James Smith - Hybrid

“I believe that.”

“Well, would you believe I’m not as young as I used to be? In my prime I’d plan on a week for something like this. You have to be persistent once you pick up the trail of a wolf. You gotta beat ‘em at their own game, one that their ancestors have practiced for ten thousand years.”

“So… does that mean you’ll join me?”

Josh shook his head. “I’m just not up to it, Doc. I can still hike a mile or two—maybe—but the years are taking a toll on my joints.” He patted his left knee.

Dieter knew he was expecting too much from his friend, who had already provided him with a mother lode of knowledge. “Of course. Sorry I tried to talk you into this. It was selfish of me.”

“Time’s short,” Josh said. “You better get going ‘fore long. The almanac says the big snows should be moving in soon. Easier to track in the snow, but you don’t want to risk a blizzard. A lot of high country hikers found that out when they woke up to meet Saint Peter.”

ScoutmasterFarmington called out names from the list while the Scouts going on the overnight hike stood with their backpacks on the ground beside them.

Michael had counted thirteen boys gathered at the trailhead, a short walk from Indian Creek campground. Some of them carried hiking sticks made from tree branches. Most of the backpacks looked too heavy. His own was light because he didn’t have to carry a pup tent or many supplies. He belonged with the younger kids who’d sleep in the patrol cabin at the end of the hike. Fat Kenny stood nearby, ready to laugh at him as soon as he opened his mouth.

Michael knew that his dad didn’t understand he was old enough for all this. He also knew that it was wrong to sign the permission slip for his dad, but there were lots of wrongs to go around.

His dad was wrong for taking him away from his friends in Pennsylvania and he was wrong for bringing Amy into his and Megan’s lives. He’d watched the way his dad looked at her and knew what that was all about. Amy wasn’t old enough to be his mom. She was more like an older sister. It wasn’t fair that his mom was murdered either. If only his dad had only taken the time to go with her downtown that day. He wasn’t blaming him but if he had gone with her, maybe he’d still have his mom.

Scoutmaster Farmington flipped though the papers on his clipboard and called out each Scout by name. Michael began thinking through it all again. It was going to be a hike of a few miles at least… maybe five. Maybe longer. He could be spending the day instead at Indian Creek, messing around with Randy Cunningham and taking part in archery and games and other stuff. Randy was back there pouting because his parents wouldn’t let him go on the hike.

“Michael Harmon?” the scoutmaster called out.

Everyone stared at him. “Yes, sir.”

Farmington paused to study the permission slip, spending far too much time. “Your father couldn’t be with us this weekend?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But he’s not here.”

“I mean, no, sir.”

Fat Kenny held his hand over his mouth, snickering.

Farmington looked back at Michael for a moment, as if he knew what was going on. But then Farmington slid the paper underneath the stack and shouted, “Daniel Throckmorton?”

Michael finally let out his breath. No way he could back out of the hike now. When the last name was called, the Scouts picked up their backpacks and assembled in single file.

The vet at the Livingston hospital had called the night before to say that Rusty had a setback during the day. He had checked his blood count every four hours and had doubled up on the IV antibiotics. Rusty’s white cell count was now coming down, a sign the infection was under control.

After Dieter prepared his backpack and laid out his hiking clothes, he rummaged through his old equipment stored in a shed behind the cabin: camping stove, lanterns, cooking utensils, a sleeping bag, air mattress with a hand pump, paring knife, a bundle of plastic storage bags. Glad he’d saved his gear for all those years. Many of the boxes had never been unpacked from the move across country. In one box he found the dart pistol he once used and packed along with it were syringes and vials of old tranquilizing drugs, expired years before—why had he saved those? During one summer in veterinary school, he’d worked for the state on a project to manage black bears in Rothrock State Forest. The project team trapped bears using Aldrich paw snares baited with bacon; tagged them for breeding studies. Even though he only had to shoot bears with drug-loaded darts, he had to become certified for firearms.

He recalled it all quite well—two consecutive weeks away from Fran. He’d leave his old sleeping bag behind. No plans to use that in the wilderness. He flicked through his backpack for the third time, then walked into his bedroom and lifted the mattress to pull out the Ruger .44 Magnum. The grip seemed molded for his own fingers. He lifted the weapon to eye level and rotated the empty chamber. Perfectly balanced. Holding the revolver straight ahead with both hands, he leaned forward and pulled the trigger. The dull snap of the hammer felt rock-solid. He repeated the action, each time taking aim on a different target around his room and pulling the trigger. A box of cartridges was in a dresser drawer covered with underwear. After stuffing the box and revolver into the backpack, he turned on the radio by his bed for the news and weather, but jerked upward when he heard something sounding like a Mack truck pull up outside the cabin.

Opening the front door, he broke into a wide grin. Josh Pendleton stood by a horse trailer latched to the back of his pickup. He shrugged. “What can I say?” He nodded toward the trailer. “Rocko’s been looking for adventure.”

Unexpected change in plans and perfect timing.

“But… what about hiking? Is your knee up for it?”

“Oh, hell yes,” Josh replied, flexing his knee. “Made up a ointment with juniper and black pepper and wrapped it up good. It’s feeling pretty warm right now.”

Josh motioned for Dieter to move closer as he lifted the llama’s panniers that had been stuffed with supplies from the floor of the trailer. He opened a pouch and brought out a rusted contraption, holding it up for Dieter to admire. “That’s what you call a ‘number fourteen’! One of the old reliable traps I’ve hung onto. I’ll wait here while you grab your gear.”

Dieter hustled back to the cabin, eager to take advantage of his sudden luck… even though he had a different approach in mind.

Josh drove north on Highway 191 along Yellowstone’s western border toward the area that he’d earlier pinpointed on his map at the llama ranch. He motioned behind him toward the truck bed where Dieter had tossed the electronics and antenna rig. “So you planning to watch TV on the search?”

Dieter had come close to destroying the antenna when he crushed it with his feet in the plane accident. But when he later twisted the aluminum tubing back into shape, it resembled what the Judge had delivered.

“It’s a signal detector,” Dieter said.

“Never heard of a signal defector.”

“Detector… a signal detector. Most of the wolves have transmitters attached to neck collars. They constantly send out electronic signals. Judge Schoonover made up this portable system for me.” He explained how he picked up the faint signal from a lone wolf in the flying excursion with Amy.

Throughout the morning they occasionally stopped along the highway to hunt for likely spots to begin the search, walking up streambeds and along cleared paths, scouting for tracks. Josh often found subtle signs of wildlife, whether claw marks on a chunk of bark from a dead log due to a foraging bear or scrapes on an aspen trunk caused by a bull elk rubbing away antler velvet. For a better look at tracks or scat, Josh would awkwardly lower his giant frame to his hands and knees on the ground. One pile of scat was from a cougar. He showed how the cat used its hind feet to mark territory by heaping together leaves, pine straw and twigs before dropping a load on top. Josh spread the mound apart with his pocketknife to reveal bone and hair fragments of the unlucky prey that had been an earlier snack.