James Smith - Hybrid

The sound of an engine arrived nearby and shut off. A voice shouted her name, a voice she didn’t recognize. She slipped the knife back into her pocket and reached higher into the tree. When she hauled herself up, she suddenly lost her grip and plunged through the branches.

“Help!” she yelled as she slammed into the ground like a bale of hay.

A crazy woman ran for her. She cried out and flailed her legs, holding onto one aching arm. “I’m not going back! Get away from me!”

She sat up, wrenched out her knife, and thrust the blade toward the stranger while her other arm hung limp.

The woman dropped to her knees and spoke softly. “Charlene…”

She hissed like a wildcat. “You come any closer and I’ll stick you.”

“Listen to me, dear. I’m Molly. I’ve tried to find you the last two days. Please, let me help you.”

Charlene wrinkled her forehead. She couldn’t tell if the woman was lying. “Did Joseph Vincent send you?”

“No, no. I saw what he did to you.”

“Are you one of Uncle Withrow’s people? He got what he deserved, you know.”

“Please… just let me help.”

Charlene brought down her hand and shoved the knife into a hip pocket as a wide smile crossed her face. The woman who she remembered rescuing her from the shed rushed toward her with outstretched arms. She was not going to cry. She was strong, and she would get stronger by the day. There had been plenty of time during the haunting night in the tree to plan her long overdue mission.

Dieterarrived at the Little Bears’ home, eager to fly out over the Park with Amy’s dad. The day before the two men had met for a beer at the Colter Bar and Grille and discussed in detail the location of each wolf pack. Thanks to his popularity as a guide, Little Bear had the good fortune earlier in the summer to spend time with a Yellowstone wildlife biologist. That experience provided him regular updates on Operation Wolfstock.

Mr. Little Bear lacked a formal education, but he was a man of obvious wisdom who spoke confidently and passionately about wildlife in the region. To his amazement, Dieter learned from their conversation that Mr. Little Bear had been deeply involved in the plans to bring back wolves to Yellowstone. Molly and Josh hadn’t mentioned it before, but Little Bear had played a major role in the government hearings that were held in Colter two years earlier. A crowd of over one hundred had mobbed inside the walls of the town hall, a mix of people like Little Bear had never seen, from farmers and ranchers to politicians and developers. “On the one side were tree-huggers who fought to restore Yellowstone to its prehistoric origins,” Mr. Little Bear said. “On the other were those who made a living with livestock.”

He spoke about homemade signs that some waved about, like Bring back the wolf: I need the Target Practice or Save a Wolf: Shoot a Rancher. “Every soul present had an opinion. And to beat all, Yellowstone’s chief ranger—Jack Corey himself—gave the welcome.”

Little Bear represented the Blackfeet because he was the former chieftain from the reservation. He arrived in full Indian headdress and when he was invited to speak, he said a prayer to the Creator and gave thanks to the Earth Person for the beauty of all creation. “It gave a near supernatural mood to the evening,” he said.

“I voiced how the we natives from the beginning of time lived and hunted the area now called Yellowstone. The wolf is our elder brother, I told them. The Blackfeet learned to live in peace with the wolf before the White Man arrived. Then I delivered my punch line. We support the return of the wolf to Yellowstone.”

He then shook his head and smiled, as if it had just happened yesterday.

Dieter asked, “So, why did you change your mind?”

“Simple. My neighbors,” Little Bear replied. “I’ve heard enough stories from ranchers about livestock that have been mauled. The wolves aren’t worth that kind of price.”

Dieter had told Mr. Little Bear about the electronic rig that the Judge was putting together for him, how it would pick up signals from those that were radio-collared. The plan was that the two of them would do the recon under the ploy of a guide service flying over the Park—a risky game to play behind the Park Service’s back.

In spite of all the planning, what Mr. Little Bear hadn’t expected was the visit from Eliot Culpepper. The California land developer was on his way back home from signing a deal in Boston for a new shopping mall. Culpepper thought he might stop in Montana, maybe spend a couple of days fly-fishing for some monster trout on the upper reaches of the Snake. Mr. Little Bear had guided him on occasional fishing and hunting trips over the past eight years. Eliot Culpepper was not the kind of guy you dismissed. He had more money than Little Bear had time to explain how booked-up he was.

Little Bear pointed out over the lake at a single-engine plane flying much too low. When it buzzed over, the pilot waved.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you today,” Little Bear said. “So, I talked to my backup.”

“Do I know him?”

Little Bear smiled. “Oh, you’ve met her indeed. Remember, I told you Amy has her license. Excellent pilot. Knows the Cessna inside and out.”

“But—”

“You couldn’t have someone more qualified to fly you. The only thing she knows better than that Cessna is Yellowstone. That’s a promise. I’ve got to get moving now. Can’t keep my client waiting.” As he rushed away, he motioned toward the strip on the backside of the property where Amy was landing.

The whole idea began to look stupid. Flying a small plane around ten thousand-foot peaks and at treetop levels while he held a make-shift antenna looking for wolves. And Corey had made no bones about the outcome if they got caught.

Amy hopped down from the plane and strolled toward him. “Dad told me you were looking for a bird’s eye view of the Park. If only you’d told me you were interested.”

“But we just planned it out over a beer yesterday. He knows everything . I mean, everything there is to know about the wolf restoration and Operation Wolfstock, Amy. I was totally taken aback about how much—”

“You’re afraid of flying with me, aren’t you?”

“Of course not!” His reply may have been a little too energetic, he thought. “That’s the furthest thing from my mind, Amy.”

“No it isn’t. You think I can’t handle a plane.” She shook out her long black hair and pulled it back over her shoulders.

“It’s not that at all. It’s just that—”

“Let’s face it,” she said. “I’ve brought this up before. It seems nothing I’ve tried meets with your approval, does it?”

“That’s unfair and you know it.”

“I’ve taken care of your kids the best way I know how this summer, Dieter. But you’ve complained all along about the food I’ve cooked for them, how I let them play in the woods, telling them the legends of my people. I could go on.”

“Did you know Michael had nightmares after you told him about your people running buffalo over cliffs? Smashing them to smithereens on the prairie floor?”

“What? I shouldn’t tell your son about Native American history? I suppose you want me to give him the bastardized version you grew up with in your pasty white Pennsylvania classrooms?”

“I’m only saying,” he spoke slowly, softly “that your tales can sometimes be too much.”

“Okay, forget the stories. How about when I try to teach them water survival? How to swim? This is the God Almighty West, Dieter. Not some concrete suburbia with make-believe playgrounds made up of plastic slides and padded jungle gyms with cedar chips covering the ground so that, God forbid, the little ones don’t scrape their knees when they fall.”