C. Box - Savage Run

Stan Wilder snorted and rolled his eyes heavenward.

Joe walked over and checked the ground around the aspen trees. Because the trees had been planted just a few days before, the earth around them was still soft. A four-inch-long cat track was obvious and fresh near one of the trees.

“Big cat,” Joe said.

“Damn right,” Wilder agreed. “I need him removed.”

Joe turned and sighed. “Removed?”

“Damn right. I don’t mind the antelope and the deer. I see them all the time. I paid for antelope and deer and access to the trout streams. Finotta told me that elk sometimes come down this far and I’d like to see a few of them. That’d be added value.

“But I didn’t pay for this,” he swept his hand toward his new house, “to have mountain lions stalking me.”

Joe said it was unlikely that the lion was stalking him. He told Stan Wilder that he had never heard of a mountain lion actually stalking and attacking a full-grown man.

“What about those babies in Los Angeles?” Wilder asked aggressively. “Didn’t a mountain lion come down from the mountains and kill some babies?”

Joe said he thought he remembered something about that story, but the predator was a coyote and the circumstances were questionable.

“Well, I remember it being a mountain lion,” Stan Wilder said gruffly.

“Look, Mr. Wilder, mountain lion sightings are rare. There’s no doubt you saw one, but he didn’t do any harm. Up until a year ago this was probably his range. These cats cover about two hundred miles. He was likely as surprised to see a big house and a lawn here as you were to see him. I know I was surprised to see this place out here.”

Stan Wilder told Joe that he had just heard a perfect load of bureaucratic bullshit.

“If he comes back, can I shoot him?” Stan Wilder asked. “I mean legally?”

Joe grudgingly said that yes, if the cat was actually close enough to do real harm, he could shoot him.

“But I would advise against it,” Joe cautioned.

“Whose side are you on here, Mr. Game Warden? The cougar’s or mine?”

Joe didn’t answer that question.

“That mountain lion better watch his step,” Stan Wilder cautioned, nodding his head toward the handgun in the garage. “If you catch my drift.”

“Like I said, there are cars on the highway, workers at other lots, and cows all around.”

Wilder snorted again.

“You should be aware, Mr. Wilder, that some of these cows have been known to explode,” Joe said soberly.

That got Wilder’s attention.

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Wilder asked, trying to gauge Joe’s demeanor to see if he was being made fun of.

“Don’t you read the paper?” Joe asked, then walked back to his pickup.

A big green Suburban with license plates reading “VBarU-1” turned from the highway onto the ranch road as Joe approached the turnoff. Joe stopped his pickup, and the Suburban slowed until the two driver’s-side windows lined up. A dark power window lowered and Jim Finotta, looking patiently put upon, asked Joe if he could be of help.

“Yes, you can.” Joe said. “You can help me out with a couple of things.”

Finotta raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“First, you might want to advise the owners of the starter castles out here that in addition to this being a place where the deer and antelope play, that there might be the occasional bear, badger, skunk, or mountain lion.”

Finotta nodded and smiled with condescension.

“Second, you can let me get that sample of bone or antler from that bull elk mount in your office. I’ll send the sample to our lab in Laramie and we should be able to clear this all up in two or three weeks.”

Finotta’s eyes became hard.

“Did you forget what we talked about?” Finotta asked Joe.

“Nope.”

“Then why are you bothering me about this elk again?” Finotta asked in a barely controlled tone. “You can’t be that stupid.”

“I don’t know,” Joe said, “I can be pretty stupid.”

Finotta’s window began to rise.

“I talked to Matt Sandvick,” Joe said quickly.

The window stopped just below Finotta’s chin. Finotta’s lips were now pressed together so tightly that they looked like a thin white scar. He was obviously furious, but fighting it. When he spoke his voice was oddly calm.

“Just leave it be, Warden.”

Joe shrugged. “I’m doing my job. It’s important for me to check these things out.”

Finotta sneered. “Important for who? The Governor won’t care and therefore your director won’t care. Judge Pennock won’t give a shit.”

“It’s important for me,” Joe said, and he meant it.

“And just who in the hell are you ?” Finotta asked with such contempt that Joe felt as if he had been kicked in the face.

“I’m the game warden of Twelve Sleep District,” Joe said. He was fully aware of how lame that sounded, how weak it had come across.

Finotta glared at him. He began to say something, then thought better of it. The window closed and Jim Finotta drove away, leaving Joe sitting in his pickup with a sick feeling in his stomach and the premonition that he was going to be real alone in this.

That afternoon, as he drove home, Joe called County Attorney Robey Hersig on his cell phone, only to get Hersig’s voicemail. Joe outlined what he suspected regarding Jim Finotta’s elk and what he had learned from taxidermist Matt Sandvick.

“I’m ready to move on Finotta but need Sandvick’s affidavit and your okay,” was how he ended his message.

To Joe’s surprise, Marybeth had both horses in the corral and saddled when he got home. She was bridling her paint, Toby, as he walked up. She looked at him provocatively and said: “Let’s go for a ride.”

“Sounds real good to me,” Joe grinned.

Joe rode his buckskin, Lizzie, who was happy to follow the gelding, and they wound up the old game trail behind their house through the Sandrock Draw.

While they rode, Joe watched his wife and her horse and admired them both. Marybeth had taken an interest in horses in the last year, and he had learned things about them through her. Previously, he had always thought of horses the same way he thought about an all-terrain vehicle. A horse was a tool; a way of getting to places without roads, of accessing rough country. In Joe’s opinion, a horse would lose in many, if not all, of the straight-up comparisons with an ATV, in fact. Although the initial investment was about the same, horses required daily maintenance and care. ATVs could be parked in the garage and forgotten. Hay, grain, and vet bills were expensive, and horses were always breaking things in the corral or injuring themselves in ridiculous ways. ATVs just sat there. If a single stray nail flipped into the corral, there was a 100 percent chance that a horse would step on it, eat it, or puncture himself on it while rolling. Horses could be counted on for eating things that would make them sick or not eating enough to keep them healthy. They were magnificently proportioned and heavily muscled and all of that bulk was held up by four thin bony legs that could, and did, snap at any time. And despite their size and heft, a horse was a prey animal. In the face of a real threat like a grizzly bear or a perceived threat like a motorcyclist on a side road or even a plastic bag blowing in the wind, a horse could bolt and take off like a rocket. Most of the injured hunters Joe encountered in the mountains had been injured by horses. He couldn’t even guess the number of times that horses simply ran off from camps or makeshift corrals. Lizzie had once trotted miles away after Joe dismounted to look through his binoculars, and he spent the rest of the day chasing her on foot. In comparison, ATVs sometimes ran out of gas or broke down, although not very often.