seasons open. The only kind of people who would be knocking down big animals now would be poachers or cattle rustlers, and either could be desperate and dangerous if caught in the act.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe Pickett topped the small hill and quickly sized up the situation: three large buck mule deer were dead, lying on their sides, on the bottom of the saddle slope. Their throats had been cut to bleed them, but they hadn’t been opened up yet to field dress. A bearded man wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a King Ropes cap straddled the largest of the bucks. He was a big man, built solidly with thick arms and a barrel chest. His T-shirt read HAPPINESS IS A WARM GUT PILE. He outweighed Joe by at least 40 pounds, but he didn’t seem menacing, only very upset with the fact that he had been caught. He held a dripping knife in his hand. His rifle was propped up in a tall sagebrush about 50 feet away from him. He appeared not to have a sidearm. His pickup, a battered three-quarter-ton GMC, nosed out of the timber on the opposite slope.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe squinted up at Joe’s pickup and his face fell open. “Oh, fuck me,” the man said, loud enough for Joe to hear over the whine of the engine.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe drove quickly down the hill and positioned his Ford between the man and the rifle so the poacher couldn’t lunge for it. Joe got out, told Maxine to stay, and approached the man and the downed deer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Please drop the knife,” Joe asked, sizing up the deer and the poacher. The poacher tossed the knife aside into the grass. Joe saw no reason to draw his revolver. Joe rarely found a reason to draw his weapon, and even if he did, he doubted he could hit anything with it. Joe was a notoriously bad pistol shot at any range, the worst in his class.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re about four months early for deer season, you know,” Joe said. He now recognized the man, a local outfitter named Ote Keeley. Joe had seen his photo and a reference  request for an outfitter’s license on his desk his first day on the job.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOte sighed. “Meat for the pot, Warden. Just meat for the pot. Some of us got a family to feed.” Ote had a deep Southern accent. Joe couldn’t identify the state.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe squatted over the nearest and largest buck deer and ran his fingers over the soft velvet that still covered the antlers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Seems to me you didn’t have to kill the only trophies in the herd just to fill your freezer.” He looked up at Ote Keeley, his eyes hard. “A meat hunter would have probably been happy with a big dry doe or two.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe knew there was a black market for antlers in velvet, and that racks this size would command thousands of dollars in Asia where they were thought to possess healing powers as well as serve as an aphrodisiac when ground up and ingested.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m going to have to write you up. Ote Keeley, isn’t it?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOte was genuinely surprised. His face flushed red.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re gosh-darned kidding me, right?” Ote asked, as if avoiding an additional ticket for cursing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe stood and pulled his ticket book out of his back pocket and flipped it open. “No, I’m not kidding.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOte stepped toward Joe over the downed deer he was straddling. “Hey—I know you. You’re the brand-new game warden, ain’t you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe nodded and began to fill out the citation.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I heard about you. Everybody has. You’re the bonehead who arrested the governor of Wyoming for fishing without a license, right?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe could feel his neck getting hot.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I didn’t know he was the governor,” Joe said, wishing he hadn’t said anything.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOte Keeley laughed and slapped his thigh.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Didn’t know he was the governor,” Ote repeated. “I  read about that in the paper. Everybody did. ‘Rookie Game Warden Arrests Governor Budd.’ ”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOte turned serious: “Hey, you’re not really going to ticket me, are you? I’m a professional hunting outfitter. I can’t feed my family if my outfitter’s license gets pulled. I’m not kidding. I’m sure we can work this out.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe looked up at Ote Keeley. “I’m not kidding, either. Now give me your driver’s license.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was as if Ote Keeley, for the first time, realized what was really happening. Joe was amazed at the man’s almost staggering stupidity. Joe caught Ote glancing toward where he had left his rifle.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“There’s more animals in Wyoming than people,” Ote spat. “These critters won’t be missed by anyone. That herd ran nearly thirty. Vern Dunnegan wouldn’t have pulled this  \u003ci\u003eshit.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m not Vern Dunnegan.” Joe said, hiding his surprise about what Ote had said about his predecessor and mentor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You sure as hell ain’t,” Ote Keeley said bitterly, as he pulled his wallet out of his jeans and held it out for Joe. As Joe reached for it, Ote grabbed Joe’s arm and jerked it past him, throwing Joe off balance. Ote had Joe’s revolver out of the holster before he could recover.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor a brief second, Joe Pickett and Ote Keeley stared at each other in genuine surprise, then Ote raised the pistol and aimed it squarely at Joe’s face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Uh-oh, look what just happened,” Ote said, a little in awe.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I would suggest you give that back,” Joe answered, trying to keep his face from twitching. He was terrified. “Give it back and we’ll call it even.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOte Keeley smoothly cocked the hammer of the revolver. Joe watched the cylinder rotate. Dull noses of lead filled each chamber, and the mouth of the barrel was black and huge, gaping. Ote wrapped his other hand around the grip, steadying his aim.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Now we’re in really, \u003ci\u003ereally\u003c\/i\u003e fucking deep,” Ote said, more to himself than anybody.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe thought of his daughters, Sheridan and Lucy, both at home, probably playing outside in the backyard. He thought of his wife, Marybeth, who had always feared that something like this would happen.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen Joe’s entire consciousness, his entire being, focused on one simple question: would he die with his eyes open or closed?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePART ONE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFindings, Purposes, and Policy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(b) Purposes. - The purposes of this Act are to provide a means whereby the ecosystems upon which endangered species and threatened species depend may be conserved, to provide a program for the conservation of such endangered species and threatened species, and to take such steps as may be appropriate to achieve the purposes of the treaties and conventions set forth in subsection(s) of this section.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Endangered Species Act Amendments of 1982\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePrinted for the use of the Senate Committee on\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eEnvironment and Public Works\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eUS Government Printing Office\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWashington: 1983\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eJoe lived, but\u003c\/b\u003e it wasn’t something he was particularly proud of. It was now fall and Sunday morning dawned slate gray and cold. He was making pancakes for his girls when he first heard of the bloody beast who had come down from the mountains and tried to enter the house during the night.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSeven-year-old Sheridan Pickett related her dream aloud to the stuffed bear that served as her confidant. Lucy, three and horrified, listened in. The television set was on even though the reception from the vintage satellite dish was snowy and poor, as usual.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe monster, Sheridan said, had come down from the mountains through the dark, steep canyon behind the house very late last night. She watched it through a slit in the curtain on her window, just a few inches from the top bunk of her bed. The canyon was where Sheridan had always  \u003ci\u003esuspected\u003c\/i\u003e a monster would come from, and she felt proud, if a bit fearful, that she had been right. The only light had been the moon through the dried leaves of the cottonwood tree. The monster had rattled the back gate before  figuring out the latch and had then lurched clumsily (sort of like mummies in old movies) across the yard to the backdoor. Its eyes and teeth glinted yellow, and for a second, Sheridan felt an electric bolt jolt through her as the monster’s head swiveled around and seemed to looked directly at her before it fled. The monster was hairy and shiny, as if covered with liquid. Twigs and leaves were stuck to it. There was something white, a large sack or box, swinging from the monster’s hand.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sheridan, stop talking about monsters,” Joe called out. The dream disturbed him because the details were so precise. Sheridan’s dreams were usually more fantastic, inhabited by talking pets or magical things that flew. “You’re going to scare your little sister.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m already scared,” Lucy declared, pulling her blanket to her mouth.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Then the man walked slowly away across the yard through the gate toward the woodpile where he fell down into a big shadow. And he’s \u003ci\u003estill out there,\u003c\/i\u003e” Sheridan finished, widening her eyes toward her sister to deliver the complete effect.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hold it, Sheridan,” Joe said abruptly, entering the room with a spatula in his hand. Joe was wearing his threadbare terry-cloth bathrobe he had purchased on a lark in Jackson Hole on his and Marybeth’s honeymoon ten years before. He shuffled in fleece slippers that were a size too large. “You said ‘man.’ You didn’t say ‘monster.’ You said ‘man.’ ”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSheridan looked up quizzically, her big eyes wide. “Maybe it was a man. Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eJoe heard a\u003c\/b\u003e vehicle outside, racing up the gravel Bighorn Road much too fast, but by the time he crossed the living room and parted the faded drapes of the front picture window, the car or truck was gone. Dust rolled lazily down the road where it had been.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBeyond the window was the front yard, still green from summer and littered with plastic toys. Then there was the white fence, recently painted, paralleled by the gravel road. Farther, beyond the road, the landscape dipped into a willow-choked saddle where the Twelve Sleep River branched out into six fingers clogged with beaver ponds and brackish mosquito-heaven eddies and paused for a breath before its muscular rush through and past the town of Saddlestring. Beyond were the folds of the valley as it arched and suddenly climbed to form a precipitous mountain-face known as Wolf Mountain, a peak in the Twelve Sleep Range.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWith Wolf Mountain in front of them and the foothills and canyon in back, the Pickett family, eight miles from town in their house, lived a life of deep and casting shadows.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe front door opened and Maxine burst in, followed by Marybeth. Marybeth’s cheeks were flushed—either from the brisk cold air or her long walk with the dog, Joe wasn’t sure which—and she looked annoyed. She wore her winter walking uniform of lightweight hiking boots, chinos, anorak, and wool hat. The anorak was stretched tight across her pregnant belly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s cold out there,” Marybeth said, peeling the hat off so her blond hair tumbled onto her shoulders. “Did you see that truck tear by here? That was \u003ci\u003eSheriff Barnum’s\u003c\/i\u003e truck going too fast on that road up to the mountains.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Barnum?” Joe said, genuinely puzzled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And your dog was going nuts when we got back to the house. She nearly took my arm off just a minute ago.” Marybeth unclipped Maxine’s leash from her collar, and Maxine padded to her water dish and drank sloppily.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe had a blank expression on his face while he was thinking. The expression sometimes annoyed Marybeth, who was afraid people would think him simple. It was the same expression, in a photograph, that had been transmitted  throughout the region via the Associated Press when Joe, while still a trainee, had arrested a tall man—who turned out to be the new governor of Wyoming—for fishing without a license.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Where did Maxine want to go?” he asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“She wanted to go out back,” she said. “Toward the woodpile.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe turned around. Sheridan and Lucy had paused at breakfast and were looking to him. Lucy looked away and resumed eating. Sheridan held his gaze, and she nodded triumphantly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Better take your gun,” Sheridan said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe managed a grin. “Eat your breakfast,” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What’s this all about?” Marybeth asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Bloody monsters,” Sheridan said, her eyes wide. “There’s a bloody monster in the woodpile.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSuddenly, there was the roar of motors coming up Bighorn Road from Saddlestring. Joe was thinking exactly what Marybeth said next: “Something’s going on. I wonder why\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338546819301,"sku":"NP9780399576614","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399576614.jpg?v=1769572632","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/open-season-isbn-9780399576614","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}