K Nilsen - The Yellowstone Traps

“Get back here,” howled Moody, “we’ve got men posted ahead of you. You have nowhere to go.”

The officer knew what to expect. He slipped around the gate, crossed the bridge quietly and settled down to wait, gun drawn. He did not have to wait long. Something large splashed into the creek and worked its way up to the bridge, using the span as cover to cross the stream. A character with massive features appeared, slipping and stumbling on the wet terrain beside the bridge. When the man stood up, Moody pointed the firearm at the fellow’s expansive chest.

“On your knees. Now lie on the ground, feet wide apart, hands straight out to the side.”

Footfalls sounded on the bridge.

“Stop,” yelled Moody, not taking his eyes off the man sprawled on the ground.

“It’s me, Abel,” the new arrival called from the span.

“Stay where you are, Mr. Whittemore. You’ve done your part.”

“I want to see this man.”

Officer Moody pounced on the back of the character on the ground, rammed a knee into the small of the back and one at the base of the neck. He reached for the man’s thick right hand, pulled it down and back behind the torso. With a swift, deft move, he clicked a handcuff in place. He did the same to the left hand, pushed off, and stood back from the would-be poacher.

“Up,” commanded Moody, holstering his pistol.

The handcuffed man struggled to his knees and stood.

“Turn toward the headlights so we can get a look at you.”

The suspect rotated into the light, revealing a thick jaw set and heavy brow.

Moody marveled at the facial architecture of the man, studying him for some seconds. He addressed Abel. “You know this man?”

After a pause: “To some degree. That’s who we thought we’d find.”

“Mr. Regas?”

“Yes, Andy Regas.”

The officer read his captive the Miranda warning, then marched him to the state wagon for transport to Ortonville.

“Anyone you want to get a hold of, Mr. Regas?” asked the officer.

No answer.

“You want to call someone when you get to Ortonville?”

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

“The old man.”

“Who would that be?”

“Harland. Harland Sven. Sweetly farmer.”

“Okay, then.”

ABig Stone County holding cell disgorged Andrew Regas. He was removed to the Ortonville municipal courthouse for arraignment before Justice Peter Hinckley on charges of intent to destroy wildlife, hunting game out of season, hunting with a firearm half an hour after sundown, and hunting game from the confines of a vehicle.

The judge scanned the charges, but before asking the suspect for a plea, he settled back in his robes behind the bench and leafed through a folder full of papers. The judge peered over the top of his glasses and pulled on his lower lip.

“Mr. Regas, you’ve been before this court on more than a few occasions. This isn’t the first time officers have brought you before me on similar charges. So, here you are once again. Would you like the court to appoint a lawyer to represent you?”

“No, sir.”

“All right, then, how do you plead?”

Regas turned and glanced at Fish & Game Officer Moody standing over his right shoulder. “Not guilty.”

“All right, not guilty,” mumbled Judge Hinckley. He penned a few notes before addressing the man. “I’m going to recommend that you be housed in the county facility until such time as the state of Minnesota acts upon these charges or unless you or a citizen of good standing posts bail. Figure for said bail shall be $2,000.”

Officer Moody and the bailiff escorted Regas from the municipal courtroom. Harland Sven, one of the very few people in the chamber, approached the bench to ask if he could post the bail figure. The judge directed Harland to see the court clerk to carry out his wishes.

Abel, too, moved to the front of the courtroom. Regas, under escort, sneered at the resident from Prospect Bluffs. Abel sought out Harland, someone he chanced to meet just a few times because Prospect Bluffs, on the Minnesota side of Big Stone Lake, lay across waters and a dozen miles north of Sweetly, South Dakota.

An Amish field hat planted on his head, Abel waited patiently for Harland to finish his business with the court. When Harland turned to leave, Abel flagged him.

“Mr. Sven, my name is Abel Whittemore.”

The farmer eyed him coldly. “I know who you are.”

Harland pushed by Abel and strode quickly out of the courthouse. Abel caught up with him and turned to face the farmer.

“Mr. Sven, what is it about this fellow, Andy Regas?”

“None of your business.”

“It is my business,” Abel protested firmly. “That man has been a good deal of trouble to us on the bluffs. What is the reason for it?”

“Why are you asking me? I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“With due respect, Andy Regas was in your charge as a youngster, was he not?”

“What do you care?” burped Harland, acid welling in his throat.

“I thought you might be able to intercede and stop….”

Andy’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake,” snapped Harland, his voice escalating in volume. “You got a problem with him, take it up with him. I see you already have.”

“This isn’t the first time he’s jacked deer on the bluffs.”

“Well, damnation, if you go and post the land, land people have been hunted for generations, you’re bound to get some heat, mister.”

Harland’s personal restraints frayed. Damn this eastern elitist. He rammed his nose against Abel’s and hissed in his face. “I’m a dirt farmer, freak. I work like the devil himself. Andy helped me for ten years before he turned legal age and was free to go. He might not have been the best of foster kids, but he worked hard, toed the line. We did right by him, Sugar and me. Who the hell are you to think otherwise?”

“Can you get through to him?” Abel shot back, giving no ground.

“Let me get this through to you, freak.” Harland trembled with hostility. “We raise crops down here, sometimes good crops, sometimes poor. Sometimes we raise good kids, sometimes not. Been that way forever. But I know this much. You and your playschool can’t raise much of anything in the sand and gravel on that bluff of yours. When your book royalties dry up, so will you. You’ll be gone, and then you won’t give a good goddamn if someone jacks a deer for his dinner.”

Harland’s slur burrowed beneath Abel’s skin. He leveled one of his own. “That playschool, as you call it, supports 110 people—110! You don’t have a monopoly on working hard and feeding people, farmer. We’re not going to sell out, I can assure you. We’re not going away.”

“Will you look at that! You can see the whole park breathing,” marveled supervising geologist Wesley Crouch as he scrutinized a twenty-eight-inch flat monitor displaying a time-lapse graphic model of Yellowstone National Park. The image of the modeled landscape, representing eight decades in time, rose and fell as if it were a respiring human torso.

“Mmm,” murmured Liz as she scanned the digital wizardry on the liquid crystal display in the Yellowstone Volcano Observatory lab at the Mammoth Hot Springs complex. The computer modeler, Germaine Yardley of the U.S. Geological Survey Volcanic Hazards Team, flailed at his workstation keyboard, his warm coffee-colored fingers a blur. On the screen, a three-dimensional digital matrix, skewed to greatly exaggerate recent elevation inflation in the region around the lake, rotated slowly so the professionals could study the graphic representation from every angle.

Seated beside Yardley was a trim, athletic man. The director of the Cascades Volcano Observatory, Frederick Womack, had just arrived from Vancouver, Washington to assess the Lake Village-area steam explosion and the extent of harmonic tremor activity. He had been consulting with Wesley and Liz since his arrival and had settled down with Yardley to watch the digital graphic master at work as the day waned.