by Robin Lamont
“They shouldn’t have to rely on luck! Wildlife Services is a federal agency, funded by taxpayers. Something very weird is going on around here.”
“Then you just watch your step, missy. Especially with your new cowboy, wolf-killer friend.”
Sometime later Jude woke from a nightmare. She was looking at Eberhardt’s Facebook page and the photo of the grinning hunter holding up the lifeless body of a wolf. Only as she looked closer she saw that it wasn’t a wolf, it was Finn. His eyes were blank, his tongue hung limp, and blood was spattered on the rocky ground at the hunter’s feet. Jude cried out in the dark, and Finn padded over to the side of the bed. He put his cool nose into her outstretched hand and stayed until he felt her heartbeat return to normal.
* * *
They stood a few feet apart, tension crackling in the misty puffs of breath that encircled their faces. Ben gripped the paper bag containing his dinner so tightly it started to rip. Finally, he looked away from his son and said gruffly, “Best come in then.” He shouldered through the front door of the cabin, switched on a light, and nodded in the direction of the wood burning stove in the corner. “Remember how to start a fire?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Colin. He found what he needed next to the cast iron stove and sat on his haunches to set up the kindling and newspaper. It had been eight years, but the box of wooden matches hadn’t moved from its spot on the windowsill. Aware of his father opening cabinets slowly and deliberately in the kitchen, he put a match to the wood and waited while it took. When the flames steadied, he carefully added a couple of logs and stood up to face what came next.
Ben had put the sandwich still wrapped in wax paper on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. “You want something to eat?” he asked Colin.
Colin shook his head.
“Suit yourself.” He came into the living room with his container of soup and sat in a worn armchair by the stove.
“Place looks good,” said Colin. “You did the kitchen.” He ran his hand along the countertop as if to reacquaint himself with his old house.
“You never saw it?”
“No.”
“That’s right,” concurred Ben with an acid edge to his voice. “You didn’t come back for your mother’s funeral.”
Colin looked down. “You know I couldn’t.”
“Oh, now I remember … you were in jail.”
“I was,” said Colin. He remained standing, unsure whether or not he wanted to sit and make himself a more permanent target.
“Your brother stayed with me for a time.”
“That was nice.”
“And he had a family to take care of.”
“David is the good son.”
“You don’t have to be snide.”
“And you don’t have to drive it home that I’ve disappointed you. That’s always been my understanding.”
Ben had a few spoonfuls of his soup which by this time had turned lukewarm. He set it on the table next to him. “Why’d you come back?” he finally asked.
“I heard you were ill.”
“Who told you?”
“It’s not important. What is it?”
Ben waved his hand wearily. “Some kind of cancer.”
“Are they doing anything?”
“I’ve got some chemo pills.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“She says take the chemo pills.”
The corners of Colin’s mouth twitched to cover a wry smile. “And are you listening to her?”
Refusing to be drawn in to his familiarity, Ben exploded, “What do you care? Just what is it you want from me?”
His father’s indictment fueled Colin’s guilt, like the logs feeding the fire a few feet away. He’d been in federal prison when his mother died and they wouldn’t let him out to attend her funeral. It still ate him up inside, less because it made him such a fuck-up in his father’s mind, but because he wanted to be there for his mom. Yes, he’d been a lousy son and he had to live with that. What did he want from his father? Colin had no idea. There was too much anger on both sides to answer that question.
Ben gestured irritably to the chair across from him. “Sit,” he said. “Have a sandwich.”
Glancing over at the counter, Colin asked, “What kind is it?”
“Turkey.”
Colin ran a hand through his wavy hair, brushing it off his brow and buying a moment to keep his temper in check. “I don’t eat meat, Dad, you know that.”
“Oh, yeah.” His father pretended to remember. “What did they feed you in jail?”
“Crap mostly. But I managed. I traded food a lot.”
“So when did you get out?”
“Eighteen months ago. But I only recently heard about your illness.” He could see his father trying to assess whether he was telling the truth.
“You got a job?”
After a pause, Colin said, “I’m doing some carpentry here and there. Making do.”
The fire had begun to warm the room, yet Colin kept his jacket zipped. In a compromise, he removed his thick work gloves, stuffed them into his pocket, then perched tentatively on the arm of a love seat across from his father. The knuckles of his right hand were scraped and two fingertips were wrapped in bandaids. He searched for something to fill the silence. “The place looks good. I see you took old Marvin down,” he added, referring to the elk head mounted over the front door ever since he could remember. Then noticing the absence of all the hunting trophies on the walls, he said, “Wow, you took them all down.”
“I’m sure that sits well with you,” remarked Ben. He adjusted himself in his chair, suppressing the moan that begged escape at the stab of pain in his lower back.
“You were so proud of them.”
Ben stared warily at his son. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m not up for a fight.”
“I’m not either.”
Colin held his breath, afraid that if he let go, he’d say something he’d regret. Speaking his mind rarely had a peaceful ending with his dad. Finally, he asked, “Are you using the hunting cabin at Freedom Lake?”
“Why do you want to know?” Ben looked at him through narrowed eyes, and then it dawned on him. “It’s you, right? Holy Crap, you’re back at it. Lord a’mighty, when will you learn?”
“I need a place to stay, Dad. Just for a few days. Then I’m gone.”
Ben stared at the wood burning stove, his mouth making unconscious chewing motions.
“I’m not in any trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about. Please, Dad. Just for a few days.”
With some effort, Ben got to his feet and went into the kitchen where he retrieved a key from one of the drawers. He handed it to his son and their rough fingers touched.
“I’ll bring it back and you won’t have to see me again,” said Colin. “Take care of yourself, Dad, okay?” He turned to put two more logs in the wood burning stove, then slipped out into the night.
Ben pressed his palms to his eyes and then to his mouth to keep from calling his son back.
Chapter 8
Jude hurried past the Tripp Creek Café on her way to the state’s local Fish and Game office. Gordon’s mission for her in Stanton was quite specific, but she wanted to find out what the connection was between Wildlife Services and the rancher John Tripp. With any luck, she might also get more of a bead on Craig Eberhardt as a Services employee.
The office was located in the back of Fielding’s Outfitters. She was told to ask for Sal. At nearly eight thousand square feet, Fielding’s was the biggest hunting and trapping retail outlet within miles. It was crowded for a weekday morning, a central station for burly, canvas-vested and flannel-jacketed men as busy shooting the breeze with one another as buying merchandise. Jude decided to take a look around.
She wasn’t
a complete novice to the hunting culture, but the array of products left her slack-jawed. Guns and rifles occupied only a corner of the store. There were entire shelves filled with scents and “critter” decoys – electronic devices with speakers and remote controls to lure animals into the hunters’ gun sights. One was a battery-operated fake squirrel that vibrated and squeaked like an animal in distress. Jude walked past flashlights, knives, GPS systems, binoculars, and laser scopes, nearly every item offered in a camouflage pattern. Above her head, models of hunting tree stands, from single-man chairs to more elaborate mini-tree houses, were assembled in the rafters. One of them was festooned with a banner proclaiming it “Your Home Away from Home.” She wandered down another aisle where bow sets were displayed. Many resembled assault rifles fitted with wheels and pulleys and came with sizeable price tags and names such as “Bear Mauler” and “Sinister Compound Bow.” Jude picked up an arrow shaft and felt its cold, steel heft in her hand. The packaging on the box promised “more penetration and shorter blood trails … more bone-crushing power for deeper penetration.” Beyond the shafts were the arrow heads – fist-sized steel missiles as sharp as razor blades.
The unmistakable clash of metal on metal drew her attention to the traps. Here were a multitude of ways to capture an unsuspecting animal: cage traps, body-gripping traps, coil-spring traps, rolls of wire cable for creating snares designed to tighten around an animal’s neck. A store clerk was demonstrating the operation of a steel-jawed coil spring trap.
“Now this is your number nine Bridger Wolf Trap,” he explained to the customer, pointing to a large, square-jawed contraption with heavy springs. “The nine inch spread snaps higher on the leg for a better hold. This’ll take coyote, wolf, or even bigger.”
Jude wondered if it was the same type that had slammed onto Eberhardt’s leg.
“How much?” asked the customer.
“One nineteen, but I can cut you a break on six or more.”
“No can do. Need cheaper.”
“Not a problem. How about this MB 730, absolutely affordable, will do the trick every time,” the clerk moved on. “Heavy duty laminated jaws. Like I said, very affordable. I can sell you a half a dozen for under two hundred. What are you looking to take?”
“Coyotes. Dirty sons-of-bitches. One got into my chicken coop and tore up half my flock.”
“Put a few of these around, you won’t have any more problems. Let me show you the action.”
The clerk set the trap on the floor and opened the jaws by stepping on levers, one on each side. With his feet in place, he set the “dog,” a latch that held them open. He looked around to make sure no one was in close proximity, then stepped off gingerly. He retrieved a scarred axe handle from behind the counter, then lightly touched the pan between the jaws. Like a gunshot the jaws clanged shut, creating another set of deep gouges in the wood.
Further down the counter, a man examining wire cables threw over his shoulder, “I’ve used those and they’re not as good as the Bridgers.”
“No?” queried the customer.
The man shook his head. “The Bridgers will break the coyote’s leg on impact, which is what you want. Takes the fight out of them. You get less wring-off.”
The novice trapper cocked his head.
“Wring-off, you know, where the animal chews his leg off to get out of the trap.”
“Oh, I don’t care about the pelt. I just want to kill the damn varmints.”
“Yeah, well, if it chews its foot off, it gets away. See what I’m saying?”
Jude was unaware that she was staring dumbfounded at the exchange before her. The store clerk looked over and asked, “Can I help you, Miss?”
“Oh, yes,” she tried to say brightly, as if the discussion she’d just heard was nothing more than the merits of one toaster over another. “I’m looking for the Fish and Game office?”
The clerk indicated the rear of the shop. “Go through that door to the restrooms, keep on going straight and you’ll see it.”
She followed his directions, relieved to get away from this supermarket of death and suffering for animals. She felt physically sick and her hands shook with anger. Was this the hunter’s idea of “fair chase” – the code that supposedly made killing animals ethical if done in a manner that does not give the hunter an improper advantage? What was fair about state-of-the-art lures, night scopes, GPS systems, and high tech weapons? They made a mockery of fair chase.
After taking a moment to pull herself together, Jude walked down the corridor and knocked on the last door where a sign on a piece of paper scotch-taped to the door identified the office as belonging to the Idaho Department of Fish and Game.
“Open!” a deep voice called out.
Inside, a long-limbed woman with short brown hair sat behind a desk, squinting at a computer screen. She wore khaki cargo pants and a black zip jacket. “I’ll be right with you,” she said holding up a finger. Then she typed a sentence and used her mouse to save the document.
Jude took stock of the disheveled space. Pamphlets were heaped in uneven piles on top of file cabinets and books were stacked on the floor. A coat tree in the corner held a mountain of outdoor gear, including a pair of rubberized overalls and a down jacket. Two pairs of boots had been kicked off, landing a few inches away from a rubber mat meant to collect the melting ice and mud.
“Sorry, I just had to input something while it was fresh in my mind,” said the woman. “Hope it’s decipherable, I can’t seem to find my reading glasses.” She patted various pockets in her uniform, but couldn’t locate them. “Oh, well, what can I do ya for?”
“I’m looking for Sal.”
“You found her.” She looked to be in her mid to late forties, and her rangy physique seemed perfect for a Fish and Game warden.
“My name is Judy Harris.”
“Ah, you must be the gal that Foster told me about.”
“Word spreads fast in Stanton,” said Jude, making a mental note to take CJ’s hotel recommendations more seriously in the future.
“Foster Dunne is my brother. He tells me you have a big dog that doesn’t drool and is very well mannered.”
“My better half,” said Jude with a smile.
“Sal Mayhill,” the warden stuck out her hand.
Jude launched into her story of working for EO Travel and her reasons for visiting Stanton. “Thought as long as I was here, I’d pick up a copy of hunting and trapping regs and maybe a trail map if you have one.”
“Sure,” replied Sal, getting up to rummage through some materials on a bookshelf. She was a couple of inches taller than Jude and in her squared-off shoulders, it was easy to see the resemblance to her brother. “You can find pretty much all the information you need on our website. Just have to know what zone you’re in to tell what you can hunt and when,” she cautioned. “Here you go. You plan to use guides?”
“We do. I’ll be looking for some local people when we start to finalize our packages. In fact, I ran into a couple of guys yesterday from Wildlife Services–”
A buzzer sounded over the office door. “’Scuse me,” said Sal. “I have someone outside.”
With a rhythm that attested to routine, she climbed into the rubberized overalls and a pair of heavy boots. Then she grabbed a clipboard from her desk. “You can come out if you want to,” she said.
Jude didn’t have to be asked twice.
The Fish and Game officer greeted a man at the bed of his pick-up truck. With barely a glance at Jude, he threw back a tarp, exposing a jumble of rough fur and bone. Out of the mess, Jude detected the heads of three small wolves or coyotes in various stages of decomposition. There was also a more recent kill – a male wolf lay stretched on his side. A magnificent animal, he was black and gray, with a graze of silver fur on his underbelly and muzzle. Jude held herself back; he looked much like the charcoal pair of juveniles she had
seen in Yellowstone. She remembered what CJ had told her about the number of wolves killed since the season began and like a counter inside her mind, the number ticked upwards from 75 to 76.
“He’s a monster, ain’t he?” asked the trapper proudly.
Wordlessly, Sal pulled on gloves and turned her attention to the other animals, pulling their carcasses to her where she could examine them.
“Thems is coyotes,” he said to Jude, pronouncing it kai-yotes.
She nodded in return. “You don’t say.”
Sal was looking closely at one of the skulls still covered with gristle and fur. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she asked, “When did you take this one, Curt?”
The portly trapper with a full beard pulled off his cap and returned it to his head with the brim backward. He squinted up at the clouds, stalling for time.
“She looks at least a week to ten days before you even got her into the freezer,” Sal scolded. “The other two don’t look a whole lot newer. You checking your traps regular?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“I see a lot of tooth damage and necrosis.” The state rule mandated that traps had to be checked every seventy-two hours, and in that time, a panicked animal could do fearsome damage to their teeth trying to chew through the steel trap. But Sal was looking at the kind of breakage that indicated an even longer period.
“I check my traps. Sometimes … sometimes you miss one or two,” he responded defensively.
Sal turned her attention to the wolf, making sure the trapper had affixed a tag from his allotment as required by law. The trapper tried to distract Sal as she worked. “As I was coming over, guess who stopped me?”
“Couldn’t begin,” murmured Sal, measuring a broken canine.
“Two federal agents from the F. B. of I.,” he said. “Thought they might be spies for Barack Hussein Obama, what with their city suits and all. But they come on account of Eberhardt. Didn’t say so, but I know.” He threw a wink in Jude’s direction.