Trey said, “I think we’re okay now,” and slid out of the truck with his shotgun loaded with slugs and a kit containing the lethal dose of euthanol. Joe exited the driver’s side with his weapon, and the two game wardens approached the front of the trap. Joe could hear the bear breathing, and the odor was very strong and mixed with the smell of blood from the roadkill. They snapped on their flashlights. Trey shone his on the locking mechanism of the trapdoor, while Joe trained his on the bear.
What Joe saw scared him to death. The grizzly not only blinked at the light, but turned his head to avoid it.
“Trey . . .” Joe whispered urgently.
“Shit!” Trey hollered, wheeling around. “The gate didn’t lock!”
The grizzly bear roared and charged the front of the trap with such speed and force that the unlocked gate blew wide open, the steel grate clanging up and over the top of the culvert. Joe had never seen an animal so big move so fast, and he knew that if the bear chose him as a target there was nothing he could do about it. He found himself backing up toward the truck while raising his shotgun and he felt more than saw Trey blindly fire toward the huge brown blur as the bear ran toward the dark timber.
304 crowhopped the instant Trey’s shotgun went off as if kicked from behind, then kept going. Joe aimed at the streaking form, saw it, lost it, and didn’t pull the trigger.
For a moment, they both stood and listened to the bear crash through the timber with the sound and subtlety of a meteorite. Joe was surprised he could hear anything over the sound of his own whumping heartbeat.
It took nearly twenty minutes for Trey and Joe to calm down and assess the situation. Joe was glad it was dark so that Trey wouldn’t see his hands shaking.
He held the shotgun close to him, listening for the possible warning sounds of the bear doubling back on them, while Trey examined the trapdoor to try to figure out why it didn’t work.
“I don’t know what went wrong,” Trey said morosely, pulling himself clumsily back to his feet and snatching his shotgun from where he had leaned it against the trap, “but it looks like I might have hit that bear. There’s a splash of blood out here on the grass.”
They followed the bear’s churnedup trail through the meadow to where it entered the trees. There were flecks of blood on blades of grass and fallen leaves. Joe felt his heart sink.
“We’ve got a wounded grizzly and there’s nothing more dangerous than that,” Trey said, his voice heavy. “We’ve got to hunt him down.”
Trey called dispatch and gave the dispatcher their coordinates. “We’ll stay out here until we find him. Please call my wife and Marybeth Pickett in Saddlestring and tell ’em what the situation is. Oh—and call Jackson Hole.
Tell ’em Joe Pickett is going to be a little late for his new job.”
...
For the next three days they drove the primitive back roads, pulling Trey’s horses in a trailer, tracking the wounded bear. They found where he had fed on a rotting moose carcass, and picked up his track where he had crossed a stream. The bear had tried to break into another cabin—they could see deep gouges on the front door and the shutters as well as a gout of blood on the porch. Joe found it remarkable and sickening how much blood this bear had lost, and both he and Trey kept expecting to find the bear’s body any minute. Joe admired the big bear nearly as much as he feared it. He would have liked to simply let it go and die in peace, if there was a guarantee that the bear would die.
The tension in the situation, and between Joe and Trey, thickened. Trey admonished himself for taking a wild shot that wounded the bear, and Joe felt that Trey was blaming him for not firing. Joe blamed himself as well, and replayed the bear escape over and over in his mind as he rode. He wasn’t convinced that he had frozen, but he sure hadn’t shot the bear. Things had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had a sure shot. Had he?
On the second afternoon, they lost the signal. They drove to the highest hill they could get to and parked. The only thing they could do, Trey said, was hope the bear wandered back into range of the receiver.
“We might as well get right to it while we’re waiting,” Trey said, his tone even more rock bottom than usual. “We’ve got a hell of a mess in Jackson, Joe. I want you to know what you’re getting yourself into.”
Joe nodded.
Trey made a pained face. “I’m getting more than a little concerned that some of my game wardens are letting the pressure get to them. I wish I knew how I could help them deal with it. But I don’t.”
Joe asked, “What do you mean?” But he knew. In the past year, a game warden at a game check station in the Wind River mountains had gotten into an argument with his son, shot him, then turned the pistol on himself. No one knew what the argument was about. Another game warden in southern Wyoming, assigned to a huge, virtually uninhabited district, simply vanished from the state. He was later found in New Mexico at the end of a threeweek bender. He would tell anyone who would listen to him that the locals had been out to get him, that he had run for his own life. A departmental investigation could find no evidence of his charges, and he was dismissed.
Unlike any other law enforcement personnel Joe was aware of, game wardens were literally autonomous. They ran their own districts in their own way. Monthly reports to district supervisors like Trey were required, but because supervisors had districts of their own to contend with, they rarely micromanaged game wardens in the field. This was one of the many aspects of his job that Joe valued. It was about trust, and competence, and doing the right thing. But this kind of autonomy brought a secret lonely hell to some men, and ravaged them.
“It’s not like there never was any pressure, back in the old days when I started,” Trey said. “We had poaching rings, hardheaded landowners, plenty of violent knuckleheads to deal with. But we didn’t have the political stuff as much.”
“Is that what you think happened with Will?” Joe asked.
“He let it get to him?”
Trey nodded. “I’m not sure, of course. He never really said that, except for the occasional bitching that we all do.
But Jackson is such a hot spot for that kind of thing. The most extreme are there, it seems. Hunters versus animalrights types. Developers versus environmentalists. Rich versus poor. Outofstate landowners versus local rubes.
