Johnny Two Ravens' Outdoors Shop lacked the modern brightness of the stuffed animal joint up the road. He could ill afford brick walls or petrified bears. What his place did have was pride. A freshly painted exterior of robin's egg blue called travelers and tourists in from the street and a wooden porch, erected with Glenn's help the previous fall, welcomed those who answered the call.
The ranger was up the steps and across the porch in four long strides. He ignored the CLOSED sign dangling from a hook on the door and entered to the jingling of bells. He scanned the shadowy front room and called out his usual greeting. “Hey, Tonto, where are you?”
Two Ravens appeared in the doorway to the back room silhouetted by dim lamplight. His weathered black cowboy hat enhanced the dark shadows over his eyes. His jaw locked in a chiseled grimace; he extended the hunting knife in his right hand. “You need something, Ranger Rick?”
Glenn threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I give.”
Two Ravens smiled and drove the knife blade into the counter top. “Since when? All you white boys ever do is take.”
Glenn eased into a knowing smile. The Indian was quick-witted and, at times, brutal in the game they played.
“You know, I don't mean to complain,” Two Ravens said. “But one day you're going to come in here spouting that “Tonto” garbage and there's going to be some old Indian in here packing iron and absent my sense of humor.”
The ranger grunted.
Two Ravens laughed. It was a low, friendly laugh that made a liar of his stern features. His long, straight hair, as black as Wyoming oil, draped in the traditional manner from beneath his worn hat.
Glenn had never seen his friend without that hat. Few had. The chief had, however, discovered Two Ravens didn't appreciate wise remarks about his headgear. Once, when asked about it, Two Ravens replied, “It keeps my hair in place, keeps the rain and snow off my neck, and the sun out of my eyes.” He thought about it a moment, then added, “Besides, it sets me apart from eastern tourists.”
“Yes,” Glenn agreed. “The downside is it makes you look like an Indian.”
Two Ravens immediately, without malice of forethought, whipped Glenn's hind end; a feat that took some effort. With his ranger friend face down in the dirt, he refused to let him up until he said, “Native American,” three times – with respect. Half laughing, half crying, the ranger managed it, getting his reddened arm back as a reward. Glenn, of course, got in the final word. “No, really,” he said dusting himself off. “It looks good on you.” It was the last time he'd mentioned the hat.
The Indian examined his friend standing wearily in the doorway of his shop. “What kind of week have you had?” Two Ravens asked.
“Messed up.”
“So says the gossip. Come on back, I've got a bottle with our names on it.”
Two Ravens' living quarters reflected their owner, clashing images of the ancient and the new. The room was dimly lit by a floor lamp adjacent to an overstuffed chair and a smaller one atop an end table by the couch on the opposite side of the room. Two windows covered by drab beige drapes allowed some natural light to enter. The only other illumination came from above the fireplace where an artist's lamp cast a glow on two pipes on display. A peace pipe adorned with the white-tipped tail feathers of a bald eagle and colored beads hung in a place of honor to the left. To the right hung a more intricately detailed medicine pipe. Glenn understood neither their significances nor their differences but clearly the pipes were important to Two Ravens. The medicine pipe in particular. It had a polished wood shaft, wrapped in leather thongs from which hung beads and feathers of brilliant colors, and featured a stunning bowl carved from a block of elk antler into the shape of a raven's head. In hushed tones, Two Ravens had explained that the raven was his guiding spirit animal. The spirit stuff was beyond Glenn's comprehension but the pipe was the most beautiful artwork he had ever seen. Woven blankets, baskets, and beadwork lay scattered throughout, adding color to the otherwise brown and green room.
Two Ravens was a traditional Shoshone; the pipes, feathers, and stones had meaning for him and were displayed with great care. Still he was a man of the 20th century. In the far corner stood a table of leathering tools and, beside it, an old sawhorse splattered in old paint. Atop the sawhorse rested a saddle Two Ravens had been restoring. It too was a superb piece of workmanship. Johnny had made it clear that no tourist's butt would ever overshadow the gracefully curving seat. It was his saddle. Its leather glistened while the pungent odor of neat's-foot oil permeated the room.
A rolled tent and sleeping bags occupied another corner, along with lanterns, backpacks, fishing poles, and tackle boxes. On the wall above was a handmade gun rack adorned with two rifles and a shotgun, meticulously cleaned and oiled. Beside it hung another rack, containing a traditional longbow and quiver of handmade arrows. And beside that hung several wet suits before a cabinet of diving equipment; expensive foreign toys to Glenn. Though the room was large, it felt cramped with the Indian world on display and the new world crammed into the cracks out of necessity. A colored television and stereo occupied an entertainment center on the far wall, a high-tech testimony that not all modern conveniences were bad news. At the moment, however, the gentle rhythm of Native American flute music floated through the air.
Glenn rolled his eyes in mock disdain.
Two Ravens laughed and turned the CD player off. On his return trip, he removed a pink bathrobe from the back of a door and tossed it into the next room. Left by a recent guest, the robe told another part of Two Ravens' personal story. He was single and liked it that way.
“Big or little?” the outfitter asked, fingering glasses in the cupboard above his sink.
“Go heavy or go home,” Glenn muttered.
He grabbed a tumbler and liberally poured the red-gold whiskey. “Want some water with that?” Two Ravens asked, renewing another ritual as old as their friendship.
Glenn looked at him as if he were stupid and responded with the ritual answer. “Water? Do you know what fish do in water?” They shared a laugh and the ranger was already feeling better.
Two Ravens handed the glass over then poured his own. Reclining on the opposite sofa, he took a slug of the potent liquor, exhaled at the hot burst in his chest, and crossed his feet atop a pile of hunting magazines. “Talk to me, bwana.”
Glenn did. He let it all come out, recounting the events of the week; the grizzly poached by the highway, the Texas visitor who died during a bear attack near Firehole Lake, the freak thunderstorm that threatened to wash away half the park, and the horrible accident during the relocation of Bear #264. “This guy, Princep, was there to protect the interests of the bear and he's the one who killed it,” Glenn said in disgust. “These green groups are a pain in the neck.”
“They have their purpose, Glenn,” Two Ravens said. “If we all took more care with our world, and our heritage, we wouldn't need the environmentalists.”
“I understand that. The problem is these people get so caught up in their causes they forget their purpose. How many times have we seen them do more damage than good? How often do they work so hard to protect something that they end up destroying it?”
Two Ravens considered the question, nodded at an unspoken thought, reached for the remote and turned on his fancy television. He found the news and, for several long minutes allowed the talking head anchor to overwhelm them both with violence and crisis. Finally, he said, “It is man's nature to do more damage than good. Not only to nature but to each other.” He tossed the remote on the table and headed for the bottle.
On the television screen, apparently finished for the moment spreading doom and gloom, the news anchor stuck his nose into the weather, schmoozing with the station's chief meteorologist. Glenn wearily motor-boated his lips, remembering a simpler time, with less bull and self-importance, when he was just a ranger and she would have been just a weather girl. The motorboat turned into a full-on raspberry when she couldn't explain the origins of the
most intense storm they'd seen in decades, and which seemed to restrict itself just to Yellowstone National Park.
“So,” the talking head said, “between the mud slide warnings and the potential for additional rain, it sounds like the Department of the Interior might want to get started building an Ark?”
“I wouldn't go that far,” little Susie Storm replied, with a smidge of laughter and a lot of teeth. “But, were I them, I wouldn't put the boots away just yet, either.”
“Great,” Glenn said, reaching for the remote. “How's that for the cherry on top of the crap Sundae this day has been?”
Winding down the homey mirth, the anchor thanked “Jen,” the weather girl. Then, before Glenn could cut him off, the news reader went all in earnest giving the ranger pause. “Now,” the anchor said, “for those in our viewing audience that missed it earlier, here is a replay of tonight's guest editorial by the new park correspondent and columnist for the Billings Reporter, Howard Lark.”
Glenn stayed his hand, lowered the remote, and then glared as Lark appeared on Two Ravens' big color screen, every bit as smug and self-satisfied as the chief ranger remembered him.
“Yellowstone's tourist season is in high gear,” the reporter started in, “and, while all appears normal, one has to ask, `Is everything all right in Yellowstone National Park?' To this reporter's mind, questions of safety are being met with precious few answers. Is Park Superintendent Michael Stanton aware of recent events in our nation's oldest playground? Or is Chief Ranger Glenn Merrill, famed for his Walking Tall approach to law enforcement, keeping certain facts to himself? Questions about recent elk and bear poaching incidents have been brushed away. But Merrill's office, when pressed, has confirmed two separate incidents resulting in the deaths of two grizzly bears. The grizzly is on the Endangered Species List. Additionally, a tourist recently died in the park, but rangers have steadfastly refused to give any details. Why? One of this reporter's sources indicates the visitor died during a bear attack. Is there a connection? Why, Chief Merrill, if everything is all right, have you canceled your rangers' `leave time'? Why are all rangers working overtime? It's no secret that the top Yellowstone ranger carries a big stick. But isn't it about time, either softly or not, he begin speaking?”
The news anchor reappeared looking, it would be fair to say, a little shocked. He cleared his throat and started the standard disclaimer, “The views expressed…”
“Nice,” Two Ravens said returning. He reclaimed his remote and shut the television off. “Glad we didn't miss that, huh?”
“Better and better,” Glenn agreed. “I'd like to take a big stick and… What did you say about doing damage?”
“Go for it,” Two Ravens said with a laugh. “You could always plead `the nature of man.' ” Then both were laughing; and pouring more booze. “You came with a problem. Have you found the answer, my friend?”
“Apparently not, Johnny. I'm still crying.” Glenn emptied his glass and reached for the bottle. “You're the one who understands Mother Earth and all that jazz. What do you think?”
“I think, if you call my beliefs jazz one more time,” Two Ravens said with a smile, “I'll pound you into dust.” He thought for a moment then continued in all sincerity. “Despite the Howard Larks of the world, we do need to live in harmony with Mother Earth. The best answer to all of our problems is to take care of each other. In doing so we'll ultimately take care of ourselves.”
“What are the chances of that happening?” Glenn threw his head back, gulping the burning liquid.
“Better than my chances of having any leftover whiskey, white boy.”
Chapter 8
Dan Fresno was a cowboy.
He wasn't the Hollywood type that always seemed to be fighting redskins or chasing desperadoes. Those weren't real cowboys. They were works of fiction meant to entertain and generate box office dollars. Dan Fresno dealt with cows – for a living.
Real cowboys slept on the ground at the edge of high mountain meadows or in ratty old bunkhouses amounting to little more than a roof with a wooden floor. They had bowed legs from straddling horses sixteen hours a day. Their skin was weathered and brown, aged beyond their years, thanks to endless weeks in scorching heat, freezing cold, rain, sleet, snow and whatever else Mother Nature decided to dump on them throughout their lives.
Real cowboys were loners because that was the only way they could do their jobs without going crazy. Riding the range might seem romantic to city slickers but being alone all day, every day, for years on end was not nearly as romantic as it was a hard way to earn a buck. Real cowboys packed guns, not for shoot-outs but to protect their herds from predators, to kill the occasional snake in camp or, God forbid, to humanely put their horse out of its misery if it took a bad fall and broke a leg in the backcountry.
Real cowboys helped cows deliver their calves when they couldn't do it on their own. They branded them when they were old enough but before they got too big to handle. They drove the herds into the mountains in the spring, moved them from one grazing area to another throughout the summer, and drove them back out again in the fall.
Real cowboys smelled like cow dung and horsehair. They dressed in denim because it was durable; wore wide-brimmed hats to keep the sun out of their eyes and the weather off the back of their necks; and chaps to protect their legs from thorns, brambles, and low hanging limbs they often rode through. They didn't dress for style. They dressed for comfort and utility.
Real cowboys were long and lean from too few home cooked meals and too many backbreaking, interminable days of work. Dan Fresno was a real cowboy.
Dan, like most folks, had a nickname. Colorful as nicknames tended to be, they were usually born of real life. In Dan's case, they called him “Beans.” Dan loved beans, baked beans in particular. Ride into his camp on any summer evening, pull up a log and help yourself to a cup of coffee and a plate of beans. There might be a slice of bread to go with it, or the occasional slab of bacon, but if you didn't like beans you'd go hungry in Dan's camp.
Beans originally hailed from Texas as most cowboys did, especially in the early days of the frontier when that was where the cows came from. Cows needed cowboys to tend them, cows came from Texas, and cowboys came with them. Beans rode for the Cattlemen's Association. The stock he tended were not his, in the legal sense of the word, but he rode them – so they were his. Cows were Beans' business. Cows were Beans' life.
Not surprisingly, when a grizzly sow decided his beef was on the menu for her three cubs, Beans took it real personal. Grizzlies were considered `Endangered' and were offered protection under the law. Cows were not endangered so the law didn't much care. Beans cared; forget the law.
After he'd come upon the remains of one of his cows, and the telltale signs indicating a bear as the culprit, Beans put most of his energy into looking for the interloper. It took several days but Beans found what he was looking for. He was riding the grazing allotment ten miles east of Jardine, Montana in the Gallatin National Forest. It was rough country, comprised of a long, deep valley where the Absaroka Mountains drained their heavy load of snowmelt in the form of swiftly moving streams. Many were seasonal, most unnamed. The rivulets started above the flight path of eagles, widening as they descended the steep slopes. They merged with like-streams and grew, gaining in size and increasing in power, until they reached the valley floor. There they joined to form Hellroaring Creek.
In dryer times, decades past, beaver had dammed Hellroaring Creek. They built their homes and raised their young on the resulting pond. The beaver had since moved on. Time and spring floods had since rerouted Hellroaring Creek. The pond had filled with sediment and vanished, leaving a lush green meadow with its passing. Moose fed in the willows on the banks of the new creek. Elk sustained themselves on the grasses farther back when the snow drove them from their high country haunts. Cattle, as well, grew fat on the bounty left long ago by the industrious beaver. Now the cattle were absent and it made Beans uncomfortable.
&nb
sp; Riding a low ridge line overlooking the meadow, the cowboy spotted the problem. On the opposite side lay the remains of another cow and, at her side, the shredded hide of a yearling calf. Beans cussed and spurred his mount, cutting down the ridge and into the willows. He crossed the meadow, now marshland from the deluge of late-season rain, en route to examine the kill. Beans knew already that the bear had struck again.
His horse suddenly flared its nostrils, jumped sideways, and started to bolt. Beans tightened his leg hold on the animal's midsection, pulled slack from the reins and hung on, unaware his mount had their best interests at heart. An instant later, Beans understood the problem. The willows erupted with a ferocious roar and the blurred blonde shape of the subject of the cowboy's search.
A grizzly sow, sated for the moment on fattened beef, had been lying in the willows with her three cubs, resting and guarding their leftovers. Driven by her instinct to protect her progeny and their meal, she had no tolerance for intruders. The charge came so fast Beans could not react. His horse took the lead instead, nearly tossing him to the ground. Then she did what horses do; she ran like the wind. Too full to bother further with the fleeing pair, the angry sow roared a warning that the cowboy not come back, then she returned to her nap.
*
Bart Houser had been a friend to Beans for years. They first met when Beans, tired of the Texas desert and looking for new adventure, moved into Wyoming cow country. In those days, Houser worked a little on the ranches himself. He was a native of Montana. He loved the life of the cowboy and wanted to make it his career. Unfortunately, the price of beef wasn't what he thought it should be and Houser liked more expensive things than what a cowboy's salary could buy.
Instead Houser did what a lot of people did in that part of the country. He looked to the park for a better wage and a softer life. He went to school and, barely, earned his degree then went to work as a ranger. Getting in was tough. Like everyone else he started as a seasonal ranger. Full-time positions were hard to come by and some never made it at all. Houser was not there yet.
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