Joe was aware that within the town of Saddlestring, Stewie Woods's death was already turning into something of a joke. He guessed that it was the same throughout the west in the logging communities, the mining towns, and the farm and ranch centers, where Stewie Woods and One Globe were known and despised. One Globe was one of the most extreme of the environmental groups, a media darling, and one of the few organizations that openly advocated direct action. They hated cattle, they hated the practice of grazing on public land, they hated the ranchers who had or applied for leases, and they hated the politicians and bureaucrats who continued to allow the practice.
Barnum had speculated that Woods was hoping for headlines like 'Cow Explodes In National Forest'-- something that would focus attention on the grazing debate--when something went horribly wrong.
An interesting angle raised in the newspaper, and previously unknown to Joe, was the fact that Stewie Woods was a local boy born and reared in Winchester. He had attended high school in Saddle string and had played middle linebacker for the football team with a recklessness that made him All-State. Then, according to his coaches and neighbors, he had gone to the University of Colorado in Boulder and instead of playing football for the Golden Buffaloes, he hooked up with the wrong people and went crazy.
Joe wondered about the embarrassing legacy Woods's death would leave. Like an overweight Mama Cass, who died from choking on a sandwich, or Elvis Presley, who died on the toilet, or fitness author Jim Fixx, who died while running, Stewie Woods would forever be remembered as the environmental activist blown up by a cow. Despite the stunts, the publicity the best-selling biography written by Hayden Powell, and the attention Woods had garnered through the years, Stewie Woods would always be linked with a cow explosion. Joe knew there were ranchers, loggers, and politicians who would find this all very amusing.
Joe raked a hand through his hair. What he still didn't know was why Marybeth was so upset by the news. But he knew she would tell him when she felt she was ready Since her shooting injury and the loss of their baby, Marybeth readily admitted that she was more prone to quick mood swings and tremendous bouts of strong emotion--mostly sentimental ones. Sometimes she couldn't identify exactly what it was that triggered the tears. He had learned not to press her, not to make her give him a definitive answer right away because sometimes she simply didn't have one. It bothered her more than it bothered Joe, for she was a woman who had no room or time for baseless theatrics.
So whatever it was, Joe knew he would find out what was bothering her when Marybeth was good and ready to tell him.
He waited half an hour and finished his coffee. When she didn't come downstairs, he pulled on his hat, called Maxine, and walked outside to his pickup to go to work.
6
JOE CALLED IT 'PERCHING.' Perching was patrolling in the break lands in the foothills of the Bighorns, where the sagebrush gave way to pines, driving his truck up rough two-tracks to promontories and buttes where, with his Redfield spotting scope mounted to the side window, he could scope flats, meadows, and timber blow downs for game, hunters, hikers, and fishers. After two years on the job, he was still locating new adequate perches throughout his district, which consisted of 1,500 square miles of high plains steppe, sagebrush flats, craggy break lands, and mountains. These raised vantage points, where he could 'sit and glass,' generally had some kind of road to the top that had been established over the years by ranchers, surveyors, or hunters. Perching is what Joe had done for the past few days, since Marybeth's outburst. He had left early, stayed late, and filled the hours between with routine patrolling of his district in the strange season between hunting and fishing activity Even if he patrolled every working hour, Joe knew he could never adequately cover his 1,500square mile district. But it was an important part of his job.
At night, he had worked late in his small office near the mudroom at home, updating logs and reports, writing out a comprehensive purchase request from headquarters for the goods and equipment he would need in the coming fiscal year (saddles, tack, new tires, roof repair, etc.) and waiting for Marybeth to come to him and explain what had happened that morning. They still needed to talk and clear the air. Every time he heard her walk by his door, he paused, hoping she would enter and close the door behind her and say 'About the other morning .. .' He didn't push her, either, although the incident hung around the house like an unwelcome relative. Several times, he wanted to go to her, but he talked himself out of it. The guilt he felt about her injury and the subsequent loss of their child, was like a blade, ever poised, near his heart.
That morning, after the girls had left for school and the silence between them seemed to approach white noise, he told her about his encounter with Jim Finotta. She listened, and seemed grateful to be discussing anything except what he wanted to discuss. Her eyes probed his while he talked.
'Joe, are you sure this is something you want to pursue?' she asked.
'He poached an elk. He's no better than any other criminal. If fact, he's worse.'
'But you can't prove it, can you?'
'Not yet.'
She stared at a spot behind Joe's head. 'Joe, we're within sight of getting our debts paid for the first time since we've been married. I'm working Two jobs. Is this the time you want to go after a man like Jim Finotta?'
Her question surprised him, although it shouldn't have, and it momentarily put him off balance. Marybeth was nothing if not a pragmatist, especially when it came to her family
'I've got to check it out,' Joe said, his resolve weakened. 'You know that.'
A slow, resigned smile formed on her face. 'I know you do, Joe. I just don't want you to get in trouble again.'
'Me neither.'
And for a moment, he could see in her expression that she wanted to add more. But she didn't.
***
It was rare to find many people about in the mountains in the late spring and early summer, when unpredictable squalls could sweep down from the Continental Divide in buffeting waves of wet snow, and when the snowmelt runoff was still too foamy, cloudy, and violent to fish or swim in. Crusty drifts of snow still lay in draws and swales, but had retreated and regrouped from the grass and sagebrush into the safe harbor of thick wooded stands.
Maxine slept on the passenger seat, her head resting on her forepaws, her brow crinkled with concern from whatever peril she was dreaming about.
