Page 86 of Hidden Nature

“There’s that.”

“Tell me about Mr. Chain Saw Massacre.”

Matt looked at Sloan as Elana dropped a blanket over his shoulders. “Some weird mountain-man type. Big belly, big beard. We were snowshoeing—or trying to—on—what was it?—Deer Track Trail, and we heard the chain saw going.”

“Saw a couple fresh-cut trees,” one of the others added. “We didn’t think you were supposed to cut down trees up there.”

“You’re not. What happened?”

“Well, we spotted him and he spotted us. He turns around with that chain saw, and he picks up an axe with his other hand. He yells for us to get the hell off his land.”

“We thought it was public land.”

“It is.”

“There were four of us, one of him, but.” Matt let out a breath of relief when they heard the siren. “He had a chain saw and an axe, and he looked crazy enough to use them.”

“We walked back down the trail,” his friend finished. “We just figured we’d made a wrong turn or whatever and ended up on private property.”

“Deer Track Trail. About how far along?”

“Less than a mile.” Matt smiled wanly. “First time with snowshoes.”

Sloan waited until the paramedics took over.

“Hey!” Matt shouted as she and Elana walked back to the truck. “Thanks!”

“You’re welcome.”

When they got to the truck, Sloan turned. “Ready for the next adventure?”

“Chain Saw Massacre Mountain Man?”

“That’s the one. Call it in, give the situation and our location. Deer Track Trail. Can you snowshoe?”

“I’ll bet I’m better than those guys, but I need more practice.”

“You’re about to get it.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Because Elana did need more practice, Sloan slowed her usual pace. But she already knew part of her evaluation would likely label Officer Sanchez as game, and someone who knew how to take direction, follow orders.

About a half mile up the trail, Sloan heard it. Not the roaring buzz of a chainsaw but the steady thump of an axe against wood.

“Hear that? That’s not a woodpecker.”

“I can’t believe he’s cutting down trees. Why? Oh, Sloan, look!”

“Yeah, I see it.”

A stump, the cuts no more than a day or two old. And prints—human ones—drag marks where he’d hauled the tree up the trail.

“Poaching trees. For firewood, maybe, to sell or use. Maybe both. The trail levels out a few yards ahead.”

“I won’t mind that. I think I’m in good shape, but I have to admit, my quads are burning.”

“I’ll be taking the lead with this one.”

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