Ranger McIntyre: The Big Elk Murders

By James C. Work

It's 1923 and Rocky Mountain National Park is scarcely eight years old. District Ranger Tim McIntyre is investigating the unlawful killing of three elk. Gala Book—eleven-year-old daughter of the local barber—has befriended one particularly huge bull elk and decides to protect it by leading it into the safety of the park's backcountry.

Elk are not the only endangered animals, either. While someone's killing elk to get the "whistler" ivory teeth, some Denver criminals are "harvesting" deer and elk for a political big-game supper event. Our ranger, fearing for young Gala's safety, agrees to lead the giant elk into a remote valley, only to become stranded himself. This leaves it up to his lady detective friend, Vi Coteau, to form a posse and stop the poachers. Before it's all over, McIntyre will have to engage in a deadly gunfight, and three men will be murdered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encircle Publications
• Release date: Nov 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781645994718

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Ranger McIntyre:

The Big Elk Murders

A Ranger McIntyre Mystery • Book 6

James C. Work

Encircle Publications

Farmington, Maine, U.S.A.

Ranger Mcintyre: The Big Elk murders Copyright © 2023 James C. Work

Hardback ISBN 13: 978-1-64599-470-1

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-64599-469-5

E-book ISBN 13: 978-1-64599-471-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023940354

All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher, Encircle Publications, Farmington, ME.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Encircle editor: Cynthia Brackett-Vincent

Cover design by Deirdre Wait

Cover illustrations © Getty Images

Published by:

Encircle Publications

PO Box 187

Farmington, ME 04938

[e-mail]

http://encirclepub.com

To Nancy, who’s hundreds of miles away

and still able to see over my shoulder as I write.

Chapter 1

Me and My Shadow…

The purloined Bierstadt painting had been returned to the Stanley Hotel where it belonged, a local photographer having provided the final proof of ownership through two 1905 interior pictures of the hotel. McIntyre’s bullet wound was now only a scar and a memory, much like the one on his leg, a German souvenir from the war. He had been cautioned not to fly his reconnaissance Nieuport so low over the trenches, but it took a German rifle bullet through the cockpit to convince him.

Rocky Mountain National Park was experiencing a steady flow of visitors, now that the war was over and the much-anticipated Lincoln Transcontinental Highway was officially open for business. And District Ranger Timothy McIntyre was glad, almost serenely happy, not to be a ranger. At least not for today. Today his life was as uncomplicated, as straightforward as the snow-tipped granite peaks and blue columbine sky.

In other words, it was McIntyre’s day off.

The man walking toward him was the village banker. Since it was Saturday, the bank was closed.

Great morning, isn’t it? he said.

Just about perfect, McIntyre agreed. Not a cloud in the sky.

Peace and quiet, the banker said. Like things ought to be.

The peace and quiet at that exact moment, however, were interrupted by the noise of a Model T Ford backfiring, and cuss words from the man cranking it. A puff of thick smoke drifted out from between two buildings. McIntyre and the banker both laughed.

There’s your cloud, the banker remarked.

And there goes your peace and quiet, McIntyre said.

Ranger McIntyre walked on, whistling a little tune under his breath. He was glad to be out of uniform, glad to be out of the national park. He was even out of his pickup truck, having left it parked in front of the post office because he felt like walking. He whistled a tune as he strolled along, and he smiled and nodded at those he met. He was feeling cheerful, for he was on his way to the Pioneer Inn—and breakfast. An ideal breakfast, in fact, a breakfast featuring everything he wanted and prepared by someone other than himself. Ideal.

With every step he took, another national park problem seemed to be left behind.

Instead of calling them problems perhaps the correct term would be dilemmas. Rocky Mountain National Park was a new, fledgling, frontier kind of national park with dilemmas and decisions coming up almost daily. Should automobile roads into the park’s wilderness be improved and extended? Or closed and the land returned to its natural state? Should public camping be policed, and how could campground supervision be paid for? Should animal populations be regulated? And one of McIntyre’s most persistent quandaries—as a ranger, what were the limits of his authority? When he wore his uniform into the village, people sometimes mistook him for a lawman. However, when he didn’t wear the uniform, people would ask if he’d been fired. Or if higher-ups in Washington decided to close the park. Some citizens feared the politicians might close it. Others would like to see it closed. The national park was less than ten years old, a thing of inconceivable size, a huge federal presence. To villagers it was as if the Front Range, all the high mountains, all the lakes and streams and roads and meadows were suddenly either regulated or out of bounds altogether. Many locals predicted the demise of the national park, one of these days, and a ranger out of uniform seemed like a sign of imminent closure.

When he was in uniform, citizens assumed that he was part of local law enforcement, search and rescue, village promotion, and visitor information. Did your kid wander off? Call the rangers. Was he beaten up by a bully? Do you think you saw someone transporting a dead deer? You’d better call the rangers. Call them to look at a sickly tree in your yard. Got company coming from out of state? They’ll want to know where the wild animals can be seen. Call up the rangers. After all, it’s what they’re there for.

Ranger McIntyre tried never to shrug off a request for his help, especially concerning criminal activity; the only law in town was one lone deputy sheriff. There was also a game warden who lived in the village, but who let it be known his duties did not include complaints about stray dogs, unsightly piles of trash, abandoned vehicles, and kids swiping candy from the general store. McIntyre didn’t mind, not really. McIntyre’s Rocky Mountain National Park supervisor was keen on good public relations between the park and the citizens. Whether one of his men was in or out of uniform, Supervisor Nicholson saw no harm in a ranger suggesting someone get rid of a pile of rubbish, or sternly warning a kid about shoplifting. Being a public servant carried weight and responsibility.

Up the hill at the Pioneer Inn, Charlene Charlie Underhill, proprietor and general factotum, had spotted the ranger’s distinctive pickup truck heading for the village post office and knew he’d be wanting his breakfast after checking for his mail. Or lack thereof. She informed the cook and the cook began preparing McIntyre’s trout, encrusting it with a special blend of butter, oatmeal flour, and cornmeal, ready to drop into a hot skillet. It was a good firm trout McIntyre caught the previous afternoon. He caught it on his own time after working hours, of course, and of course it was after working hours when he delivered it to the inn’s kitchen. Supervisor Nicholson warned him—more than once—about fishing and doing personal stuff when he should have been rangering. The park was only a few years old, he reminded the ranger for the hundredth time; local people were still becoming used to the idea of having it in their back yard and watching for any chance to criticize. The rangers, and even the supervisor, weren’t exactly sure whether they were there to help people enjoy the mountains, act as policemen on the roads and trails, or try to be emissaries to the taxpayers.

Lend assistance wherever you can, Nicholson told them, but if you want to keep your jobs, don’t let them see you goofing off. You don’t need to go around kissing babies and helping old ladies across the street, but in or out of uniform, we’re the new guys in town and the locals are keeping an eye on us.

Striding along, whistling an old tune, with little on his mind except breakfast and Vi Coteau’s hazel eyes and the beauty of the mountain morning, McIntyre became aware of a sound coming along behind him. Old Man had taught young Tim McIntyre what to do when he got the feeling something might be stalking him: he kept whistling and walking, showing no signs of having heard the sound, while letting his brain sift and sort the noise. Crunchy gravel, he thought. Not footsteps. No, wait. Footsteps, but they’re faint. Light. Someone small. Rolling, steady noise. Rubber tire on gravel. Clanky, metallic sound, like a chain rubbing on a chain guard. Bicycle chain. Squeak of a sprocket? Axle squeak? The chain is turning, but the bike’s not being ridden, too slow coming up on me. A small person pushing their bike and following me.

Without turning around, without even stopping, McIntyre spoke.

Good morning, Gala, he said.

The eleven-year old hurried up alongside him, pushing her bike by the handlebars. Her tight black curls caught the sun, her brown face and big dark eyes seemed almost astonished at being alive on such a particularly sunny morning—Gala’s customary attitude toward life no matter the weather—and her flannel shirt and coveralls looked fresh from her mother’s clothesline.

Hi! Gala chirped happily. How’d you know it was me?

Her mother occasionally had to explain about Gala’s name. Due to the circumstances of her birth and her earth-colored skin, the newborn was to have been named Gaia after the earth goddess, but in the process of filling out a birth certificate some dull-witted clerk respelled it. As the child grew and her personality matured into one marked by a kind of bubbling, perpetually cheerful energy, the name Gala seemed a perfect fit.

Goin’ to breakfast, are you? Gala asked him, trying to keep up with the ranger’s big strides. What you going to have?

At times, McIntyre wondered why everyone in the village took such a curious interest in his breakfasts. Maybe there was little else to talk about. He didn’t think it was at all unusual, once in a while, on his day off, to indulge in an enjoyable, almost hedonistic leisurely breakfast. When someone teased about the expense he said he did not spend money on gambling, alcohol, tobacco or chasing women. Village humorists would counter by pointing out how gambling was illegal, alcohol forbidden under the Eighteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution, how the ranger had been observed smoking a pipe, and that the few eligible women of the village were more likely to be chasing after the ranger rather than the other way around.

Trout. Eggs. Pancakes. And probably sausages, he said to the girl. Where are you heading?

Same as you, she said. I gotta deliver these pies and sweet rolls Momma made.

And how is she doing these days?

Keepin’ pretty busy, she says. My little brother Polis has started in to crawling. Momma says she spends lots of her time jus’ keeping him outta stuff. He’s into everything. Momma makes me hide my .22 up in the attic so’s he can’t find it.

Gala’s .22 rifle was her pride and her joy. It was a Stevens Little Scout, a single shot .22 caliber plinker, deadly against rusty tin cans, pine cones, and the occasional gopher. She fell in love with the gun the very first time she saw it at the local outfitter’s store. Like New, the sign said. $7.00 Cash.

The man at the outfitter’s put it into her hands, showing her how to bring down the lever to lower the breech block allowing the shooter to load one cartridge into the barrel.

Now, this is important, he said, handing her an empty .22 shell. With a .22, you should always keep your fired shell in the chamber. That way if you’d happen to drop the hammer, the firing pin will hit the soft brass, not strike against the steel.

He showed her how to close the falling breech block and how to lower the hammer safely. When he put out his hand to take the gun from her she could scarcely bring herself to let go of the polished walnut and gleaming blue metal.

For a deposit she dumped the entire contents of her little coin purse on the counter—seventy-six cents, two buttons, a shiny new roofing nail and a stick of chewing gum. To earn the rest of the money for her Little Scout she became the village’s youngest entrepreneur; with bucket and sponge hung on her handlebars, and an assortment of rags and tools in a war surplus rucksack, she went tirelessly pedaling everywhere to wash anything from windows to newborns. She would pull weeds, stack firewood and pick up trash. She would wash your dog for six cents or eight cents, depending on the size of the dog, feed your cat or canary while you were out of town, bring your mail from the post office and help trap those gophers tunneling your yard.

As soon as I get my gun, she would say, I’ll shoot them gophers for you. How about a penny a gopher, five for a nickel?

Penny by penny and nickel by dime, Gala earned her rifle with enough money left over for a couple of boxes of cartridges. But rather than bring an end to her enthusiasm for earning money, achieving this goal only seemed to throw more fuel on the fire.

I seen your truck back there’s got mud on it, Gala said to McIntyre. Want me to wash it? While you have your breakfast? Fifteen cents. For a dollar, tell you what: not only wash it but I’ll buy some paint from the store and paint those doors on your truck for you. It’s my whole price, paint included. Both doors for a dollar, washing not included, or seventy-five cents for one door only.

Nah, the ranger replied. I kind of like my truck doors the way they are. And you’re not the first person who’s offered to paint them for me.

It was the one thing that many people of the village—eligible women in particular-- would like to see McIntyre change. Ranger McIntyre’s personal Model T pickup truck had been sold to him—given to him, really—after he helped the owners of the Small Delights Lodge out on Blue Spruce Lake re-establish themselves in Denver where they would really rather be. Both doors of the cab still carried the words Small Delights, which caused many a smile (and an equal number of raised eyebrows) and made people—young women mainly—reluctant to ride with him. After all, how would it look to be pretty and fresh and young, wearing your best spring bonnet, sitting behind a sign saying Small Delights?

Need any fish worms? Gala persisted. I weeded the Spinney’s garden yesterday and dug up a bunch. Got four tobacco tins of good fat crawlers, guaranteed two dozen in a can. How about a dime? Or I’ll let you have two cans for a quarter, and you don’t have to return the cans. What do you say?

Sorry, McIntyre said. See, I’m a fly fisherman. Most fishermen think it’s weird, but I only use dry flies.

They reached the front door of the Pioneer Inn. Gala jammed the front wheel of her bike into a bush to hold it upright. She lifted her gingham-wrapped bundle from the basket and trotted along to keep up with the ranger as he strode into the dining room.

Where you get these dry flies you use? Buy ’em? she asked.

McIntyre stopped and removed his wallet from his pocket. He opened it and took out three dry flies. Some men keep a condom in their wallet. McIntyre kept dry flies in his.

Gala studied the miniature artificial bugs with interest.

I make them, he told her. During the winter, mostly. Tie them myself. It only takes a hook and some feathers and thread and glue, sometimes a bit of chenille.

Can you teach me?

We’ll see, he said. Right now you’d better deliver your mom’s pastries to the kitchen.

But Gala kept on examining the dry flies.

Know what? she said. I got a fishin’ hat. If I made some of these flies and stuck ’em on my hat when I go to sell my fishworms to people along the river, I bet they’d see the flies and want to buy ’em. Betcha I could charge as much as a nickel apiece, two for a dime. You gonna sit where you always do? Can I have a glass of milk?

Charlene Charlie Underhill came out of her tiny office at the back of the dining room and scowled at the sight of the barber’s daughter sitting with Tim McIntyre at his accustomed table next to the front window. She walked up to them, still frowning.

Gala Book, she said, what do you think you’re doing?

Hi, Mrs. Underhill, Gala replied. Mom sent me with the rolls and pies. Mister McIntyre said I should stay and sit with him. We’re gonna talk about making flies.

He did, did he? Charlie said. Tim, you ought to know better. She shouldn’t be here, especially not in the front window.

And why not? McIntyre challenged.

Look at her! Coveralls? Work shoes? Flannel shirt? This is an inn, not a burger joint.

Ranger McIntyre started to stand up.

C’mon, Gala, he said. We don’t want to make any trouble. Let’s go outside. We can sit on the front steps to eat. The waitress can bring my breakfast out there. You and I, we’ll greet new customers when they come up. What’ll you have, maybe a Danish and glass of milk?

Oh, stay where you are! Charlie said. I’ll bring the child her milk and pastry. But I’m putting it on your bill.

And she huffed away toward the kitchen. But McIntyre and Gala were not to have their discussion of tying dry flies: no sooner did Mari arrive with McIntyre’s breakfast than the front door opened to admit one of McIntyre’s least favorite persons.

Game warden Floyd Sterne came into the dining room, making his customary show of opening his coat to display the badge pinned to his vest pocket. The gesture also revealed the leather holster on his belt. Having spotted McIntyre, he made a beeline to the ranger’s table and pulled out a chair. He sat down—uninvited—and called loudly for someone to bring him a cup of coffee. He looked down at Gala as if she were mostly invisible and cast a suspicious eye on McIntyre’s breakfast.

Nice fish, he said. What do they charge here, for a one-pound trout?

The sneer in Sterne’s tinny-sounding voice made his insinuation all the more clear. If the Pioneer Inn was selling fresh trout, it meant somebody from the Inn was illegally catching them. Or they were illegally buying them from somebody. All local streams came under the warden’s jurisdiction.

Caught it myself, McIntyre said. The cook only fried it for me.

Catch it inside the park? Sterne asked. I guess you boys in green don’t need a fishing license so long as you stay in your park. Say! Them biscuits look good.

He snitched a biscuit from McIntyre’s plate and helped himself to a pat of butter, using McIntyre’s table knife. Three things could annoy McIntyre to the edge of physical violence: one was when anyone picked up his fly rod without permission; two was when someone laid hands on his ranger’s flat hat or, God help them, picked up his hat and tried it on without asking permission; and the third was when somebody put their fingers on his food. He put down his fork and turned to look fully into the fox-like face of Floyd Sterne.

The young lady and I are having a discussion, he said. The effort to control his voice made the tendons in the back of his neck go tight. If you came in for breakfast, I’d like you to find yourself another table.

Sterne licked his fingers. He eyed McIntyre with calm arrogance.

Matter of fact, he said, I seen you walkin’ this way from the post office and figured you might like to know something. One of your elk is dead.

What?

One of your elk. You know those weird women out on the old Denver highway, the ones runnin’ their arty-crafty place. Call it Arts Place? The old dames reported somebody sneaking around with a rifle. They heard a gunshot, too. Looks to me like somebody shot your elk. Just across the boundary line in the park. When I got there it’d been dead two, three days or more. Coyotes been at it. Anyway, it’s across the line in your park. That makes it your problem.

So it was shot, you think?

Sure, what else. It’s stinkin’ real bad so I didn’t get close, but looks like there’s lots of what looked like dried blood around the head. Around the muzzle. I figure it got shot in the lungs. Like I said, I didn’t get close ’cause it’s startin’ to stink. Bunch of brown grass, probably dried blood around the head. If you want to find it, go up to Arts Place and follow the draw heading west into the park. You’ll smell it when you get near enough. Really stinks. Enjoy your trout, now.

McIntyre watched Sterne leave. When he turned toward Gala again he saw the worried look on her face.

You don’t suppose he meant Antaeus, do you, Mr. McIntyre?

No, I don’t think so. He would have said so. Everybody knows Antaeus. I mean, who could mention Antaeus without mentioning how big he is, huh?

He is awful huge, the girl said. What d’ya figure he weighs, a ton? A ton would be really big, huh?

No, maybe seven hundred. Might go eight hundred. Antaeus is about the hugest elk I’ve ever heard of, McIntyre added. But in this case I think somebody shot a younger elk, and our friend Sterne couldn’t wait to let me know.

Mr. McIntyre, I don’t like Sterne.

Well, you start a club and I’ll join, McIntyre said, squeezing a lemon slice over his trout.

An automobile drove up in front of the Pioneer Inn. From behind the window, McIntyre and Gala watched as the driver parked. Charlene and Claude, her husband, had used strips of white lime to mark their side of the unpaved street for parking. The driver of the automobile drove into one of the designated slots, leaned out to peer at the line, backed up, drove forward again, reversed once more and once more very carefully drove forward. Apparently satisfied with having his automobile exactly centered between the lines and exactly parallel with them, the man turned off the engine, set the brake, and stepped out. He was dressed all in tweed from his hat and tie to his knickerbockers and belted jacket.

Wonder who he is? McIntyre said.

That’s the Professor, Gala said. My dad says he’s only been in town a week and he’s already got two shaves and a trim at the barber shop. He’s awful fussy and he talks funny. Told me I can’t wash his car ’cause he doesn’t like anybody to touch it. And when I went to sell him some fish worms he said he wanted to know what species they were. Told my dad he’s from the university. Doing some kind of research on animals, I guess.

Gala’s Danish had mysteriously vanished, although a small smear of cream cheese on her mouth indicated where it had gone, and now she was eyeing the last remaining biscuit on McIntyre’s plate. He nodded, slid the plate toward her, and passed her the honey jar.

The professor guy, Gala went on, my dad told him I’m friends with most of the animals hereabouts and he said he’d pay me if I could guide him to wherever the elk usually are. So’s to study them, you know. Wants to see what kind of grass and stuff they eat and what they leave behind afterward. But my dad says I’m too young and he’s probably right.

He is. Probably right, I mean.

Yeah. Well, I gotta scoot. The man at the outfitter shop wants me to paint linseed oil on his log benches outside the front of the store. He wants to pay me in .22 ammunition for my rifle but I talked him into throwing in that folding pocket knife, too. The one with three blades. Are you gonna think about showing me how to make them… I mean those… flies?

I’ll think about it, McIntyre agreed.

While finishing up the remaining pancakes and savoring the last of his coffee, McIntyre watched the professor. He was one of those restaurant customers who are constantly rearranging their silverware, their placemats, the plates and even the condiments. Once the table was arranged to perfection, and as he waited for his food to arrive, he unstrapped a briefcase and took out some papers, which he smoothed flat and arranged beside his knife and fork. These papers he studied closely, peering over a pair of little round spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose.

When Mari set a plate of fried eggs and potato in front of the professor, he looked at it as if surprised, as if he didn’t recall ordering it. He gave Mari a sort of bashful tight-lipped smile and picked up his fork. He set the fork down and reached for the salt shaker. He set down the salt shaker without using it, arranged it with the other condiments, and resumed his fork. While putting food into his mouth he kept on examining the papers from the briefcase, making muttering noises and occasionally shaking his head.

He’s trying awful hard to behave like an absent-minded professor, McIntyre thought. Reminds me of how a spruce grouse hen will pretend to have a broken wing to lure a predator away from her nestlings.

McIntyre considered asking Mari or Charlie if they knew who this professor was. But why not take a direct approach? Having finished his breakfast—with the help of a game warden and an eleven-year-old girl—he rose from his seat and started toward the register to pay his bill, stopping at the other man’s table on the way.

Good morning, McIntyre began. Looks like it’s going to be a nice day.

The man looked up and adjusted his spectacles.

Yes. Indeed it shall be.

I’m Tim McIntyre, McIntyre continued. I’m a ranger with the national park. It’s my day off. No uniform for a change.

Oh. How do you do? Professor Allen Slant. With the university.

Which university? McIntyre wondered. Most faculty, when they identify themselves, tack on the name of their school like it’s part of their own name.

I was talking to Gala and she said you’re studying elk? he asked.

Oh? Gala? Oh, the little girl. Yes. The barber told me she knows practically every animal in the valley, the professor said. I’m interested in wildlife research. Whether more elk can be imported to this area. To further bolster their population, you know. Depends upon what kind of condition the existing elk are in. Also the health of the habitat, whether they damage the grass and bushes, etcetera.

Curious, McIntyre thought. The mountain club group already arranged to acquire a couple dozen elk from Yellowstone. I don’t think they did any research about it.

Coincidentally, McIntyre said, "the game warden was here a little while ago. He reports a dead elk. Thinks somebody shot it near