Open Season (21 page)

A strange, almost giddy feeling overcame Joe. He had seen thousands of Wyoming sunsets before, but for some reason, this one touched him. His emotions flitted like the radio search command from guilt to relief to outright anger. Guilt that he was letting Marybeth and his family down, relief that this chapter of his life—the long hours, the low pay, the frustration of trying to do a good job in a numbingly indifferent government bureaucracy—was over, and anger, nasty pulses of white-hot rage to which he was entirely unaccustomed, because he was a pawn in someone's game.

He tried to not dwell on the fact that this might be one of the last times he drove this pickup or wore his uniform. He wouldn't just be losing his job—he'd be losing his own self-image as well. Without a badge he was just like everyone else. He started to understand, for the very first time, why a police officer might want to turn his weapon on himself instead of turning it in. He fought against the self-pity that threatened to engulf him.

Instead, he turned his thoughts to what he had learned in the resource room.

What was known of Miller's weasels came from four primary sources: Captain Lewis' writings, the field notes of early biologists, references in pioneer journals, and a series of articles about the lastknown group of the creatures, which had been displayed at the Philadelphia Zoo in 1887 (according to the articles, they were a popular exhibit years before anyone had ever heard of the phrase “endangered species”). No more than twelve inches long and startlingly quick, Miller's weasels were more closely related to mongooses than any other North American species. They were civets, and seemed to resemble the Suricate or Stokstert meerkat of West Africa. They were omnivorous and aggressive, and they would eat eggs, snakes, mice, birds, lizards, fruit, insects, bulbs, and seeds. They would even give chase to foxes and dogs. It was estimated that at one time in the early nineteenth century, there were as many as a million Miller's weasels located within the Rocky Mountain West and Great Plains. They lived in family units as small as five or as large as 30, and they moved their colonies several times a year, following the buffalo wherever they went. They relied on the buffalo not only for carrion, but also for breaking up and churning the earth with their hooves as they grazed, thereby exposing plants, tubers, and small animals for the Miller's weasels to feed on.

American Indians considered the Miller's weasels to be good luck animals, and there were likenesses of them painted on tipi skins and beaded on clothing. The reason was simple: if there were Miller's weasels, then the Indians knew that buffalo would be nearby.

References to Miller's weasels were found in many of the journals kept by those who traveled the Oregon Trail, but no extensive or comprehensive passages. Most of the references had to do with killing the weasels wherever they could be found. It seemed that a legend had developed along the trail that Miller's weasels, despite their cuddly appearance, liked the taste of human flesh. The biologists who had analyzed the journal entries speculated that the pioneers had seen the weasels feeding on bison carcasses or perhaps digging into the numerous human graves that lined the route. There were rumors—none confirmed—that the animals were known to steal into Conestoga wagons at night and feed on human babies while they slept. Because of this legend, Miller's weasels were exterminated in every possible way. The pioneers poisoned the weasels by leaving tainted meat or oats near the colonies. They also would set bonfires on top of the animals' holes or flood these areas, then club the animals to death as they tried to escape. They were also shot, of course, on sight. Sometimes a single shotgun blast would cut down a dozen as they stood on their hind legs and yipped.

But what really led Miller's weasels down the path to extinction was the virtual elimination of the great herds of buffalo on the Great Plains. Because the Miller's weasels were dependent on the buffalo, they died out when the buffalo vanished. It wasn't until many years later that it became apparent that Miller's weasels no longer existed in America.

Was it possible that a few of the species still existed?

It
was
possible, Joe thought. Maybe the weasels had learned to eat something else. If the remaining weasels managed to change their staple diet, there were plenty of elk, moose, and deer in the mountains to feed on.

And Vern was right. If a colony of Miller's weasels was discovered, the news would hit the scientific and environmental community within hours via the Internet. It would sock the already fading town of Saddlestring, Wyoming, with a punch Joe wasn't sure it would recover from. Federal employees from various agencies, journalists, biologists, and environmentalists from all over the world would come, all dragging their own distinct and separate political agendas along with them. The ranchers, loggers, outfitters, guides, and residents of Saddlestring would be no match.

Joe had no hard evidence of the species to present to anyone yet. But when everything that had happened was viewed in a certain light, a light not unlike the sunshine that had found and exposed the antelope in the sagebrush, it all seemed to point to the fact that a species thought extinct for 100 years was alive and well in the Bighorns—and that three men who found out about them had been murdered. The murderer, according to Sheriff Barnum and the state investigators, was Clyde Lidgard. But if Clyde didn't do it—and Joe couldn't decide if he believed that—who did? And why did the people who should be the most concerned about the possibility of this discovery, Joe's colleagues, seem uninterested or at least want to steer him away?

Joe smiled bitterly in the dark.

He had only three days to try and find the answers to those questions, and he was completely on his own.

 

In Waltman, at
a small pink general store 30 miles from anywhere else, Joe bought a half-pint of bourbon and a six-pack of beer from an old man behind the counter who had not only lost an eye but also his left arm from the elbow down. The store owner didn't bother to pin up the empty sleeve of his dirty, gold cowboy shirt, but let it flap beside him like a broken wing as he rang up the purchases. Yup, the store owner answered Joe, that pay phone outside still worked.

Outside, Joe dialed the telephone, opened a beer, and leaned against the pink building in the dark. A humming neon Coors beer sign from the window of the store painted his face a light blue.

Dave Avery, Joe's friend from the Montana Fish and Game Department, answered at his home in Helena. Joe could hear the sounds of a football game on television in the background. Joe asked Dave if he had been able to analyze the samples he sent him yet.

“Are you screwing with me, Joe?” Dave asked, his voice wary. “Is this some kind of a trick you're pulling on me?”

That meant Dave had received and tested the scat samples Joe had sent him.

“Why do you say that?” Joe asked.

Dave snorted. He was animated. No doubt he had already had a few beers that evening. “You know why, Joe. That scat had a little of everything in it. Pine nuts, vegetation, traces of cartilage, even some elk hair. It could be a fox or something, but it's way too small for that. You win this game. I can't guess that shit. I thought I could name that shit in three notes, maybe less. But I'm baffled. Boggled. Blown away.”

For Joe, this confirmed he was on the right track.

“Ever hear of a Miller's weasel?” Joe asked.

“A what?” Dave asked. Then he laughed, unconvinced. There was a long silence. Dave Avery was well versed in both the current and former species of the region. “You're not kidding, are you?” Dave asked. “Did you actually see any?”

Joe told him what had happened, where he found the samples, and what he suspected. Dave kept saying “Jesus Christ” as Joe talked.

“Do you know what you might have here?” Dave said when Joe was through. “If the Feds find out, it'll get wild.”

“That's the least of my worries right now.” Joe said. “Now will you do me a favor for the time being?”

Dave said he would.

“Do a couple of more tests to make sure neither of us is wrong. Then lock up those samples and the analysis. Don't tell anyone what you've got or what we discussed. Just keep it under wraps for a while until I can sort things out down here.”

Dave asked how long it would be before Joe got back to him.

“Three days.”

 

Thirty miles north
of Waltman and 20 miles south of Kaycee, Joe turned off of the highway onto a little-used ranch access. His tires bounced over ruts until he cleared a rise where he knew he couldn't be seen from the highway.

Joe killed the engine and swung out of the truck. There was just enough light that the sagebrush looked cottony. A jackrabbit bounded away from the road with tremendous leaps, looking twice its actual size in the headlights. Behind him, the hot engine ticked.

He stroked the checkered grip of the new revolver and raised it. He thumbed the hammer, and the action worked smoothly, rolling the cylinder. He aimed down the long barrel at the now-distant rabbit and squeezed the trigger. The .357 roared and bucked violently in his hands and a two-foot explosion from the muzzle left an afterimage in his vision. A plume of dust exploded in front of the jackrabbit, and the animal reversed direction and now bounded right to left.

Joe fired, then fired again. He kept squeezing the trigger until he realized it had clicked three times on empty cylinders. A half a mile away, the jackrabbit had hit overdrive and was streaking toward the mountains.

With his ears ringing and half-blind from the concussive reports of the big pistol, Joe stumbled back to his pickup to reload.

Vern Dunnegan was
not in his room or in the lounge at the Holiday Inn, but Joe saw his black Suburban on Main Street in front of the Stockman's Bar. Joe parked beside it. As the front door closed behind him, Joe squinted down the length of the dark narrow room through cigarette smoke and saw Vern sitting in the back booth just as he had a few days before. Vern was alone, hunched over and staring down at a tall glass of bourbon and water that he held between his hands.

As Joe approached, Vern looked up and in that instant something passed quickly over Vern's face—perhaps a mixture of both surprise and anger. Joe barely had a chance to register the look before it was replaced by a huge, overdone grin. Joe sat down heavily in the booth and ordered a beer when the barmaid approached.

“You're up awfully late,” Vern said, studying Joe carefully from behind his smile.

“I just got back from Cheyenne,” Joe said. “That's one hell of a long drive.”

“It's a two-and-a-half six-pack drive.” Vern chuckled. “A drive I made many, many times. It looks like you might have had a few yourself to make the hours more bearable. Gotta be careful on the highway,” Vern said, smiling paternalistically. “Some of those patrolmen would like nothing better than to give a ticket to a fellow state employee and get you in all sorts of trouble.”

Caught, Joe nodded. A drunk like Vern who had tried to hide it for years could be very perceptive when it came to identifying someone else who'd been drinking, Joe thought.

“You just missed Wacey,” Vern continued. Vern was now in command. Whatever had passed across his face when he looked up and saw Joe was now well hidden. “We were having a little celebration.”

Joe looked puzzled.

“Barnum announced today that he's dropping out of the sheriff's race,” Vern said. “He's going to retire.”

“You're kidding,” Joe replied. He wondered what had made Barnum come to that decision. With Barnum out, Wacey was assured of winning the Republican primary in a couple of weeks. And in Twelve Sleep County, winning the Republican primary was the same as winning the general election. There were only a handful of Democrats, and few of them even bothered to vote anymore.

“So ole Wacey was pretty excited and we had a few drinks to celebrate,” Vern said.

“I bet he was,” Joe agreed. “Strange that Barnum dropped out.”

Vern shrugged. “These things happen. Maybe he thought he was going to get whipped.”

Joe recalled the conversation he'd had with Barnum earlier that week. Barnum had certainly acted as if he had already been defeated. But Joe hadn't understood it then, and he didn't understand it now. He had noticed no groundswell of support for Wacey Hedeman in the community—and very little dissatisfaction with Barnum. It seemed to Joe that voting against Sheriff O. R. “Bud” Barnum was like voting against the Bighorn Mountains.

“Politics,” Vern said, as if the word alone summed up the conversation. “Stranger than fiction.”

Joe sipped his beer. He wished he hadn't been drinking on the ride home. He wished his head was more clear.

“So what brings you down to the Stockman's Bar when it's obviously past your bedtime?” Vern asked.

Joe looked up. “I guess I want to accept that job you offered me with InterWest,” Joe said. “I got suspended today.”

Vern frowned melodramatically. “Suspended?
You?
That doesn't even seem possible.”

Joe had a feeling that it wasn't as much of a surprise to Vern as Vern made it out to be. They were now playing some kind of game with each other. But in this kind of game, Joe was an amateur and Vern was All-Pro.

Joe told Vern what had happened. Vern shook his head and rolled his eyes at the right places. Joe thought for a moment that maybe Vern hadn't known. No, Joe amended,
Vern knew.
There were still plenty of people in Cheyenne that owed Vern a favor and could have tipped him off.

“So I want to work with you,” Joe finished.