C. Box - Free Fire

“The bulk of the funds didn’t arrive when you said they would. We don’t know when the remainder will arrive.”

He tried to stay calm. “How much?”

More tapping. “Approximately five percent of what you told us to expect.”

“Five percent?” He did the math. Five percent was nothing. Five percent would barely cover his current debts.

Fighting panic, he asked the banker to check it again. While he waited, he backed away from the booth as far as the cord would let him. He looked down the empty street. Walls of dark pine closed in. Even the crooked sky seemed to push down on him.

“I’m sorry,” the banker said. “It is correct.”

“How fucking long do I have to stay here in this shithole and wait?” he said, his voice rising to a choked shout.

“It is not the fault of our institution, sir,” the banker said defensively.“The problem is with the sender. You should talk to him and find out what is the cause of the delay.”

McCann wanted to plead to the banker, This was not the plan.

“Your issue is not with us,” the banker said.

“I’ll check back with you,” he said, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood and slamming down the receiver.

Stunned, he turned to walk away. But to where? How could this be happening?

And to think, three months ago he’d been famous.

YELLOWSTONE ACT, 1872

AN ACT TO SET APART A CERTAIN TRACT OF

LAND LYING NEAR THE HEADWATERS OF THE

YELLOWSTONE RIVER AS A PUBLIC PARK,

Approved March 1, 1872 (17 Stat. 32)

SEC 2.That said public park shall be under the exclusive controlof the Secretary of the Interior, whose duty it shall be, as soon as practicable, to make and publish such rules and regulationsas he may deem necessary or proper for the care and managementof the same. Such regulations shall provide for the preservation, from injury or spoliation, of all timber, mineral deposits, natural curiosities, or wonders within said park, and their retention in their natural condition. The Secretary may in his discretion, grant leases for building purposes for terms not exceeding ten years, of small parcels of ground, at such places in said park as shall require the erection of buildings for the accommodationof visitors; all of the proceeds of said leases, and all other revenues that may be derived from any source connected with said park, to be expended under his direction in the managementof the same, and the construction of roads and bridle-pathstherein. He shall provide against the wanton destruction of the fish and game found within said park, and against their captureor destruction for the purposes of merchandise or profit. He shall also cause all persons trespassing upon the same after the passage of this act to be removed therefrom, and generally shall be authorized to take all such measures as shall be necessary or proper to fully carry out the objects and purposes of this act. (U.S.C., title 16, sec. 22.)

On the morning joe was to leave for yellowstonehe took the girls to school in the white Yukon the state had assigned him. It was the same one that had delivered Chuck Ward to the ranch. There was a brief flare-up between Sheridan and Lucy regarding who would get the front seat and who would have to cram into the backseat along with his duffel bags of clothes and outdoor gear. Sheridan won the battle with the oldest trick in the book-pointing toward the horizon and saying,“Look!”-thereby distracting Lucy and Joe while she scrambled into the front.

It was a brilliant crisp fall day, no wind, colors in the river bottoms igniting as the sun lit them like lantern mantles. Althoughit wasn’t a green pickup with the pronghorn antelope Game and Fish logo on the door and a light bar on top, Joe acquaintedhimself with his new vehicle. The Yukon was unabashedlybig, tall, roomy, heavy, and powerful. He felt only slightly guilty about liking it so much. Joe prayed he could returnit in one piece.

From the backseat, Lucy asked, “Does this car waste a lot of gasoline?”

Like sailors on shore leave “waste” beer, Joe thought. But he simply said, “Yes.”

“Why can’t you have something that’s better for the environment?”

“Because I’m taking it into some pretty rough country and it’s nearly winter, so I might need four-wheel drive.”

“Hmmpf.”

Sheridan ignored the exchange and picked up a FedEx box near her feet. “Can I look inside?”

“Sure,” he said. The box had arrived the previous afternoon from headquarters in Cheyenne. As he had anticipated, there was no “Welcome Back, Joe!” note inside from Randy Pope.

But there was a badge, and credentials.

Sheridan looked through the embroidered shoulder patches, a new name tag, newly issued statute booklets, recent memos paper-clipped together, a handheld radio. She opened the plasticbox with the small gold shield inside.

“Number fifty-four,” she said. “Didn’t you used to have a lower badge number?”

Joe smiled ruefully, surprised she had paid attention. “I used to have number twenty-one.”

There were only fifty-four game wardens in the state, and the higher the seniority, the lower the number. Even though Pope had been ordered to restore his salary and pension, the governor probably hadn’t thought of asking to reassign his number. The high badge number was usually given to trainees fresh out of college, and it sent an obvious message.

“That’s so unfair.”

“It’s all right,” he said, thinking, Yes, it was a slap in the face. But not unexpected .

“I used to look at your badge every morning at breakfast,” she said. “That’s how I remembered.”

Joe felt a sentimental pang. He had no idea.

“We’re going to visit you in Yellowstone Park, right?” Lucy asked.

“Yup.”

“Mom told me we almost went there once,” she said. “Mrs. Hanson says it’s a great place but people are ruining it.”

“You were a baby,” Joe said, choosing not to comment on what her teacher had said.

“You’re still a baby,” Sheridan said, getting in a dig when the opportunity presented itself, which was in the job description of being an older sister.

“Dad!” Lucy protested.

He admonished, “Sheridan. .”

As they neared Saddlestring, Joe said, “Be good for your mom while I’m gone. Help her out.”

“We will,” they mumbled.

He didn’t look at them because he didn’t want them to see mist in his eyes. “I’m going to miss you girls.”

And he wished, for a moment, that he wasn’t so damned thrilled about getting his job back.

Marybeth was still at home when he returned, which was unusual. So was the fire in the seldom-used stone fireplace. Joe noted that the curtains were drawn, and recalled opening them that morning.

When she came down the hall in her robe, Joe understood.

“The girls are gone, Bud and Missy went to town, and I called the office and told them I’d be late,” she said. Her blond hair fell on her shoulders, her eyes caught the flames of the fire.

“I was thinking of a proper send-off,” she said, smiling. “But I decided on an improper one.” She gestured toward a jumble of quilts that were spread out in front of the fireplace. He hadn’t noticed when he entered.

“What, again?” he said, instantly regretting his choice of words.

“Mr. Romantic,” she said, shaking her head.

“Please ignore what I just said,” stepping toward her.

“I already have.”

“You make it tough to go.”

“Exactly.”

As he cleared the timber, mountain meadows opened up and so did the view. Dark folds of timbered slopes stretched in all directions and the pale sky fused into the horizon, giving Joe a once-familiar “top of the world” view that now matched his attitude. The two-lane ribbon that was U.S. Highway 14 was rolled out straight and narrow before him. As he approached Burgess Junction, in the heart of the Bighorn National Forest, he had a decision to make. He could stay on 14 all the way to Yellowstone via Greybull and Cody, or take 14-A, the high-altituderoute that included the Medicine Wheel Passage. Rememberingthat when he went to Jackson two years before he chose 14-A and bad things followed, he opted to stay on 14 this time. Superstition.