Savage Run Read Online Free PDF

confidently assured the rancher of an eventual win or settlement, knowing all along that it was virtually impossible. Once he
    had taken over the ranch, Finotta had used his personal political contacts (of which he had many) to stall the canyon's national monument designation, which was finally forgotten by a new administration.
    Ranching to Finotta, according to the fishing guide, was a hobby and a means of dispensing power and influence in a state where ranchers occupied an exalted status. When moneyed entrepreneurs sought the ultimate cocktail-party aside, they now talked about their ranches in Wyoming, Montana, or Idaho. Joe didn't know Finotta well, although they nodded at each other when they happened to see each other, usually at the courthouse or occasionally at the post office. Finotta was a man known for his personal and political connections and for not being humble about them. He was a personal friend of the governor and was listed among the largest in-state contributors to the U.S. senators and the lone congressman for Wyoming. He treated local law enforcement officials well, and had half and quarter beefs sent to their homes at Christmas. Sheriff Barnum often had morning coffee with Finotta, as did the county attorney and chief of police.
    So when Jim Finotta decided to create a subdivision--officially renamed Elkhorn Ranches--he had no trouble financing it or having it approved by the county. Elkhorn Ranches was a topic of conversation among the local coffee drinkers in the morning and the beer drinkers at night--a land scheme involving three-acre lots on three hundred acres of Finotta's property nearest to the highway The streets, curbs, gutters, and cul-de-sacs were already surveyed and poured in concrete. The sales effort was international. Three-hundredandfifty-thousand dollar homes were being constructed on the prime lots, usually on the top of every hill. Only a few homes had been completed and purchased.
    lips TRPFS PARTeD, and the huge gabled stone house came into view, and so did a ranch hand on a four-wheel ATV who was racing up the road as if intent on having a head-on collision with Joe's pickup.
    Joe braked to a stop and the ranch hand swung around the grill of the pickup and slammed on his brakes adjacent to Joe's door, a roll of dust following and settling over them both.
    The ranch hand was wiry and dark with a pockmarked and deeply tanned face. He wore a T-shirt that said "I Know Jack Shit" and a feed store cap turned backward. He squinted against the roll of dust and the bright morning sun and rose in his seat with his fists on the handlebars until he could look Joe square in the eye.
    "Name's Buster," the ranch hand said. "State your business." Only then did Joe notice the holster and sidearm that was tucked into Buster's jeans.
    "I'm Joe Pickett. I'm here on business to see Mr. Finotta. I'm with the Wyoming Game and Fish Department."
    "I can see that from your truck and your shirt," Buster said, raising himself a little more so he could see into the cab of Joe's truck. Maxine, always kind to strangers, lolled out her tongue and panted.
    "What do you need to see Mr. Finotta about?"
    Joe masked his irritation. No need to antagonize a hand. He said simply, "Ten dead cows."
    This concerned the ranch hand. "Were they ours?"
    "Yup," Joe said, and offered no more. Buster was puzzled in thought for a moment. Then he told Joe to wait in his truck while he went to tell Mr. Finotta.
    Joe winced at the racketing sound of the ATV as Buster revved it and spun around the back of Joe's pickup and on to the house. Disobeying Buster, Joe drove toward the house and parked against a hitching rack next to Finotta's black Suburban.
    The house was impressive and daunting. It looked to be constructed at a time when ranchers thought of themselves as feudal lords of a wild new land, and built accordingly There were three sharp gables on the red slate roof and a two-story stone turret on the front corner. The building