by Homer Hickam
The helicopter’s registration proved to be Mexican. Its pilot and co-pilot, presumably working for a shadowy bone collector south of the border, were completely and utterly deceased and therefore unable to testify against their boss. The navy blue paint job on their chopper was, according to my FBI informant, probably for night operations. Unluckily for them, the Haxbys thought it looked black. Black helicopters over eastern Montana. Not a good idea.
The Haxbys are fine even though the feds got a court order to inspect their ranch. Other than their surface-to-air missiles, they owned nothing illegal and opened their bunkers up for inspection. Their remaining missiles, of course, were buried so the Homeland Security folks didn’t find them. Still, the feds threatened the Haxbys, told them that there was evidence of a SAM strike on the helicopter, and if they didn’t confess, they would be locked up forever or at least until they were executed. The Haxbys said nothing and kept saying it. Nice thing, the Constitution of the United States, which the Haxbys had actually read.
Eventually, the Homeland Security folks claimed the Russian bodies and left. Our attorneys in Billings assured us the investigation was over and we could all go about our business. The state of Montana, however, took note of the bones and sent the state paleontologist to have a look. This he did and recommended a careful removal of them for preparation and protection at the Museum of the Rockies. Jeanette and Pick agreed with this plan and a team from the museum soon arrived. The bones are still in Bozeman, being studied. Pick and Laura went with the bones. Laura called just a week ago and said she had taken a position as a research assistant at the Museum of the Rockies. Pick signed a contract with the museum to help catalog the bones and write a description of them. I think he’s found a home but we’ll see. The boy does like to travel.
Brian and Philip Marsh, the two Green Planet brothers, were questioned closely by Homeland Security but, for the most part, kept their traps shut. Both swore they had no idea how the helicopter came to blow up. The downed chopper, by the way, seemed to upset the feds more than having dead mobsters littering the BLM, or the greatest paleontological find of all times discovered and nearly destroyed. Since Brian and Phillip haven’t written, I’ve kind of lost track of them. Maybe they joined the Peace Corps and are using their new expertise with shovels and picks to dig wells for remote villages.
The one aspect of all this that surprised Jeanette (but not me, cynic that I am) was that when the survey was done by the BLM, lo and behold, it was found that Blackie Butte was, just as old Ted suspected, on BLM land and therefore the bones all belonged to the federal government. That’s now tied up in the courts but I don’t expect a good outcome for the Square C. Looks like we’re still going to have to work for a living and not live off the sale of old bones. I don’t much think Jeanette minds losing the bones or even the money but she wants Blackie Butte back. To get it back, she’s got the ear of some state politicians. She’s also supporting a couple of new faces for the U.S. Congress. If that doesn’t work, she might get some dynamite and just blow the hell out of the damn thing so nobody can have it. Don’t ever count Jeanette out when it comes to her land. The powerful environmentalist organizations, their lawyers, and the federal government might consider that as they work to combine the BLM, CMR, Missouri Breaks Monument lands, and private property into a giant swath of buffalo prairie off limits to everybody but themselves. The ranchers aren’t going to just step aside into history. They mean to fight. As Bill Coulter used to say, there’s things a whole helluva lot worse than being dead and one of ’em is not being free.
Ted Brescoe was found floating in Fort Peck Lake by fishermen. After Edith had killed him, and perhaps recalling how Toby had floated, Cade had dumped Ted with twelve feet of logging chains wrapped around him, but failed to take into account the internal gas bodies tend to produce. The resulting buoyancy bobbed Ted to the surface in just a few days.
Ted and Edith were buried side by side in the Jericho cemetery. The locals thought that was punishment enough for both of them. The BLM had a new man in Ted’s position in just a couple of weeks. He’s another Brescoe, this one a graduate in land management from the University of Montana. Seems like a nice guy. I heard he bought a round of beer for everybody the other night in the Hell Creek Bar. It’s a start.
Cade Morgan’s body with the mama T’s tooth removed, went with the Russians and is probably in a federal freezer somewhere. His property went up for sale. Joe the bartender told me the buyer was someone from Alabama, but he hasn’t shown up yet. Anyway, we expect him to be a good neighbor, whoever he is. After we educate him in our ways, of course.
It is illegal to bury someone on a Montana ranch even with all of our thousands of square miles of prairie. So after I did due diligence in searching out Tanya’s family, and finding none, I had her cremated and buried beside the little baby pioneer Nanette Mulhaden. I planted wildflowers around their graves and visit them often. I think Nanette and Tanya will have much to talk about across deep time. Eventually, if I have my way, I’ll join them there.
But, for now, here I am on the Square C, the top and only hired hand of the queen of the prairie. I’ll finish my g&t and then crawl into my bunk. Or maybe I’ll just stay where I am and breathe in the summer aroma of the Square C, which is manure, wildflowers, dust, and fresh-cut hay. When I look up, a ribbon of stars endlessly unwinds, the edge of our galaxy lying on the ebony blanket of the universe. If I watch for only a little while, I’ll see a satellite speed across the sky or perhaps a meteor will break into the atmosphere, throwing yellow sparks behind.
A silence envelops the land except for the occasional low moo of one of our cows talking to her calf, or the yip of a passing coyote, and the following snort of Nick catching its scent. The coyote will keep going. It knows Superdog is probably already coming after it.
Now, here come Rage and Fury, finished with their day of mousing and wanting to get some strokes for their labors. I’ll happily give them and then surprise them later with some crunchy snacks from a bag of store-bought cat food I’ve got hidden away. It is always good to keep your cats happy.
I smile, stretch, have another drink of g&t. Life is the way I like it right now. Sure, storms will come. They always do but I’ll handle them. That’s what we do out here. That’s what we expect. That’s where we live.
Montana.
Also By Homer Hickam
Torpedo Junction
Rocket Boys
Back to the Moon
The Coalwood Way
Sky of Stone
We Are Not Afraid
The Keeper’s Son
The Ambassador’s Son
The Far Reaches
Red Helmet
My Dream of Stars (with Anousheh Ansari)
Acknowledgments
My introduction to dinosaur hunting came through Joe Johnston, the director of the film October Sky, which was based on my memoir Rocket Boys. Joe also later directed a little movie titled Jurassic Park III. While visiting his home, Joe told me he was heading to Montana to work in the field with Dr. John (Jack) Horner, the famous paleontologist who is the technical consultant for all of the Jurassic Park movies. This sounded like an adventure so it took me less than a second to ask, “Can I go, too?” After giving it some thought, Joe finally allowed as how he guessed maybe it would be OK. Big mistake. I tend to get carried away by adventures and, sure enough, that’s what happened.
Jack Horner hangs his hat at the Museum of the Rockies in Bozeman so that was our first stop. As it happens, Bozeman is also where my good buddy Frank Stewart lives. Frank, an avid sportsman, was also interested in going out to the dino hunting grounds and so he joined me on my first journey to Garfield County in eastern Montana, otherwise known as dinosaur country. Under Jack’s tutelage, it didn’t take long before Frank and I were hooked on poking through the famous Hell Creek Formation, home of the iconic Tyrannosaur rex, Triceratops, Hadrosaur, Ankylosaur, and other creatures of the Cretaceous. For the next decade, every sum
mer would find Frank and me along with numerous other interested amateur paleontologists and friends journeying to Garfield County. We did this, of course, under the direction of Dr. Horner with all the required permits. Fossil hunting on public land without permit is illegal and proper training is a must. Everything we found was carefully documented, then turned over to Jack who is also Montana’s state paleontologist.
It turned out we were pretty successful dinosaur hunters. Before long, Frank discovered a T. rex, which Jack dubbed the F-Rex and sent a team to collect the bones. A couple of years later, I found the bones of an ancient animal Jack called the H-Rex and again a team was dispatched to dig out the remnants of what turned out to be a rare juvenile Tyrannosaur Frank and I were having a great time and learning a lot, not only about dinosaurs, but about the country in which we were hunting and the people who lived there, too. In fact, it didn’t take me too long before I was more interested in the people of Garfield County than the ancient animals which once lived there. That’s just the way I am. People interest me, especially interesting people.
The people of Garfield County are, for the most part, ranchers, farmers, cowgirls, and cowboys. They still live very close to the land, the seasons meaningful to them in ways city dwellers of today cannot imagine. Over the years, I was gradually allowed to be a part of their special community and getting to know them has been a privilege. They are a strong, hardy, well-educated people who add a special dimension to life and discourse in the United States. We are lucky to have them among us. Getting to know them prompted this novel, so as to bring them to life through the fictional characters of the mythical Fillmore County.
I extend my thanks to Dr. Horner for his patient teaching, and to Frank Stewart, faithful dino buddy, and fellow dino hunters Al Cunningham, Bill Hendricks, Art Johnson, Claus Kroeger, Lee Hall, Bob Harmon, Carl Campbell, Laura Wilson, Nels Peterson, Kim Wendell, Mark Goodwin, David Varracchio, and many other fine professional and amateur paleontologists, all of whom have been helpful to me every step up and down those glorious badlands.
Thanks also to Shelley McKamey, Pat Lieggi, and all the staff of the Museum of the Rockies, which honored me by allowing me to be on the museum advisory board. Thanks are also tendered to the Fellman and Phipps families in Jordan, Montana. They have been especially helpful in my quest to catch the wily dinosaurs. Of course, little could have been accomplished without the Hell Creek Bar to repair to for cool, liquid libations (not to mention fried chicken and onion rings) after a hot, sweaty day chasing dinosaurs. A tip of the expedition hat to barkeep Joe Herbold and the present owners of this grand watering hole.
This novel would not have been possible without the assistance of my reviewers and fact checkers, which included Mary Pluhar, Laura Wilson, Frank Stewart, and, always my first reader (and wife), Linda Hickam. Their expertise was required to breathe truth into Mike Wire’s tale. Thanks are also due to David McCumber who generously allowed me to use his brilliant memoir, The Cowboy Way, as a resource for the novel. Similarly, my heartfelt thanks are extended to Walter W. Stein for the practical knowledge I learned from his excellent book, So You Want to Dig Dinosaurs? A Field Manual on the Practices, Principles, and Politics of Vertebrate Paleontology, Second Edition. Of course, any errors in this novel are entirely my own.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE DINOSAUR HUNTER. Copyright © 2010 by Homer Hickam. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hickam, Homer.
The dinosaur hunter/Homer Hickam.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-312-38378-7
1. Ranchers—Fiction. 2. Paleontologists—Fiction. 3. Murderers—Fiction. 4. Fossils—Fiction. 5. Dinosaurs—Fiction. 6. Montana—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.I224D56 2010
813'.54—dc22
2010035890