Claws

by Ozzie Cheek

  When Kali sprang into the clearing where she had given birth, five northern gray wolves awaited her – their mouths dripping saliva, their lips rolling back to bare their teeth, and their growls coming from deep in the throat. A northern gray looks slender but is powerfully built, his neck heavily muscled, his limbs long and robust. The male weighs over one hundred pounds and the female slightly less. They’re equipped with heavy, large teeth designed for crushing bone and biting through skin. Like other wolf species, they’re highly territorial, and Jackson’s ranch was their home.

  An adult male attacked Kali’s neck, while a female jumped on her back. Other wolves nipped at her legs, drawing blood, trying to hamstring her. This is how wolves often bring down large animals like horses and elk. But the wolf pack had never encountered anything like Kali.

  The wolf attempting to rip open Kali’s throat was the most threatening so she engulfed his head in massive jaws, bit down, and nearly severed it, letting the carcass drop as her mouth filled with the wolf’s arterial blood. A second later, a swipe of Kali’s paws flung a female wolf six feet, disemboweling her. The wolf managed to slink off, howling. A third adult fled, but only after Kali bit off one of his legs at the knee joint. The remaining pair of northern grays escaped with minor injuries.

  The fight was over quickly, but Kali had been too late. Her third cub, another female, was dead.

  Angie entered the police station through the rear door. She stopped in the bathroom to check her makeup and add more Visine to her eyes. Then she headed to the coffee area. Sadie Pope was pouring coffee when Angie picked up an empty mug and then said, “Next.”

  “Didn’t think you liked my coffee,” Sadie said.

  “The stronger the better today,” Angie told her.

  “Rough night?”

  Angie groaned.

  “Idaho girls, we like our coffee and our men strong.” Sadie chuckled when she said it. “Some of us anyway.”

  Angie smiled and asked, “Is he in?”

  “This here cup’s for him.”

  “I’ll take it,” Angie said. She tucked a report folder under her arm and carried two coffees to Jackson’s office.

  “Aren’t you on the two P.M. shift today?” Jackson asked when he saw Angie in the doorway.

  “Yep. If you don’t want my report now, I’ll wait.”

  “Well, I can’t wait for my coffee, so now sounds good to me. Just don’t claim overtime.” Jackson took the mug from her, said thanks, and motioned to a chair.

  Angie sat down., “I need some caffeine first.”

  Jackson was careful not to require or even invite more personal information from his officers than was necessary. Still, Angie looked wrecked today, and he wondered why.

  “Okay,” she said after a few gulps of coffee that was brown and sweet. “Knights of the Golden Circle. Most of what I have comes from Wikipedia, a couple other Internet sites. So it may not be all that reliable.”

  “Probably good enough for background.”

  Angie nodded and opened the folder. “I got two pages I’ll leave you, but here’s the short and sweet of it. The KGC was a secret society started in Ohio in eighteen fifty-four to promote pro-slavery interests.”

  “So they’re ancient history?”

  “Maybe not. They were certainly active in the Civil War, robbing banks and trains for the Confederacy, and they probably were involved with the Bushwhackers and such after the war. John Wilkes Booth and Jesse James may have been members. Maybe President Pierce too.” Angie grinned. “Puts the Jesse James myth in a different light.”

  “Myth being the optimum word.”

  “Anyway, the KGC joined up with a group called The Order of The Sons of Liberty, and this group is still active. They have the usual agenda: taxes are illegal, home-school kids, pack a gun, keep women barefoot and pregnant, send the blacks back to Africa … you know. But if the Knights of the Golden Circle exist as a separate group, they’ve been good enough to avoid detection.”

  “Or they’re too small to matter. A few locals.”

  “Locals?”

  Jackson told her about Ronnie Greathouse, but he did not mention the likelihood of more officers being involved.

  “I’ll be damned,” she said. “Who would have thought?”

  “Anything else that might be helpful?”

  “Only if you want to talk to Eddie Yow.” She gave Jackson a paper with Yow’s information. “He owns a cowboy bar in Bakersfield, California. Fronts the house band.”

  “I’ll call him,” Jackson said. A couple of minutes later, when Angie got up to leave, Jackson said, “When I was deputy-chief, Ed had me do all this research stuff.”

  “Did it help you become a better cop?”

  “I’m the Chief of Police,” he said, smiling.

  After she left, Jackson phoned the number for Edward King Yow. A man answered in a gruff voice. Despite the hour, Jackson had awakened him. Yow still agreed to talk.

  In the end Jackson didn’t learn much new information from Edward Yow, aka Eddie Yow, aka King Yow. Mostly, what Yow did was confirm that he had an affair with Dolly while he was married to Pamela. When Pamela found out about it, she divorced Edward King Yow and cut Dolly out of her life.

  “Dolly and me got married, but it only lasted a year or so,” Yow said. “Then she met that other fellow.”

  “Ever know Dolly and Pamela to get into it?”

  “Oh yeah.” He chuckled. “Pam hated her.”

  “And yet Dolly moved here to Buckhorn. Any idea why?”

  “I didn’t stay in touch with Dolly. Tried to keep up with Pam, but she don’t like me talking to Missy, so …”

  The phone went dead quiet. Jackson waited. “This isn’t court, Mr. Yow. Proof isn’t required.”

  “Dolly’s next husband … Ted. He had friends around there. Ruby Ridge militia types. What I heard anyhow.”

  The moment Katy climbed out of the pickup, she heard Touie. Because she had ridden all her life and had four horses at Skorokoro, she knew what the sounds meant. The gelding was frightened, maybe even in distress. Katy got the .375, loaded it, and hurried into the barn.

  She searched the interior but found no wild cats, snakes, or other creatures that might threaten Touie. She put down the rifle but kept it close and calmed the gelding. Once he had settled, Katy picked up the .375 and secured the door, searched the outside of the barn, and then the corral. The dirt in the corral was hard and trampled. Had she not been looking for signs of a predator she would not have seen the perfect paw print behind a water trough where a spill had softened the earth. From the size Katy knew the track belonged to a liger. No lion or tiger was ever that large in North America, even in ancient times.

  Oddly, few Americans realized that lions had roamed the western United States until about 11,000 years ago or that they were twenty-five percent larger than today’s African lion. Remains of them had been found in Idaho. The era of the big lion also was the time of the Sabertooth tiger, and Katy often imagined seeing a battle on the western plains between Panthera Atrox and the Sabertooth. As ferocious as these two were, Katy knew that neither cat would stand a chance against a liger, the biggest feline ever and one that was alive now, alive and close by.

  Katy strapped the dart rifle to her back, carried the .375 across her chest, and headed to the restored prairie. She knew going there alone was dangerous. It also was the most likely place to find Kali and any liger cubs. The two acre plot Katy entered was home to princes plume, oakleaf sumac, goldenrod, Missouri primrose, buffalo berry, silver sagebrush, ninebark, syringa, yarrow, wheatgrass, Indian rice grass, and the thick Great Basin wild rye grass, plus a dozen other native plants and trees. Some of the plants were confined to one area, while other plants grew wildly throughout. Some were thriving and some clinging to life. For a moment, Katy relaxed enough to appreciate the wonder of it all, and then she refocused on the danger.

  Deep into the prarie, as Katy parted rye grass that was as tall as she was, she
heard a noise off to her left. She wheeled and shouldered the .375 smoothly and quickly. If a lion or tiger was charging, and in here it likely would be a lion, the motion would be toward her. The grass instead was rippling away from her. She watched it, and before long, she spotted a large wolf crawling away. The wolf appeared to be badly injured.

  Katy left the wolf alone and continued until she reached an opening in the rye grass. Here she found blood, fur, and parts of a wolf that had been ripped to pieces. Wet blood colored the ground and clung to clumps of grass. Katy also found cat hairs. She methodically searched the grassy area, keeping the .375 in front of her, the barrel pointed down and her finger on the trigger. It took only a few minutes before she found the remains of the liger cub.

  Katy squatted beside the female cub and touched her head. It was still warm. Now she knew for certain that Kali had given birth, but she did not know the number of cubs born or if other baby ligers were alive. A litter of two to four was typical with big cats so Katy was hopeful. A tear rolled down her cheek. Katy wiped her face with her hands, got up, and searched the surrounding area for the injured gray wolf and shot it.

  Twenty-Seven

  Jackson was outlining what he wanted Angie to do while he was away that afternoon when a call came in reporting a fight at Green State Park campground.

  “I’ll handle it,” Angie said. “You go on.”

  Jackson’s impulse was to respond to the call, but Angie was right. If he did not leave soon, he would not have time to see Buck Benson before going home to meet Katy. Benson had come up with new information about the bullet Jackson had given him. Jackson sent Angie to the campground, called in a reserve officer to help at the police station, and twenty minutes later walked the few blocks to the downtown square. As he passed the Split-Rail Café, Iris stepped outside. Jackson and Iris barely had spoken since the argument Tuesday night.

  They exchanged guarded hellos before Iris said, “I hear the lion hunter’s staying with you.”

  “At the house you mean?”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t been run out of town.”

  “She said she isn’t part of this injunction.”

  “Well then, it must be true.”

  Jackson sighed. “We need her help, Iris.”

  “I don’t want Jesse staying out there with her.”

  “Jesse likes Katy. And before you ask, I did talk to Jesse, so you can relax. The condoms aren’t hers.”

  “That’s even worse if she is having sex.”

  “She says she’s not.” When Iris asked for details of the talk, Jackson refused to tell her. “I promised Jesse.”

  “Well, whoop-de-do. I still want her to come home.”

  “She is home.”

  Iris glared at Jackson, but before she could fashion a retort, a police cruiser squealed around a corner and slammed to a stop beside them. Angie bailed out of it. “It’s not a fight,” she said breathlessly. “It’s their boy.”

  “Slow down,” Jackson said. “What boy? What’s wrong?”

  “This family camped at Green State Park. Their little boy is missing. They’re afraid the lions got him.”

  Idaho’s twenty-six state parks and 2.5 million acres of protected wilderness range from rocky moonscapes to verdant forests and from the massive Frank Church-River Of No Return Wilderness to postage-stamp-size Green State Park. Located on Highway 62, barely outside Buckhorn’s town line, Green State Park contained a mere dozen campsites.

  Rodney Stutz, a fifty-year-old welder from Kremmling, Colorado, had arrived Monday night with his wife, Rene, and their five-year-old son. They got there early enough to grab a coveted spot in the tiny park.

  Both Rodney and Rene were outside an older travel trailer when Jackson and Angie arrived. Rodney was talking to a knot of three men wearing orange-accented hunting gear and carrying large caliber rifles, while Rene wept on the shoulder of a woman padded like a down ski-jacket.

  Jackson introduced himself and then steered Rodney and Rene Stutz into a Thor Wanderer Toy Hauler. Rodney was a beefy guy with arm tats. Stubbles of dark hair covered his head. Rene was a short, chunky bottle-blond with a big chest. Stutz had four other kids, some of them grown now, from two earlier marriages, but Eric was Rene’s only child. Rene was sixteen years younger than her husband.

  Once they were seated around the fold-down dining table, Jackson got their names, address, phone numbers, employment, and such, and said, “Tell me what happened.”

  “That’s just it; we don’t know,” Rodney said. “We left real early, me and Rene, and Eric was still sleeping. And when we got back from hunting, an hour or two ago, he was gone. We looked everywhere, but he ain’t here.”

  “You mean he was alone all day?” Angie asked.

  “Of course not,” Rene snapped.

  “The woman outside.” Rodney jerked his head toward the door. “Old Much-Butt out there watches him.”

  “Rod!” Rene scolded. She then explained, “Her name’s Ester Faye, and she’s been real nice to us.”

  Jackson asked for a photo of Eric, and Rene, who had six of them in her wallet, gave him one. The sight of her son’s smiling face started her crying again. Jackson looked at the photo and then passed it to Angie. He said, “Anything of Eric’s missing, like toys or clothes?”

  Rodney glanced at his wife beside him. “Batman.”

  “Eric’s little backpack,” Rene managed to say.

  Jackson scrutinized both parents. “You having any problems at home? Problems with Eric?”

  The air in the camper suddenly felt electrified. “You saying we’re bad parents?” Rodney snarled.

  “No sir,” Jackson said. “I’m not. It’s just sometimes kids can take family troubles to heart.”

  Rodney and Rene insisted their marriage was fine, Eric was fine, and except for money everything was fine.

  “What kind of dog is Eric holding?” Angie asked, pointing to another photo of Eric in Rene’s open wallet.

  “That’s Panchutz.” Rodney grimaced when Rene said it. “Eric’s little chiweenie. A dachshund-chihauhau mix.”

  Jackson nodded and said, “The dog with you?”

  “Who gives a damn about the dog?” Rodney said.

  “Don’t mind him,” Rene said. “We’re just both so scared. Panchutz is sick, so we left him in Colorado.”

  “Mind if I take that photo too?” Jackson said. “I’ll return them.” While Rene removed the photograph of Eric and his dog from the plastic sleeve in her wallet, Jackson asked, “What day did you say you left home?”

  Rene flicked a look at her husband. “Monday.”

  “The minute we heard about the prize,” Rodney said, “we was packed up and gone inside an hour.”

  “You were lucky to hear about it so fast.”

  Rodney shrugged. “Friend of a friend, you know.”

  Jackson nodded and waited, but they said nothing more. A few minutes later, Jackson sent Angie off to interview the baby-sitter and any other people in the campground.

  When he got to the police car, he radioed Sadie and told her to gather the full-time officers, on duty or off, and as many reserve officers as she could locate. He then remembered that Katy was waiting for him. He called her and explained that he wouldn’t be checking on his stock today after all or looking for horses. When Jackson finished telling her about the missing boy, Katy said, “I can help.”

  “You need to find your liger. We can handle it.”

  “What kind of shoes is the little boy wearing?”

  Jackson remained silent.

  “If you’re going to track him, you need to know what shoes he’s wearing,” Katy said. “Probably trainers. Sneakers. It’ll be easier if you know the tread pattern.”

  “How soon can you get here?” Jackson asked.

  It took nearly thirty minutes for the blue-pins – Angie, Tucker, John, Brian, and Skip – and three reserve officers to gather at the police station. The phone in the station was ringing incessantly, and Sadie an
swered it as fast as she could, saying, “Hold please.”

  Jackson was about to join his officers when Iris rushed in. “You find the boy yet?”

  “We’re organizing a search now, Iris.”

  “Good. Then you’ll need a staging area for everyone. I’ll get the Elks Club opened and set up for you.” She paused. “You are asking the public for help?”

  Jackson had been going over the pros and cons of using only his officers versus public assistance. If he limited the search to police officers and Katy, he could reduce the risk and likelihood of error. But the lion hunt had his crew stretched thin. Plus, time and climate were against them. They only had a few hours of daylight. Around sunset, lions and tigers would prowl for food, and once the sun went down, the temperature would drop. “People will search for the boy no matter what we say,” he told Iris, “so I’m going to try to organize them.”

  “Go find him, Jackson. Before something bad happens.”

  “Something bad may already have happened.”

  Iris frowned. “Meaning what?”

  “Ever hear of Susan Smith?” Jackson knew that parents were always the prime suspects when a child goes missing.

  “His DC Radar sneakers,” Rene told Katy. “He won’t wear nothing else now.” Rene was still sniffling and patting away tears. She described the boy’s new multi-colored shoes while she dug out a pair of old Nikes. The Nikes provided Katy with the size, a boy’s 7, but not the DC Radar tread pattern.

  Katy bagged the shoes, saying, “You told Jackson, Chief Hobbs, you were hunting all afternoon. Most people stop mid-morning and start again before dusk.”

  Rodney glared at Katy. “Then most people don’t need the prize money bad as we do.”

  Eastern Idaho radio and TV stations broadcast an Amber Alert for Eric Stutz and asked for volunteers. Phones and word-of-mouth worked even better. An hour later Jackson met his officers and fifty-nine volunteers at the Elk’s Club. Those who could not join the search due to age or physical limitations were busy preparing the Elk’s Club to serve as search headquarters.