“We've got them with us,” number two added. “Did you want them?”
“You can leave them with me,” Two Ravens said. “Or you can keep them and pack them the morning we leave. It's up to you.”
Over the next fifteen minutes the two hauled in and, in the center of his shop floor, dumped the largest pile of the most wildly diverse, expensive, and completely unnecessary fishing equipment the outfitter had ever seen. Glenn Merrill, Two Ravens' thought, would have laughed himself to death.
In the days that followed, Two Ravens fulfilled his part of the bargain. He secured the services of Ten Trees who, despite his youth, was one of the best trail cooks he knew. He rounded up ten horses, the gear, and the tack necessary to sustain five inexperienced and naïve clients, himself, and the cook for a five-night outing. They pulled into Tie Hack Ranch on schedule, met the additional members of their party, and began preparations to hit the trail. Two Ravens and his cook unloaded the animals from the trailers they'd driven up from the reservation.
Two Ravens would guide the group along the trail, offer advice and instruction on matters of fishing and local lore, and tend to the stock. Ten Trees would handle the kitchen, cook for the group, and do the chores; gathering firewood, hauling water, and keeping the camp clean. His favorite chore was setting up the latrine. Ten Trees delighted in watching the tourists' faces as he explained how a toilet in the wild worked. `This is a branch. This is a shovel. Drop trou, sit over the branch, do your thing, then shovel.' Rich people had the widest eyes!
They unloaded the pickups moving the gear to the horses. They started, of course, with the tack; saddles and bridals. Once saddled, the animals were loaded down with gear. Ten Trees took care of the two kitchen panniers; large leather containers overstuffed with pots, pans, and cooking utensils. The packhorse's saddle featured a wooden attachment over which those were hung, and additional items were top-packed over them. Three horses carried the rest of the equipment, sleeping bags, and tents. A manny, “tarp” to the city slickers, was pulled down over each bundle to bind the gear.
The added clients were city boys too, but seemed decent enough in Two Ravens estimation. He helped them into their saddles and offered riding tips as needed. The goatee was another matter. Though it was obvious he'd never mounted up before, the representative of “the Philadelphia Hastings” refused to be taught anything by a commoner like Two Ravens. That was his choice, Johnny thought, standing back to watch. How Glenn would have said it, `just another visitor with more dollars than sense.' Hastings struggled through three bad attempts before finally landing a seat in his saddle. Two Ravens enjoyed the show promising to feel guilty about it later.
With everyone safely, if humorously, aboard their mounts, they headed out from Tie Hack Ranch on what would be a half-day's ride to their final destination.
*
Heart Lake lay, beautiful and still, below Mount Sheridan and east of that stretch of backcountry known as the Red Mountains. Two Ravens set up camp south of the lake and escorted his clients to the south shore to fish for trout.
Before he released them, he gave his charges their warnings. “We had a lot of snow this past winter, especially in the high country, and extreme rains this last week. You have nothing to compare it too but I'm telling you the water is much higher than I prefer. You'll have to be on the lookout for submerged boulders along the edges and steep drop-offs hidden along the shoreline.”
Not surprisingly, the group responded with disinterested nods and moved right on to the usual amateur questions, Is this the right lure?, Is this the right fly?, Where are the hot spots?, What time is dinner? Two Ravens answered each patiently and, satisfied, they trooped their armloads of equipment to the lake shore to fish.
Fishing had always been a favorite pass-time for Johnny Two Ravens. But, within minutes of his clients' attack on nature from the lake bank, the outfitter knew he'd never look at the sport the same again. In the hands of those five, it looked like a badly choreographed dance by over-dressed clowns. They had it all; chest waders, fancy vests with hundreds of dollars' worth of baits, lures, and flies in decorative boxes, new rods (two custom made for the socially conscious among them), wide brimmed felt hats, and expensive polarizing sun glasses. They'd even remembered the sun block and mosquito spray. But, despite the money, none had invested any time in gaining knowledge. Had he had the inner peace to light a pipe, in the time it would have taken Two Ravens to load the bowl, the white Philadelphia half-wits had engineered chaos; lines were tangled in low hanging branches, in high growing willows, and around one another. It was going to be a long five days.
Two Ravens found a boulder bathed in sunlight a short distance from the lake. He stripped off his shirt, lowered himself across its tabletop, and edged the brim of his hat over his eyes. Yuppies were easier to handle when you were unconscious. The last he saw of his clients, they were plowing through the shallow waters at the south end of the lake waddling like crippled ducks in their fancy waders. Two Ravens chuckled, reminded of an old saying among his people, Never trust the water downstream from a white man. It was a good thought to take with him to sleep.
*
Two Ravens had no clue how long he'd been asleep. Roused by Ten Trees dinner bell, an old metal triangle the cook beat with relish, he sat up and waved the others in. It wasn't until they duck-walked to shore that the outfitter realized he was short one goateed client. “Where is Paul Hastings?”
The remaining four shared vacant looks and `I don't knows.' Neither did they have any idea how long their friend had been absent.
“That's just great,” Two Ravens said, fuming. “I made it perfectly clear nobody was to leave the immediate area without me.”
“What's the big deal,” one of them said. It was good ol' number two who'd accompanied Hastings on that first day in the store. “He's probably taking a dump behind a tree somewhere.”
“That doesn't narrow it much.” Two Ravens pulled on his shirt. “You guys head up to the camp and let Ten Trees feed you. I'll go look for him.”
*
Paul Hastings was lost. How it had happened, even he didn't have a clue, but what difference it made now was of little importance. It sucked, that's all he knew.
He'd grown tired of fishing; which was nothing new. Hastings hated fishing and always had. As a kid, his old man forced him to go crappie fishing in Fairmount Park. Endless hours of sitting on creek banks. It got so tiring that, whenever the old man looked the other way, he'd pull the worm off his hook and recast, doing everything he could not to catch one of those slimy creatures. He'd only come to Wyoming to make his father happy. When you were heir to the third largest producer of shale petroleum products in the United States, you made your old man happy. Big deal.
Of course, Hastings volunteered to organize the trip. It was his pleasure. Paul Hastings would strip and drag his junk over a mile of broken glass to be in his old man's good graces. He'd even go fishing.
Now he was lost.
Hastings had been wandering for what seemed hours. He suspected he'd gone in a complete circle twice. He'd fallen once over a dead tree and had gouged a chunk out of his elbow. He'd even gotten burrs in his beard. God, he hated the woods, hated the park, hated the outdoors. And, just then, he hated their uppity guide. That good-for-nothing Indian could have this nature crap, he thought; the red-faced, smart-mouthed, Iron Eyes Cody-looking creep. If Two Ravens was such a great guide, why hadn't the alcoholic, tax gobbling, son-of-a-whore found him by now? It was getting dark!
It was then, after Hastings realized the sun was headed to bed for the night, that he heard the first strange sound amid the lodgepole. It was a heavy snap, rustle, and thud as if someone had tripped over a high tree root or low branch. He knew; he'd already done both.
“Two Ravens, is that you?” A long and awkward silence followed. Hastings strained, nervously scanning his surrounding, and wasn't sure but thought he saw a mist in the air. A few minutes more and he was certain; a fog was settling over the underbrush.
“Two Ravens.”
Hastings shivered, sorry he'd left his coat back at camp; sorrier still he'd stepped wrong and soaked his jeans playing bass master down in the lake. He was freezing.
The fog was heavy now, swirling. Another snap sounded, another rustle of foliage, somewhere in the trees, somewhere in the mist to his right. “Two Ravens,” he called out. “Ten Trees?”
A deep growl escaped the darkness. An instant later it became a roar that drained the fluid from Hastings' spine. Wood cracked and splintered. The thick brush exploded in front of him. A massive head shown first, as if no body were attached, then the body followed; a half ton of charging muscle wrapped in silver-tipped, glowing fur. Still roaring, its murderous eyes cut through the darkness like lightning bolts in a summer storm. Then came recognition; it was a bear!
The animal slammed into Hastings with the speed of an express train and mashed him to the ground as if he were a child's toy. His lungs collapsed as he puked their contents of air. A brown and gray hell descended upon him. For a fleeting moment he told himself it couldn't be happening. He was Paul Hastings of the Philadelphia Hastings. He had money, lots and lots of money, and lady friends to spend it on. He saw their lovely smiles. Then the image vanished, replaced by rows of yellowed, gleaming teeth beneath hard, steel-gray eyes. There followed intense pain; then darkness.
Chapter 10
Bart Houser left the administration office building at Mammoth Headquarters feeling half mad and half relieved. His meeting with Superintendent Stanton had gone better than he'd anticipated. Still, it hadn't been easy. There were tough questions about Hellroaring Creek but, under the circumstances, Houser thought he'd acquitted himself rather well. Stanton had expressed his thanks that the sow bear and two of her cubs had come through the ordeal, but he made it plain there would be an investigation into the drowning death of the third cub. That was standard operating procedure. It was not unheard of for an animal to die during a relocation effort and, as long as he had followed protocol, Stanton said, he wasn't going to lose his job over it.
The superintendent was livid, however, about the comment he'd made to that Wentworth woman. Livid barely covered it. “Coyotes have to eat, too,” Stanton had screamed. “What kind of remark was that? What in the world were you even thinking? You weren't thinking. Shut up! We'll be lucky if Yellowstone Forever doesn't file suit against us.” Houser thought the top of Stanton's head was going to blow off. And his boss had left no doubt about his feelings. “If I weren't so short-handed right now, your butt would be on suspension.”
Suspension? For what, Houser wondered, for putting a runny-nosed green in her place? It didn't matter. With all the problems washing across Stanton's desk, he'd be forgotten in no time at all. With dead tourists on his hands, the super wasn't going to worry for long about an off-hand remark made by a part-time ranger in the heat of battle. The bears had gotten him into trouble and now they'd get him out. The worthless things might have a purpose after all.
Anyway, he'd survived it all in one piece. Because of the manpower problems and, no doubt, because Stanton didn't want to see his face, Houser had been reassigned to the night shift in one of the park's south districts. That was all right with him. Bosses didn't work the night shift.
*
Houser rolled out of his driveway at 10:30 pm. He was early (his shift started at midnight) but he found he couldn't sleep. Truth be told, the roaring and banging of the sow grizzly in that culvert trap still haunted him. He needed to shake it off and knew it. What was the point of dwelling on it? If `ifs' and `buts' were candy and nuts, we'd all have a merry Christmas.
Houser drove into Gardiner for a cup of coffee, had his thermos filled, bought a jumbo bag of Cheez Crunchies, and headed back into the park. It would be a long drive south to the geyser basins and Old Faithful; his assigned district for the night.
Two major responsibilities rested with the night shift officers; check to ensure all facilities were secure, and patrol the campgrounds for unattended fires and inappropriately stored food. The first task was, at the risk of a pun, a walk in the park. The second was simply an aggravation.
Tourists, in particular campers, were a constant pain. Untended fires and improperly stored food and garbage were deadly sins in the park. Rangers had strict orders, “Cut no slack for violations of clean camp regulations.” Normally bears were not a problem in camping areas. But with all that had been happening in the park, and with Hellroaring Creek still fresh in his mind, Houser intended to give clean camps his special attention. After the relocation disaster he could just imagine what that sow grizzly would do to a tourist over a cupcake.
Houser passed the sign for Indian Creek Campground and, on the spur of the moment, pulled in. He had yet to go on duty and was still miles from his district, but he had an itch. The campground rested along the curving merge of Indian and Obsidian Creeks. A quiet meeting place, it nestled between lush high mountain meadows and thick pine forests. Visitors loved Indian Creek. Bears did too.
Houser crossed the Obsidian Creek Bridge and circled into the campground. He slowed to a snail's pace and scanned each side of the road for irregularities. Most of the campers had gone to sleep and the area appeared peaceful enough. Then, Houser heard the sharp cry of a young voice.
He hit the brakes and lowered his driver's side window. By then the cry had become laughter. The ranger edged around a bend at the rear of the campground and, almost immediately, located the source of the noise. Two young boys wrestled on the ground, locked in a death grip, while a raucous huddle of boys the same age cheered them on. As Houser parked, he saw a lanky adult male step from a nearby tent on a bee-line for the combatants.
Greg and James had been going at it in one way or another for the whole trip and their scout leader, Rob Jones, was growing weary of the skirmishes. The bigger Greg had, more than once, acted the bully, but James was not without sin. The pint-sized Cub Scout had taken every opportunity to strike back and, on occasion, strike out at the bigger boy. The grunts and groans of the fighters continued, but the cheers and prompting stopped the instant Jones entered the circle. The boys' stares followed the scout leader as he reached into the fray, took hold of one ear apiece, and brought the grapplers scrambling to their feet. They struggled to the tips of their toes to ease the pain but Jones raised his arms to limit their success.
The scouts spotted the park ranger and moved their circle back as he approached. Their shared expressions spoke volumes about the trouble they expected.
“Good evening, officer,” Jones said, still holding the wincing puppets by their ears. “Sorry for the trouble.”
Houser smiled. “It looks like you have the situation well in hand.”
Jones nodded, turned to the peanut gallery, and growled, “Everybody, back to your tents.”
The boys scrambled away leaving Greg and James to their fates. The scout leader lifted higher, holding ears but seeing only trouble. “Gentlemen,” he said, confident he had their full attention. “The two of you will now sack out. We will discuss this in the morning.” He released them.
The boys grabbed their throbbing ears and disappeared into tents at opposite ends of the camp.
“Looks like you've got your hands full,” Houser said.
“You don't know the half of it,” the scout leader said with a sigh. “They're supposed to be earning their Webelos Badges, but I think I'm going to have to civilize them first.”
“If you need any backup,” Houser said. “Just call 9-1-1.” The ranger chuckled, disappeared into his vehicle, and then into the night.
Jones stood red with embarrassment and sagging in relief. He'd governed a lot of scouts and they were all rambunctious but where these guys got their energy he hadn't a clue. If they made it out of the park in one piece, Jones thought, he was going to request a merit badge of his own.
*
Jones' evening in the campground was finally drawing to a close. Bart Houser's had just begun.
No sooner had he m
ade the next bend in the road than he spied a textbook unclean campsite. A brightly colored and expensive tent had been erected just off the drive and a black Mercedes, with Massachusetts tags, sat nearby. On the opposite side of the site a picnic table lay peppered with the remnants of the camper's supper; a half-eaten bag of chips, grilled hamburgers, and several kinds of salads left to the night air. The scene was lit in a flickering red-orange glow from a fire still blazing in the adjacent pit.
Houser parked and approached the campsite serenaded by an apneic snoring coming from inside the tent. The ranger drew his flashlight and tapped a tent pole near the zippered entrance. “Hey,” Houser said, trying for authority without waking the campers on the adjoining lots. “Wake up in there.”
A second chorus of taps from the ranger halted the snoring. Still there was no response. “Hey,” Houser called again, louder this time. “Wake up in there.”
“Go away.” It was a man's voice, frog deep and groggy. “I'm sleeping.”
“Not any more,” Houser said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Get lost.”
“I'm a park ranger,” Houser said, irritated.
“Don't care if you're the Lone Ranger,” the voice said. “I told you, I'm sleeping.”
Houser considered counting to ten as an anger avoidance mechanism, and then decided against it. “Either drag your hide out of that tent,” he said, “or I'll come in and drag it out for you.”
A pregnant pause followed during which, Houser imagined, the camper considered his choices. “All right. Give me a minute.”
A moment later the tent flap came unzipped and a twentyish kid emerged, wearing nothing but a pair of white briefs and a bright pink Mohawk. Houser didn't know whether to laugh or brain the freak with his flashlight. And he's driving a Mercedes, Houser thought. Where did I go wrong?
“What's the crisis, man? Why ya gotta wake me up?” asked the Mohawk.
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