He backtracked the way he and Nate had come, heading toward the gate. He’d assumed that Jack and Nate had trampled the grass when Nate had entered the pasture to examine the site and cover it. But maybe Jason was wrong about that. He stepped carefully, his gaze moving over a two-foot-wide path.
Boot tracks. A front and hind paw print. And there—dried blood on the grass.
Click. Click. Click.
He saw that Winona and Jack had joined Nate and made his way carefully over to them. “I’m pretty certain I know what happened here.”
He walked them through it, starting at the site of the kill and moving toward the barbed wire with the bit of fur, which he plucked off and handed to Winona. “This is where the wolf entered the pasture. It can be hard to tell a wolf track from that of a large dog, but there are differences.”
He pointed to the toes. “See how the claw marks are visible for each of the toes and how they point forward? We often don’t see all of the claws on dog tracks, and the outer toes tend to be splayed outward. But the biggest difference is the way they walk.”
“The way they walk?” Nate asked.
“Wolves walk in a straight line. Dogs don’t. See where the rear paw track is right in front of the larger front track? You wouldn’t see that with dogs.”
The three bent to examine the track.
“So, we’ve got ourselves a wolf.” Jack lifted his gaze from the track to Jason. “Can you tell how many wolves were here? Is it a pack?”
“So far, what I’ve seen looks like a lone wolf.”
“It wasn’t a pack.” Winona glanced around the pasture, the wind catching strands of her dark hair. “If a pack had attacked that steer, there’d be several drag trails and depressions in the grass where pack members sat down to feed. They would have left some of the larger bones, maybe hide. There would be something here.”
Jason motioned to them to follow him. “There’s more.”
He led them back to the kill site, knelt, and pointed. “There are lots of boot tracks around the place where the steer fell. At first, I figured they belonged to you, but you’re both wearing cowboy boots. Some of these tracks have deep tread with a circle in the center of the heel. What kind of boots were you wearing when you covered the site?”
Nate lifted a foot, showed Jason the tread. “These same cowboy boots.”
Jack scowled. “I don’t like where this is going.”
Jason stood, led them back toward the gate. “There are drops of dried blood on the grass. I also found tracks with that same deep tread, as well as a few wolf tracks. The wolf left the pasture the same way you entered it—through that gate.”
Winona met his gaze, understanding in her eyes. “The wolf didn’t kill the steer.”
Jason looked from Nate to Jack. “Your predator walks on two legs.”
“Son of a bitch.” Jack removed his cowboy hat, ran a hand through his gray hair.
Nate swore under his breath. “A poacher.”
“That fits with what Winona found on the remains of the head.” Jack left it to Winona to explain.
“There are tooth pits and scoring on the bones, which could be from a wolf. I think coyotes and a squirrel got at it, too. But on the last vertebra, there’s a striation that must have come from a knife.”
Jason put the pieces together. “Someone killed the steer, probably with a firearm. Then he dressed it, cut it into manageable pieces, bagged it, and carried it away. The wolf probably fed on the viscera and the head.”
Nate glanced back down at the wolf track. “The wolf must have been drawn by the scent of carrion.”
Jason wasn’t sure about that. “Winona’s the wolf expert.”
“A wolf would definitely be drawn by the smell of the kill. Wolves aren’t obligate carnivores, so, unlike mountain lions, they do eat the digestive organs of ungulates, including the rumen. It could have followed the scent trail left by the blood droplets over to the gate. An adult wolf would have no trouble jumping over the fence. But there’s another possibility.”
“What’s that?” Jack asked.
Winona seemed to hesitate. “It’s just a hunch.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“It’s strange that you found wolf tracks at all of the kills. I would expect a lone wolf to range over a territory of hundreds of square miles. There’s a chance that the wolf might belong to the poacher.”
Winona helped Jason cover the spot where the steer was killed to protect the evidence. She was conscious of his every movement, every breath, every glance, her senses heightened, some kind of awareness stretching between them.
He’s taken. Don’t forget that.
“Hold the tarp down so I can hammer in these stakes.”
She dropped to her knees and held down one edge of the tarp, fighting to keep the wind from taking it.
Jason glanced up, his gaze catching Winona’s. “Are you disappointed that it’s not a wolf pack?”
“A little.” Winona couldn’t deny it. “I would love to see wild wolves back in Colorado. I’m also relieved. At least now, I don’t have to worry that ranchers are going to start killing them out of fear for their livestock.”
“You can’t shoot what isn’t there.”
“I’m impressed with how quickly you put it together.” She’d only watched him work for a few minutes, but she’d found it mesmerizing—the way he moved, the concentration on his handsome face, his ability to read the land at a glance. “Who taught you to cut sign?”
“My grandfather. He and my grandmother took me in after my parents were murdered. They taught me about the Tohono O’odham himdag, our way of life. They made sure I learned the traditional skills so I could pass them down one day.”
Winona stared at him. “Your parents were … murdered?”
The word cut through her like cold barbed wire, sent chills down her spine. Some part of her wanted to tell Jason that she’d almost been murdered, too. But she wouldn’t open that door. She couldn’t. Besides, this wasn’t about her.
“The police said it was drug traffickers.” Jason hammered in another stake, his face downturned so she couldn’t see his expression. “They were shot execution-style while coming back one night from my grandparents’ home on the Mexican side, their bodies left in the desert.”
“I’m so sorry. How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
“So young.” She’d been only ten when her mother had died. “I guess that’s why you became a federal agent.”
He hammered in another stake. “Yeah.”
“I’m glad your grandparents were there for you. You grew up on the Mexican side? You must speak Spanish.”
“Sí, por supuesto.” He grinned. “All O’odham speak English and Spanish, as well as our own language. We all have dual citizenship, too—US and Mexican.”
“Our grandparents taught Chaska and me Lakota. There aren’t that many Lakota people who still speak the language, especially young people.”
“Have you thought about going back to Pine Ridge to teach Lakota classes? It sounds like they need you.”