pathway in the trees. Both wore day packs.
'I'm fine. You're still here?' Joe asked. 'Weren't you going to Canada or somewhere?'
Raga leaned forward on a walking stick. 'Been there and back.'
'Where's the woman who was with you?' Joe asked. Raga and Tonk shared a conspiratorial glance, but didn't answer Joe's question.
'Did you hear about Hayden Powell? The writer? His house burned down in Washington state,' Raga said, his eyes cold. 'This time, they found the body'
Joe had heard the name Hayden Powell somewhere, but was not familiar with him or Tonk's story
'Charred beyond recognition,' Tonk added for emphasis.
'So first there was Stewie, then Hayden,' Raga continued, his tone fused with deliberate irony 'I wonder who will be next?'
Joe clamped his misshapen hat on his head. 'You folks like conspiracies, don't you?'
Raga sneered and gestured toward the crater. 'The people who did this will come back. I hope you're ready for them when they do.'
Joe tried to read the faces of the two men. Raga was still sneering, Tonk nodding in agreement with what Raga had just said.
'Do you know something you should tell me?' Joe asked.
Raga slowly shook his head no. 'They'll be back here,' he said simply
10
RETURNING HOME, Joe crossed the bridge that spanned the Twelve Sleep River and drove through the three- block length of Saddlestring's sleepy downtown. The insides of his thighs and the palms of his hands still stung from the fall. There was a dull ache in the back of his neck. Worst of all, his hat was crushed. It was just after five o'clock and most of the shops -were already closed and the street virtually empty of traffic. Knots of cars and pickups were parked in front of the two
bars on Main Street.
Saddlestring, once on the verge of a natural gas pipeline boom two years before that Joe inadvertently helped stymie, had once again settled into being a place considered 'unchanging and rustic' in the view of some or 'nearly dead' in the view of others. The discovery of species thought extinct--Miller's weasels--had created a tourism surge at the same time the town was seeing a brief cessation of traditional industries such as logging, mining, and outfitting in the remote area of the Bighorns, now known, sort of, as the Miller's Weasel Ecosystem. Interagency squabbling was still delaying the official unique designation of the ecosystem. In the meanwhile, the last known colony of Miller's weasels, the Cold Springs Group, had died out. Although Joe knew of another colony, the location remained a cherished secret between Sheridan and him, and neither ever talked about it. Scientists, biologists, and ecotourists no longer came for the purpose of seeing where the creatures that 'captured a nation' once were, but the town, and the valley, continued to limp along. Saddlestring, as a place of interest to most outsiders, had once again dropped out of view.
Joe stopped at the corner before he turned toward Bighorn Road. Across the street were two buildings with ancient western storefronts, Bryan's Western Wear and Wolf Mountain Taxidermy The taxidermy studio was a rarity in that it was so well known in the state and throughout the Northern Rockies that it stayed open the entire year.
Most studios closed for three or four months until hunting seasons opened again. The taxidermist, Matt Sandvick, had won dozens of awards for his work and was sought out by wealthy hunters. In addition to moose, deer, pronghorn antelope, and other Wyoming big game and fowl, Sandvick often did tigers, Alaskan brown bears, and other exotic species from around the world. He was the taxidermist of choice for wealthy, status-conscious men.
Which is why Joe canceled his turn signal and proceeded through the intersection and parked his pickup on the curb. He had been thinking of Matt Sandvick's work for several days. He was the best Joe had ever seen. A Sandvick mount had a certain clean, natural simplicity that brought the animal back to life. His work was subtle but regal, and left an impression on the admirer. Joe was just such an admirer. And it made him wonder about something.
As usual, there was no one in the outer office when Joe entered Wolf Mountain Taxidermy. Dozens of photos of mounts were beneath a sheet of glass on the counter, and a huge moose head dominated the wall above a door that led to the studio. Joe rang a bell next to a brochure rack full of price lists and waited.
Matt Sandvick was a short, powerful man with close-cropped red hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses. He emerged from his studio cleaning his hands with a stained towel. Joe had met him several times and had been in the shop during hunting season to confirm that hunters had properly tagged all of the game animals turned over to Sandvick. Sandvick took a good deal of pride in his work. They got along well.
'What happened to you?' Sandvick asked, his eyes widening as he looked at Joe's torn shirt, bloody hand, and crushed hat.
Joe tried to think of something snappy to say but couldn't think of anything. 'Fell out of a tree.' Joe said, smiling with a hint of embarrassment.
Sandvick stifled a laugh. 'Okay,' he said, drawing the word out to indicate disbelief.
'Getting ready for hunting season?' Joe asked in a neighborly way
'Always,' Sandvick nodded. 'Things are slowing down around here. A few fish is all. A nice twenty-two-inch cutthroat trout back there. You want to look at it?'
Joe shook his head no. He agreed that 22 inches was big for a cutthroat. Matt, Joe thought, I'm sorry for what I'm about to do.
Then: 'You know that big bull elk you did for Jim Finotta last year? Was that an eight-by-eight?' 'Nine-by- seven,' Sandvick corrected. 'The only one I've ever seen.'
'I would have sworn it had eight on each side.' Joe said, looking quizzically at Sandvick. 'I saw it just a few weeks ago in his office.'
