I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Turn it off”

“What?”

“Turn it off!”

Like Nemo the cat, he obliged but in a way that suggested the choice had been his all along.

He was still far enough away that I had to shout. “Is this your land?”

“Who are you?”

“Game warden.”

Tired of shouting, I stepped through the gap the skidder had knocked through the wall.

The rider looked naturally pale, but the cold and exertion had brought blood to his cheeks and the tip of his nose. He seemed to be trying to grow out a reddish-blond mustache and goatee, but the beard refused to flourish. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark Ray-Bans.

I scratched my scalp behind my ear. “Did this forest do something to insult your manhood?”

“What?”

“It must have seriously disrespected you for you to beat the shit out of it like this.”

His cheeks grew redder. “You think you’re funny?”

“Sometimes. But usually I’m the only one who does.”

It bothered me that he hadn’t removed his sunglasses. Not that I expected to recognize him. It was a simple courtesy.

“If you ain’t a forest ranger, what we’re doing ain’t none of your business, man.”

“I may not be a ranger, but I know enough about state forestry laws to count a dozen violations here. Has Bruce Jewett been up to oversee your work?”

He reached into the chest pocket of his Carhartt’s to find a tin of chewing tobacco. He stuffed three fingers worth of Skoal into his cheek. The bit of business with the dip was intended to provide the young logger with time to think.

“Yeah, he’s seen it.”

“And Mr. Jewett doesn’t mind the mess you’re making?”

He spit a brown stream onto a patch of snow. “This is how cutting looks, man. You want to call a ranger, go ahead and call a ranger. I ain’t got nothing else to do but wait. I’m still getting paid, sitting here. How about you?”

He was probably nineteen or twenty, I decided. He had the appearance of dozens of kids I’d met on patrol: wannabe outlaws looking for any way to demonstrate they were real men. And yet, for all his generic posturing, there was something naggingly specific about him. He looked familiar.

“You mind taking off your sunglasses?”

“Hell, yes, I mind. It’s bright out here.”

It was not bright.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t got to tell you shit. I’m on private property minding my own business.”

“You’re on private property, true, but it’s not yours. How do I know you and your buddies aren’t stealing Mr. Jewett’s wood?”