James Smith - Hybrid

He was more confident in himself then, a sophomore at Penn State. But he felt guilty living off his mother’s income, earned by working in the meat department at Kroger’s during the day and odd jobs at night or on weekends. He was going to drop out and make it on his own, but his mother would hear nothing of a kind. “Do you want to end up like your father?” she would often ask.

He sank into one of the hard plastic chairs that had cost six dollars each at the Goodwill Store. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. He’d come to Colter to escape, to leave all of the torment in his wake. Throughout the day, he’d thought off and on about Josh Pendleton. He had come to admire the old man, his earthy wisdom. He stood and paced, then stopped at the front door again and opened it wide. In the distance the snow-capped peaks of the Gallatin Range vaulted into the deep blue backdrop. Maybe the world hadn’t been especially kind to him, but as he stared out on the scene he knew he was a lucky man. Montana wasn’t so much a place to make a living as it was a place to dream. A place where you don’t go chasing the outdoors, it comes running after you and caresses you like a loving uncle.

Was it a murder victim he had discovered on the banks of the Madison? Or had it been a wild animal attack? In any case, there was no doubt that a big problem had the local ranchers whipped into a fury and all of them were potential clients. He didn’t know if there was a connection between the wolves and the body he’d discovered, that was too outlandish of a stretch. It certainly made no sense from everything he knew about wolves, although he had to admit he didn’t know much. And what were the real reasons for the chief park ranger’s inaction in the face of the obvious problem? There had to be more to the story. Maybe the ol’ trapper had some answers.

He placed an “Out to Lunch” sign in the front window, quickly locked up and sped away.

JoshPendleton stood in the middle of Teepee Creek wearing rubber waders tied to his waist with a frayed rope. Dieter guessed he could find him there when he wasn’t in his trailer.

A ragged fishing vest draped around Josh’s broad chest and a wide brim hat flaunted a dazzling array of trout flies. He cast the line out over the stream, waving it back with a tug of the rod and forward again without apparent effort. At the end of the line the artificial fly flew high, a little farther with each cast forward until it reached the precise spot. Then he would stop the fly in midair with a subtle wrist action. It fluttered down into the current and drifted downstream.

After a few casts, Josh gave the rod a jerk and straightened up. A twisting flash burst from the surface. The rod tip quivered while Josh held it high with his right hand and hauled line with his left. The battle lasted only a minute. He scooped the thrashing trout into his net as Dieter strolled in behind him.

“Ah, a beautiful Rainbow,” Josh beamed. “Must be a good eighteen inches, hey?” He held the fish up and twisted the hook out of its lower lip. “A sprinkle of salt and pepper, some cornmeal, and butter in a hot skillet. Now that will make a fine supper.”

He pulled a fillet knife out of the leather sheath on his belt and dressed the trout in the shallow water before dumping it into his creel along with a fistful of wet moss. He stooped into the grass along the bank. “Tell me, Doc, do you have any good medicine for a bum knee?”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Don’t do doctors.”

“An annual checkup is a good idea.”

“Closest I ever came to a doctor was a vet down in West Yellowstone.”

“A veterinarian?” Dieter asked.

“Yep.”

“You went to a veterinarian for your knee?”

“Nope, he came here. Had a sick llama. I just took advantage of the opportunity.”

Dieter couldn’t think of a reply.

Josh said, “I mean a bum knee is a bum knee, right?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Does it matter which kind of warm-blooded mammal we’re talking about?”

“You have a point, Josh, but actually—”

“Don’t try to talk me into visiting a doctor. I haven’t needed one for sixty-two years and I don’t plan to start now.” He reached inside his vest and brought out a small flask, tossing back his head while he swallowed. He smacked his lips and offered the flask to Dieter, who waved it off.

“Looks like you’ve got something heavier on your mind than my troubles, Doc.”

“You read me well. Yesterday I discovered a body on the Madison.”

“Waddaya mean a body ?”

“I mean a corpse. I called the sheriff’s office and they sent out a deputy. I led him to it.”

Josh adjusted his waders and settled onto the weeds.

Dieter told him what he’d shared with Mrs. Manning.

“Land O’ Goshen!” Josh said. “I was told they just got strange body in over at Winslow Memorial. It’s in cold storage waiting on autopsy.”

“Quite a network you have there.”

Josh took a bigger swig from his flask. “But I had no earthly idea you was involved.”

“I’ve shaken it off,” Dieter lied. “I called the sheriff’s office back but wasn’t able to get any info.”

Josh sat staring at the ground, then looked up. “After you’ve lived here a while, there’s one thing you’ll learn. Nothing’s getting in the papers what the local law don’t want us to know.”

“Here’s what I’ve come out to ask you—do you think that maybe there’s some connection with the attack on your llama?”

“Good question. I don’t really know. Haven’t seen the dead body you’re talking about.”

“I only saw it from a distance.”

“Why didn’t you get closer?”

“I… couldn’t.” He reached for the flask. When Josh handed it over, he drank the last of the liquor in a quick gulp. “Tell me something. What’s really known about those lone wolves you mentioned yesterday?”

Josh gave a grunted laugh but quickly turned serious. “Plenty of stories out there, covering decades. Hardly know where to start.” He paused and studied the field grass about him, seeming to collect his thoughts as he fondled his beard. “First to come to mind is the one about the Custer wolf of the Black Hills. He held a ten-year reign along the border of Wyoming and South Dakota. Just appeared, started killing livestock, then disappeared for weeks at a time. Ranchers spent six months trapping for him before they kilt him.

“Then there’s Ol’ Lefty of Burns Hole in Colorado. The story has it that he took out hundreds of sheep and cattle in his time. Clever scoundrel. One day he was caught in a trap. Dislocated a shoulder and lost a few teeth on the steel trying to get free. But he managed to yank his left forepaw out, a kind of self-amputation. ‘Course, the paw healed in time and formed a stub. Together with his bum shoulder, it gave him a weird way of moving about. Never put that stub on the ground when he loped.”

Dieter was mesmerized by the stories and Josh’s recall of details. “Are renegades always loners?”

“Not necessarily. My daddy’s favorite was the legend of Lobo from down in New Mexico, the King of the Currumpaw. Lobo was not exactly a loner. Had a mate, the Great White Wolf they called Blanca. One year, the story goes, the pair attacked over three hundred head of cattle. Just for the killing, you understand. Never fed on any of them.”

“Were they taken out?”

“They never got to Lobo, but they finally caught up with Blanca. Shot her clean in the head. Lobo grieved for weeks. The local ranchers used to say his desperate howls were heard for ten miles on a clear night.”

“What happened to him?”