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.
***
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 Wakman 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.
