by Matt James
Hawk shrugged. “I’m not sure, maybe?”
“What else does it say?”
He squinted and held the paper at different angles. He kept his fingers toward the edges, careful not to harm it further. “It also says, “The seven… They, uh, rest in the bear’s womb.”
“The seven rest in the bear’s womb?” Nina repeated. “You sure?”
“That’s what it says,” Hawk said, scratching his head.
The seven? he thought. Could it mean the Seven Sisters? Hawk knew a lot about his people’s history, but his uncle was the real expert. He would absolutely know what it meant.
He turned and held the page up to the light, reading the only other legible line. “Do I reveal it?”
“Who is ‘I?’”
“I don’t…” Hawk’s voice trailed off as he spoke. He spotted a faint signature at the bottom of the note. “Oh.”
“His name was, ‘Oh?’”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he silently pointed to the name. Nina must’ve not been able to read it because her reaction wasn’t the same as his. Hawk was stunned—shocked at whom had penned the letter.
“Theodore Roosevelt.”
Black Buffalo Resort and Casino
Cascade, Wyoming
After her shift concluded, Nina found herself at her favorite spot—the bar. Shannon and Monica were there too. The three girls met for drinks regularly, regardless of how early any of them had to work the next day. Sometimes, Nina would only have enough time to shower and change before having to head to work. She couldn’t say how many days she had worked with no sleep. The number was too high to recall.
“Wait a second,” Shannon said, hiccupping, “you and Hawk found a treasure map?”
Monica giggled and took another pull from her Long Island iced tea. “No, you drunk, they found a letter, right?”
Nina nodded, blinking hard against the half-dozen or so shots she had thrown back. “Yup…” she hiccupped and giggled. “We found a note that was written by Teddy Ruxpin—I mean, Roosevelt!”
All three girls died laughing at Nina’s slipup. The only person that didn’t laugh was the bartender. Instead, he looked up at the camera above his head. He knew who was listening. He had worked at the Black Buffalo long enough to understand that the two men in charge were always looking for a way to make more money. The barkeep knew one thing for sure. Nina Farley would soon get a private meeting with a man known as Bigfoot. He felt sorry for the girl too. Bigfoot had a way with people.
A violent one.
1
Yellowstone National Park
Wyoming
The sun was just starting to rise. Its low elevation cast Jack and Bull in a deep, cool duskiness. The air beneath the forest canopy held onto the dim dawn longer than other parts of the park. The two rangers didn’t mind. They preferred the current crispness of the air over its late afternoon, muggy brethren.
There had been reports of a party the night before, something that was frowned upon after sunset in Yellowstone. Consumption of alcohol inside park grounds wasn’t illegal as long as it didn’t get out of hand. This time, it had gotten wildly out of hand. One of the college kids involved in the party—a nineteen-year-old sophomore—had been admitted to the hospital. Shortly after, doctors were forced to pump her stomach. Later that day, she confessed to being a part of what she called a “rager.”
Sally Siling, the ranger dispatcher, had recited the girl’s quote—even the part about the party “poppin’.”
“I bet it did, Sal.” Jack chuckled softly at her expense. “I bet it did…”
Tatanka “Bull” Durham led the way, as he always did. The Lakota Native American was the best tracker Jack had ever seen. Even during his days in the military, Jack had never witnessed anyone so in tune with the environment. It was as if Bull knew precisely what Mother Nature was thinking.
One day, they had gone for an afternoon hike. It was dry, yet, strangely, Bull had decided to bring along his raincoat. “It feels like rain,” Bull had explained. The sky was so clear earlier that morning that Jack didn’t bother to bring his. Fifteen minutes into their trek, Jack was drenched, cold, and cursing up a storm.
Bull sniffed the air. When he spoke, his voice was as soft as usual. “This way.” He rarely ever raised it.
They were looking for the party grounds—a feat that was made harder by a flash rainstorm that had occurred a few hours ago. Everything was drenched, including Jack’s shoes and socks. The hospitalized girl didn’t remember where it had been. She should’ve counted herself lucky that nothing worse had happened to her. Out here, in the woods, with no one of authority around, things could’ve turned dangerous, especially given the amount of booze in her system.
The duo was thirty minutes into their hike. If anything, the distance showed that some of the partiers were well-prepared and familiar with the area. Jack guessed that whoever put the shindig together was a local. Hopefully, the intoxicated sophomore would rat someone out. She had almost died, after all. But that was no longer the concern of the National Parks Services (NPS). It was in the hands of local law enforcement.
The trail narrowed up ahead, squeezing Bull and Jack’s shoulders tightly. Still, it was passable and had been used recently. Even Jack could tell that much. The path was littered with broken branches, and there, just up ahead, was a glint of metal. Jack followed Bull into a small clearing. It had been utterly trashed. The metallic object that he had spotted before he entered the space in the trees was a dented aluminum beer can.
“Ground zero,” Jack said, tapping the empty with his foot. Within the saturated grounds were a dozen more cans—plus four empty bottles of vodka, as well as a vacant, sodden case of hard seltzers.
Ugh, Jack thought, nose curled, staring at the seltzers, these people have terrible taste.
There was food everywhere too. It seemed that no one found it necessary to bring a garbage bag, or at the very least, put their trash in a sealable cooler.
“Filthy mongrels.”
“What?” Bull asked, inspecting an ashen firepit.
Jack quietly waved him off and stepped toward a second footpath. He knelt and inspected a set of footprints. The trail had also been used recently. Now that the NPS had been briefed on the park’s condition, they could catalog the damage and report it to the authorities. Regrettably, a proper clean up would have to wait. Jack and Bull weren’t there for that.
Pulling out his satellite phone, Jack dialed the number for Sally back at HQ.
“Damn.” He didn’t have a signal. He looked at Bull. “We’re in a dead zone.”
Bull nodded, produced his cellphone, and snapped a handful of pictures of the scene. With nothing else to do, the two men collected whatever trash they could and dumped it into the firepit. They used their feet to kick a layer of dirt atop it. Hopefully, it would cover the remnants until they returned. After they called it in and gave Sally the exact location, they would make the hike back to Bull’s truck and gather their equipment—mostly shovels and black trash bags. Then, they could return to Party Central and get to work.
Today, we’re nothing more than garbagemen.
Jack followed his partner out of the clearing and back into the trees. This trail was more expansive than the last one, and the two men walked side-by-side. He knew their path would lead them toward a drop-off, but thankfully, the footpath didn’t go anywhere near it. There was a comfortable fifty-foot buffer between the drop and the tree line. When they arrived, they were stunned by what they saw.
The path, which usually ran parallel to the precipice, was gone.
“There was definitely a storm last night,” Bull said, glancing at Jack.
“What gave you that idea?”
A landslide had taken out the area in front of them. Instead of the sudden drop-off that used to be fifty feet ahead of them, there was now a ledge that began its descent in a gentler, sloping manner—and it was now just three feet in front of their toes.
“We sh
ould go back,” Bull said, turning away.
Jack had other ideas.
“Hang on.” Bull stopped and looked back. Jack leaned out over the degenerated trail. “I think we can make it if we hug the tree line.”
Bull crossed his arms in front of him. It looked like he was going to need some convincing. The man was steadfast in everything he did. If he wanted to go back the other way, he would.
Jack winked. “Trust me.”
Bull huffed but didn’t leave.
Jack inspected the decline and stepped out. The going was slow, but he kept moving. He chose his steps carefully and used the trees to his right for support. Jack became overly confident in his ability to make it, and he foolishly sped up. When he did, he grabbed for the trunk of a thin, youthful pine tree and was shocked when it gave way.
Oh, shit!
Jack fell and slid headfirst alongside the tree. Both went careening down the fresh grade, heading for the drop-off. The tree shoved him to the left, spinning him around. Now descending feetfirst, Jack scrambled for purchase but found nothing. He was too heavy, and he was moving too fast. All the area around him offered was more mud.
When his feet and ass left the ground, something with the strength of a vise closed around his flailing wrist. Jack was slung against the side of a cliff, bashing his body hard. He looked up and found Bull lying on his belly. The bigger man was straining to hold Jack’s 200-pound frame aloft over an eighty-foot drop that ended in a fast-moving, icy river.
“Hurry,” Bull said, gritting his teeth. “Climb.”
Planting his feet into the rocky face, Jack started to make some headway. When his head cleared the ledge, he froze. Back up the newly created knoll was the last thing he had hoped to see.
“Why did you stop?” Bull asked. “I—”
“Shhh,” Jack interrupted. “Mountain lion.”
Depending on which part of the country you were in, Puma concolor was known by several different names. To Jack, they were mountain lions. But they were also known as cougars, pumas, and panthers, and they could reach the same weight as Jack. This one wasn’t that big. It was still quite a specimen, though.
Maybe forty pounds less than me—give or take.
Bull’s eyes went wide. They were in serious trouble. To the big cat, they looked like a pair of struggling pieces of meat. Usually, a mountain lion would only attack if they were inside its perceived territory or if it had any of its young around.
Or depending on when it had its last meal.
The feline stepped forward, head low, tail twitching.
Jack slowly grabbed at his holstered pepper spray pistol with his free hand. The nonlethal weapon was their preferred means of defense. The last thing Jack or Bull wanted to do was kill the predator. They were in its living room, and therefore were the ones in the wrong.
Bull shook his head.
Jack’s movements caused his partner’s body to slide forward another three inches. Soon, both men would fall.
The cat stepped forward again and tensed its hind legs.
“I have to,” Jack said, finally finding the weapon’s handgrip.
Bull’s attention switched to the frothing river down below right as the big cat went airborne. Just as Jack closed his hand around his pepper spray pistol, Bull did the unthinkable.
He let go.
The two rangers fell like bombs, shouting as they awkwardly crashed into the frigid mountain torrent. They were pulled under soon after entering. Both were good swimmers. They quickly kicked for the surface and were startled when the mountain lion splashed down next to them.
“I can’t believe it!” Jack shouted, gurgling water. “You chose the damn cat over me!”
Before Bull could defend his actions, the current picked up speed, and the trio unwillingly rode the rapids. They harmonized in one single shriek—cat included—and were sent tumbling over a powerful waterfall.
The water directly below the falls was broader and calmer, though it picked up again a hundred feet further ahead. Jack and Bull swam for one side. The mountain lion headed for the other. On all fours, like the big cat, the two rangers crawled onto dry land and flopped onto their backs, breathing hard. Jack cocked his head to the left and spotted the animal shaking the water from its golden-brown fur. With one final glare, it turned and dashed into the dense wilderness. Jack looked up into the sky and laughed, happy to be alive. He was soaked and cold. The alternative, however, could’ve been death.
“Man, I hate cats.”
“That may be,” Bull said, “but remember—”
“I know, I know,” Jack interrupted, blindly patting his friend’s shoulder. “We conserve. We don’t destroy.”
A familiar guttural bellow startled Jack and Bull. They leapt to their feet and found themselves standing toe-to-toe with a Grizzly bear. It was a large male, and it wasn’t happy to see them. The last time Jack had gotten into a staredown with a Grizzly, it ended with the both of them getting hosed down with pepper spray.
“Stay calm,” Bull whispered.
The bear rose onto its hind legs and stepped closer. Now, it was over nine-feet-tall.
Nope! Jack thought.
He broke every rule in the book and turned and ran for the river. He dove in like he was Michael Phelps and kicked like mad. Bull was close behind him. Jack’s sudden movements had caught the animal’s attention. It had lunged forward at the only other thing standing in its way: a 225-pound Bull.
The waterway carried them further downriver and into a cut bank channel. Vertical, slick cliff walls ascended on either side of the tributary, leveling off twenty feet out of reach. There was no escape for them here. The duo was deposited into another developing set of rapids. Seeing what awaited them, Bull rotated and turned his attention onto his partner. His scowl deepened.
The only thing Jack could do was shrug. “I guess that’s why the cat chose the other riverbank.”
They latched onto each other’s shirts and shouted, tossed about like ragdolls. Then, the rangers were sent plummeting over a second waterfall.
2
Cody, Wyoming
Two Days Later
Named after William “Buffalo Bill” Cody, a famous showman and Civil War veteran, Cody, Wyoming was a wonderful place to live if you enjoyed the slow life. Just under ten thousand people called it home. Most notably, Cody sat twenty miles to the east of Yellowstone National Park, making tourism the main order of business. Because of its close proximity to the reserve, several NPS members had taken up residence there, including retired Delta operator, Jack Reilly.
After calling it quits a few years back, Jack was hired on with the NPS by a friend of a friend. His exemplary military record and willingness to move made his hiring a cakewalk. Most people wanted to get away from places like Cody, but not Jack. Like so many other combat veterans, he yearned for peace and quiet, especially someone with Jack’s background. He had practically lived inside of global conflict for most of his adult life.
The elevation was something that took Jack some time to get used to. Cody sat nearly one mile above sea level, making it hard to catch your breath if you weren’t acclimated. The weather itself was mostly dry. The winters usually lacked consistent snowfall despite the low temperatures. It was perfect for Jack. The cold wasn’t unbearably frigid, and the summer months weren’t all that warm.
But even in a place as comfortable to live as Cody, danger still followed Jack. And it wasn’t a physical type of danger. Most of what he fought was much worse than that.
It was all in his head.
Jack’s dreams were always fixated on death. In desperate need of aid, he had visited a handful of therapists in the past. All of them diagnosed him with the same condition, post-traumatic stress disorder—PTSD. A handful of doctors tried prescribing him meds to fight the battle. He swiftly denied the narcotics. He had seen too many men in his situation get hooked on them.
One event, above all the rest, caused him the most pain.
“No!
”
The young Iraqi boy, too afraid to return to his murderous father, raised his right hand and lifted his thumb. The cylindrical detonator was clear as day.
He depressed the red button.
Jack snapped awake and leapt to his feet, breathing hard, covered in sweat. Every square inch of his six-foot-two frame was slathered in it. Luckily, he knew what he needed to do to get out of his own head. Jack grabbed for the drapes and threw them open, nearly tearing away the curtain rod. He had done it once before. The sunrise always calmed him. The start of a new day meant that he was at least a full day away from another episode.
“You’re okay, Jack. You’re okay. Breathe, dude. Breathe…”
His pulse slowed as more time passed. He understood that he wasn’t in any real danger while in his bedroom. The mental attacks were so real, because at one point, it had all happened to him. The mission in Mosul, Iraq, the one with the preteen suicide bomber, had been his last operation with Delta.
“He’s gone,” Jack whispered, tears running down his face. “The kid is gone, and he’s not coming back.” He punched the drywall next to the window, denting it. He clenched his teeth in anger. “When in the hell are you going to get that through your head?” The best thing happened to him next.
His cellphone rang.
It blasted Indian Outlaw by Tim McGraw. The song indicated that it was his partner calling him. Tatanka Durham was a full-blooded Lakota Native American and a proud one at that. Jack was a little rougher around the edges, and he possessed, what some considered to be, a juvenile sense of humor. He enjoyed messing with his stoic friend—hence the ringtone.
Focusing on the phone, Jack pushed aside the image of the tormented child and answered the call.
“Hey, Bull,” Jack said, using Tatanka’s unwanted nickname. In reality, the man’s name translated to Buffalo, but Jack liked the name Bull better. He used it exclusively when conversing with his partner, except when formally introducing him to others. Jack respected Bull more than anyone else, and he knew what lines he could and couldn’t cross.