Savage Run
C.J. Box
2002
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication.
Acknowledgments
I would like to acknowledge the Wyoming Game and Fish Department for providing the opportunity to 'ride along' and provide a glimpse into the day-to-day duties of a game warden. Specifically thanks to Game Warden Mark Nelson, who is a credit to his profession.
Special thanks as well to Sergeant Mitch Maxwell of the Cheyenne Police Department, who assisted with expertise on ballistics, weaponry and law enforcement procedure.
Much of the background for actual ecoterrorist groups came from Bruce Barcott's article 'Stalking the Ecoterrorists: The Secret Life and Prying Times of Barry Clausen,' which appeared in the October 2000 issue of Outside.
My huge thanks to design genius Don Hajicek, the creator of www.cj box.net
A wealth of appreciation for Martha Bushko, my editor extraordinaire; Ken Siman, publicist extraordinaire; and G. P Putnam's Sons for its encouragement and support. And, of course, for Andy Whelchel, my agent and fishing partner.
A place called Saddlestring does exist, but it is a tiny post office located on a historic ranch, not a real Wyoming community The fictional Saddlestring, Wyoming, is an amalgam of at least three different towns.
Part One.
1
Largdee national forest,
June 10
ON THE THIRD DAY OF THEIR HONEYMOON, infamous environmental activist Stewie Woods and his new bride, Annabel Bellotti, were spiking trees in the forest when a cow exploded and blew them up. Until then, their marriage had been happy
They met by chance. Stewie Woods had been busy pouring bag after bag of sugar and sand into the gasoline tanks of a fleet of pickups in a newly graded parking lot that belonged to a natural gas exploration crew The crew had left for the afternoon for the bars and hotel rooms of nearby Henry's Fork. One of the crew had returned unexpectedly and caught Stewie as he was ripping the top off a bag of sugar with his teeth. The crew member pulled a 9mm semiautomatic from beneath the dashboard of his truck and fired several wild shots in Stewie's direction. Stewie dropped the bag and ran away, crashing through the timber like a bull elk.
Stewie had outrun and out juked the man with the pistol when he literally tripped over Annabel as she sunbathed nude on the grass in an orange pool of late afternoon sun, who was unaware of his approach because she was listening to Melissa Ethridge on her Walkman. She looked good, he thought, strawberry blonde hair with a two-day Rocky Mountain fire-engine tan (two hours in the sun at 8,000 feet created a sunburn like a whole day at the beach), small ripe breasts, and a trimmed vector of pubic hair.
He had gathered her up and pulled her along through the timber, where they hid together in a dry spring wash until the man with the pistol gave up and went home. She had giggled while he held her--This was real adventure, she said--and he had used the opportunity to run his hands tentatively over her naked shoulders and hips and had found out, happily that she did not object. They made their way back to where she had been sunbathing and, while she dressed, they introduced themselves. She told him she liked the idea of meeting a famous environmental outlaw in the woods while she was naked, and he appreciated that. She said she had seen his picture before, maybe in Outside magazine, and admired his looks--tall and rawboned, with round rimless glasses, a short-cropped full beard, wearing his famous red bandana on his head.
Her story was that she had been camping alone in a dome tent, taking a few days off from a freewheeling cross-continent trip that had begun with her divorce from an anal-retentive investment banker named Nathan in her hometown of Pawtucket, Rhode Island. She was bound, eventually for Seattle.
'I'm falling in love with your mind,' he lied.
'Already?' she asked.
He encouraged her to travel with him, and they took her vehicle since the lone crew member had disabled Stewie's Subaru with three bullets into the engine block. Stewie was astonished by his good fortune. Every time he looked over at her and she smiled back, he was poleaxed with exuberance.
Keeping to dirt roads, they crossed into Montana. The next afternoon, in the backseat of her SUV during a thunderstorm that rocked the car and blew shroud like sheets of ram through the mountain passes, he asked her to marry him. Given the circumstances and the supercharged atmosphere, she accepted. When the rain stopped, they drove to Ennis, Montana, and asked around about who could marry them, fast. Stewie did not want to take the chance of letting her get away She kept saying she couldn't believe she was doing this. He couldn't believe she was doing this either, and he loved her even more for it.
At the Sportsman Inn in Ennis, Montana, which was bustling with fly fishermen bound for the trout-rich waters of the Madison River, the desk clerk gave them a name and they looked up Judge Ace Cooper (Ret.) in the telephone book.
Judge Cooper was a tired and rotund man who wore a stained white cowboy shirt and elk horn bolo tie with his collar open. He performed the wedding ceremony in a room adjacent to his living room that was bare except for a single filing cabinet, a desk and three chairs, and two framed photographs--one of the judge and President George H. W Bush, who had once been up there fishing, and the other of the judge on a horse before the Cooper family lost their ranch in the 1980s.
