C Box - Trophy hunt

A whiff of the spray, even at a distance, brought men to their knees. Joe thought about the series of reports and cryptic e-mails he'd received regarding a rogue 400-pound male grizzly that was causing havoc in Northwestern Wyoming. For the past month, the bear had damaged cars, campsites, and cabins, but as yet there had been no human-bear encounters. The bear had originally been located near the east entrance of Yellowstone Park through a weakening signal from its radio collar, but he had not yet been sighted. When the "bear guys"-a team of Wyoming Game and Fish Department and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service bear specialists-tried to cut it off, the bear eluded them and they lost the signal. Joe couldn't recall a runaway bear incident quite like this before. It was like the wilderness version of an escaped convict. He blamed the drought, as the biologists did, and the need for the grizzly to cover new ground in search of something, anything, to eat. It had not been lost on him that the damage reports indicated that the grizzly was moving to the east, through the Shoshone National Forest. If the bear kept up his march, he would enter the Bighorn Mountains, where grizzlies had not roamed for eighty years.

Joe disliked bringing his weapon and badge with him on his day off. He felt oddly ashamed that his daughters were seeing his day-to-day equipment as they caught fish and he cooked them over an open fire for lunch. It was different when he was out in the field, in his red chamois Game and Fish shirt and driving his green pickup, checking hunters and fishers. Now, he just wanted to be Dad.

Working their way upstream, they stumbled upon another party. Sheridan saw them first and stopped, looking back for Joe. He could see flashes of color through the trees upstream, and he heard a cough.

Joe noticed a strange odor in the air when the wind shifted. The odor was sickly sweet and metallic, and he winced when a particularly strong waft of it blew through.

Making sure Lucy was well behind them, Joe winked at Sheridan as he overtook her, and she fell in behind him as he closed in on the two fishers. He debated whether or not to show his badge before saying hello, and decided against it. Joe noticed the unpleasant odor again. It seemed to get worse as he walked upstream.

As he approached them, he felt Sheridan tug on his sleeve, and he turned and saw her point toward the water. A small brook trout, not more than six inches long, was floating on the top of the water on its side. It wasn't dead yet, and he could see its gills working as it pathetically tried to right itself and swim away.

"The fish killers," Sheridan whispered ominously at the man and woman in front of them, and he nodded to her in agreement.

The man looked to be in his late fifties, and was dressed as if he were a cover model for Fly-Fisherman magazine. He wore ultralight Gore-Tex waders and leather wading boots, a pale blue Cool-Max shirt, and a fishing vest with dozens of bulging pockets filled with gear. A wooden net hung down his back from a ring on his collar. A leather-bound journal for documenting the species and size of the fish he caught was on a lanyard on his vest, as was a small digital camera for recording the catch. The man was large and ruddy, with a thick chest. He had a salt-and-pepper mustache and pale, watery eyes. He looked like a hungover CEO on vacation, Joe thought.

Behind and off to the side of the man was a much younger woman with blond hair; long sunburned legs; and a fishing vest so new that the tag from the Bighorn Angler Fly Shop was still attached to the front zipper. She held her rod away from her body with the unease of someone holding a dead snake.

It was obvious, Joe thought, that the man was teaching the woman how to fish. Or, more accurately, the man was showing the woman what a fine fisherman he was. Joe assumed that the couple had stopped at the fly store on their way up the mountain and that the man had outfitted her with the new vest.

The man had been concentrating on dropping a fly into a deep pool but now glared at Joe and Sheridan, clearly annoyed that he had been disturbed.

"Jeff…" the woman cautioned in a low voice, attempting to get Jeff's attention.

"Good afternoon," Joe said and smiled. "How's fishing?"

Jeff stepped back from the stream in an exaggerated way. His movement wasn't aggressive but clearly designed to show Joe and Sheridan that he wasn't pleased with the interruption and that he planned to resume his cast as soon as possible.

"Thirty-fish day," Jeff said gruffly.

"Twenty-eight," the woman corrected, and Jeff instantly flashed a look at her.

"It's an expression," he said as if scolding a child. "Twenty-fish day, thirty- fish day, they're fucking expressions. It's what fishermen tell each other if one of them is rude enough to ask."

The woman shrank back and nodded.

Joe didn't like this guy. He knew the type: a fly-fisherman who thought he knew everything and who could afford all of the equipment he read about in the magazines. Often, these men were fairly new to the sport. Too often, these men had never learned about outdoor etiquette, or common courtesy. To them it was all about thirty-fish days.

"Keeping any?" Joe asked, still smiling. He reached into the back pocket of his vest, bringing out his wallet-badge and holding it up so Jeff could understand why Joe was asking the question.

"There's a limit of six on this stream," Joe said. "Mind if I look at what you've kept?"

Jeff snorted and his face hardened.

"So you're the game warden?"

"Yes," Joe said. "And this is my daughter Sheridan."

"And his daughter Lucy," Lucy said, having caught up with them. "What's that smell, Dad?"

"And Lucy," Joe added, looking back at her. She was pinching her nose with her fingers. "So I would appreciate it if you watched your language around them."

Jeff started to say something but caught himself. Then he rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Tell you what," Joe said, looking at the woman-who appeared to be fearing a fight-and Jeff. "How about you show me your licenses and conservation stamps and I'll show you how to properly release a fish so that there aren't any more dead ones?"

The woman immediately began digging in her tight shorts, and Jeff seemed to make up his mind that he didn't really want a fight, either. Still glaring at Joe, he reached behind his back for his wallet.

Joe checked the licenses. Both were perfectly legal. She was from Colorado and had a temporary fishing license. Jeff O'Bannon was local, although Joe couldn't remember ever seeing him before. Joe noted that O'Bannon's address was on Red Cloud Road, which meant he lived in one of the new $500,000 ranchettes south of town in the Elkhorn Ranches subdivision. That didn't surprise Joe.

"Do you know what that awful smell is?" Joe asked conversationally as he handed the licenses back.

"It's a dead moose," Jeff O'Bannon said sullenly. "In that meadow up there." He gestured through the trees to the west, vaguely pointing with the peaked extra-long bill of his Orvis fishing cap. "That's one reason why we're fucking leaving."

"Jeff…" The woman cautioned.

O'Bannon growled at her, "There's no law against the word fucking."

Joe felt a rise of anger. "I think, Jeff, that I'll see you again some time out here," Joe said, leaning in close to Jeff. "Given your bad attitude, you'll probably be doing something wrong. I'll arrest you when you do."

O'Bannon started to step toward Joe but the woman held his arm. Joe slipped his hand in the back pocket of his fishing vest and thumbed off the safety bar on the bear spray.

"Aw, to hell with it," O'Bannon said, leaning back. "Let's get out of here, Cindy. He's already ruined my good mood."

Joe watched as Cindy breathed a long sigh of relief and shook her head in bewilderment for Joe's benefit, keeping out of Jeff's line of vision. Joe stepped aside as the man stormed past him, followed by Cindy.

Читать дальше