A Noble Calling

by Rhona Weaver

  * * *

  “Catch him! Catch him! Stop him!” a woman was screaming as she ran up the steep trail toward them. About twenty feet in front of her was a flying brown furball that was also squealing at the top of its lungs. Win was hiking the point down the backcountry trail, and he immediately kicked into gear. He hadn’t spent years in fumble-recovery drills for nothing! The cub made a dodge to Win’s left off the trail, and Win dove for it into a snowbank. He came up with the squirming, crying rascal in his left hand and triumphantly held it up. The cub immediately bit his hand and continued squalling. Win nearly dropped it.

  “Hold it like a cat! Scruff of the neck!” Gus yelled to him. The cub bit again and Win stuffed it inside his open coat and hugged it tight—the crying stopped. Win could feel its little heart racing and beating hard against his own. He sat up in the snowbank and smiled down at the little critter. I’m holding a real live wild bear—this is so cool!

  “Nice stop!” The woman called down to him from the trail. She was trying to catch her breath from the uphill sprint and was leaning toward him with her hands on her knees. Win slowly maneuvered to kneel in the snow. The woman was standing uphill above him, and when he stood, they were nearly eye-to-eye. Seeing her face brought him to a complete stop. She was flushed—both from the run and from the cold air—and her thick, long brown hair had fallen loose from its ponytail. She was looking into his coat at the little bear, and smiling one of the most beautiful smiles he could ever remember seeing. Then she looked up and met his eyes.

  He pulled off his ball cap and nodded to her. “Howdy, ma’am, you lose this little thing?” Cheesy, yes, but she smiled at him. Her soft-brown eyes were locked on his and she straightened, nodded, and blushed even more. They both seemed at a loss for words, but she recovered faster than he did and motioned him down the trail.

  “Do you want me to take him?” Her voice had a subtle southern accent.

  “No, no, he’s not even moving now.”

  “Got to get him back to his mama. She’ll be waking up soon,” the girl said. They rounded a house-size boulder and approached a tranquilized grizzly bear lying in the snow outside a round, culvert-shaped metal cage. A second cub was leashed to the trap. Five researchers were bustling around the bear in practiced activity. A bearded man, in shirtsleeves despite the cold, was drawing a blood sample from the adult bear’s front leg, and a second man was doing measurements on teeth that looked to be over two inches long. A petite older woman approached the newcomers with outstretched hand.

  “Hello, Gus, it’s great you could get with us on a day when we’ve had such good luck. We’ll wrap up here in a few minutes and move out so the animals can recover. Tory, where’s the little male that got away?” The woman had a precise northeastern accent and a tone of authority. Win was guessing she ran a tight ship.

  “I’ve got him,” Win volunteered and walked closer so she could peer into his coat. The tiny bear was mewing softly, almost like a kitten.

  “Do you mind holding him for a few minutes? We’ll be finished here as soon as we weigh her and the cubs and get a few more samples.” She turned back to her work.

  Win really was interested in the research techniques, but he was much more interested in the young lady named Tory. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and she was tall, maybe five eight or five nine. She was dressed like the other researchers, in green insulated overalls and hiking boots. Her leather gloves and a red bandana were stuffed in her back pocket, and she was carrying a can of bear spray on a web belt. No earrings and, most importantly, no wedding band on her hand. She pulled her hair back into the ponytail and continued to go about her work. In less than five minutes, Win and the older woman were extracting the cub from inside his coat. It weighed fifteen pounds—ideal for four months old, she said. Win was surprised when the woman handed it back to him.

  “He seems to enjoy your company, best to keep them as low stressed as possible until we finish. We’ll get the female cub now.”

  Win put the cub back into his coat and saw Tory give him a quick smile from her position on the other side of mama bear. It took everyone to lift the adult bear into the sling for the weigh-in. The bear weighed 405 pounds; a fairly large female, someone said, above average for this time of year with two cubs.

  Gus held up a huge paw for Win to look over; the claws were at least three inches long. “This is one reason we don’t jog in the woods this time of year.” He gave Win a serious look. Win glanced back at the claws and remembered Gus’s earlier warnings about not running alone in the mountains. He definitely needed a different exercise plan.

  “Okay folks, let’s pack up here!” the petite woman commanded as mother bear stirred, making a weak attempt to rise.

  Win took the cub out of his coat and held it up to face him. It made no attempt to bite this time, but kept mewing softly. “See you, Bubba, you grow up big and strong.” He passed it off to one of the researchers, who placed the cub next to its sister and mother. They quickly gathered equipment and backpacks and began the trek up the trail away from the bear family.

  They hiked the switchbacks upward for well over a mile at a fast pace, finally pausing in an open meadow to rest. The small gray-haired woman, who had to be in her late sixties, wasn’t even winded. She turned to Gus and introduced two of the men as the witnesses they were to interview. Gus, in turn, introduced Win to Dr. Catherine Kane from Northwestern University, the lead researcher for this year’s Interagency Grizzly Bear Research Project.

  “Gus, why don’t you and Agent Tyler plan to have lunch with us at camp. It’s nearly eleven o’clock now. You can do your interviews at your leisure,” Dr. Kane suggested.

  The researchers’ camp, composed of canvas and nylon tents, was about four miles from the trailhead where Gus had parked the SUV. It was four miles of rugged territory, and while the trail was mostly open, the deeply shaded areas still contained large amounts of snow. Dr. Kane said their group had been at this site for three weeks and would be leaving within a few days. Some of the project’s researchers would go back to Mammoth and Bozeman for seminars and a well-deserved break, then the camp would move to the Roosevelt area of the park.

  The case interviews didn’t take long. They sat at a sheltered camp table with each man and learned little more than what had been disseminated in the original report. Both the witnesses were wildlife biologists with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and neither of them seemed to think heavily armed gunmen roaming the wilderness was any big deal. They’d sent in the photos and report to the park’s rangers only upon Dr. Kane’s insistence.

  While the group waited for the soup to warm on the Coleman stoves, Gus continued to visit with Dr. Kane, whom he’d known from his stint at Glacier National Park. Win dabbed alcohol on the tiny bites on his hand as he maneuvered close enough to the young woman to introduce himself.

  “Hey, thanks for letting me hold the cub. That was a neat experience. I’m Win Tyler.”

  “Well, thank you for catching the little bugger. I’m Victoria Madison, everyone except my mother calls me Tory. Where you from?”

  Thank you, God! Another southerner! And a darn pretty one at that. . . . “Heber Springs, Arkansas,” he answered. “And you?”

  “Just south of Nashville, Tennessee—a town called Franklin. I’m working with Vanderbilt University on this project for the Park Service.”

  They went through the usual exchange of information that comes so naturally to southerners, and he learned she’d recently obtained her doctorate at Vanderbilt in ecology and environmental sciences. This was her first year to be accepted into the Interagency Grizzly Bear Research Project, which was apparently a coveted position for anyone in her field. She clearly had an abundance of enthusiasm for the assignment. He was thinking she had to be a smart girl if she went to Vanderbilt. Too bad their football team was usually terrible, but then their former players probably all ran big law firm
s or Fortune 500 companies. A trade-off, he supposed.

  Everyone ate together in a large heated tent, and most lingered over coffee after lunch. As they were finishing their coffee, a thin, scholarly-looking guy walked over and stood across the camp table from Win and the girl.

  “Tory, I need you to come help me catalog some of the morning’s samples.” The man’s tone had just the right amount of edge to suggest he did not like her keeping company with Win, however briefly.

  “Ah, sure, Dave, let me introduce you to someone. Dr. David Crowder, this is Special Agent Win Tyler. He’s here to talk to—”

  Dr. Crowder didn’t glance at Win. “Yes, yes, I heard we were having law enforcement people here today. Much ado over nothing, if you ask me.”

  Win started to respond with the usual “No one asked you” and put the guy in his place, but he let it pass. This arrogant guy might be Tory’s boss or boyfriend. One way to find out.

  Win ignored Dave and leaned in closer to Tory. “I know you’ve got to get back to work, but give me a call when you get to Mammoth next week. I’d like to hear more about what y’all are doing.” He spoke loud enough for Dave, the jerk, to overhear him. Dave screwed up his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He turned and walked out of the tent. Definitely not a boyfriend—not yet, anyway, judging from his reaction to the challenge. Boss? Maybe.

  “Sure,” she was saying, “I would like that. Call you at your office?”

  “Yeah, or call my cell. Here’s my card. Either way would be good. Nice talking to you.” He smiled when he handed her the card and felt encouraged by the interest in her brown eyes as she took it. Things might just be looking up.

  * * *

  “Was gonna try to show you the Norris Geyser Basin today. It’s one of the park’s main hot spots. Some great thermal features and geysers there, but we’ve got a little slide blocking the highway. We’ll drive up and check in with the plow operators before we head back toward Mammoth,” Gus was saying as Win fastened his seatbelt.

  They’d stowed their gear in the back seat after the hike from the bear researchers’ camp. Gus started the SUV and waited for the heater to warm up. “Noticed you visiting with a girl back there. . . . Heard her name was Tory. Very pretty gal,” Gus remarked.

  “Uh, yeah. She seems nice. I’d like—”

  Gus interrupted. He seemed to be talking out loud to himself. “She might be a little young for me, but I don’t know, maybe not. Catherine said she’s a hard worker, very sharp. And man, is she a looker!”

  Win stared out the passenger-side window. He couldn’t decide if Gus was teasing him or actually interested in Tory. He drew in a breath. What single man wouldn’t be interested in that girl? His chest tightened and he knew his eyes had narrowed as he turned back to Gus and forced a smile. “I was thinking I might ask her out.”

  The man shot a smug grin back as he pulled the Tahoe out of the trailhead’s snow-covered parking area. “Think you can compete with me for the women? I’m a park ranger, Sport! Cool job, great uniform . . . women love all that! You’re just a G-man, dime a dozen! No uniform. You work behind the scenes. Hell, you can’t even brag to the girls about what you’re doing. Compete with me? Not a chance!”

  He does have a point. . . . The concern must have shown on Win’s face.

  Gus was laughing at him now. “Relax, Win! Just messing with you—trying to get you to lighten up! You are wound real damn tight. I can see you’re interested in her. No problem!” He was still grinning. “Hey, our jobs can be really taxing. You deserve to have some fun—go for it! And if this gal doesn’t work out, I know for a fact there are half a dozen women back in Mammoth who’ve been trying to figure out a way to meet you.”

  Win knew his ears were getting red, and he felt his face flush. Gus swung into storytelling—not really off-color stories, but close. He’d gotten himself into some hilarious situations. Win found himself laughing with the man in spite of himself. The ranger kept it up for the next thirty minutes of slow driving through some of the most beautiful country Win had ever seen.

  * * *

  “Days like today are what I was talking about at the bar in Gardiner—can you imagine a better job?” Gus cut his eyes toward Win as he drove. He looked back to the snow-packed road and nodded. “Yeah, I know you made me that night. I must be slipping, damn it. Was trying to get a feel for where the FBI was going with the militia case. . . . I wasn’t up-front with you, and it’s bothered me ever since.”

  Win raised his eyebrows knowingly and looked over at the man. “And this field trip today was your way of making up for that, or . . .”

  “Or more interagency spying?” Gus laughed. “Nope, no spying! Today was more to ease my conscience and get to know you better. We should be on the same team. My experience with the FBI has been good in other parks: professionalism and respect. If it gets any more out of hand with this church militia, we’re going to need all that and more. But our agency brass thinks those boys have had their fun and are just gonna fade away. No sign of them in the park in days. A few scary dudes staying at Bordeaux’s place, but we’ve got nothing big on them yet. Everyone’s thinking it’s over and we can all fall back into our routines.” Gus slowed the Tahoe on the icy road and eased to a stop behind a huge yellow snowplow.

  Win took all that in and stared through the windshield. Gus had called it a “little slide,” but the wall of snow blocking the highway looked every bit like a huge avalanche. The two snowplows were idling in front of them as a large bulldozer maneuvered around to the front.

  Win said what was on his mind as the ranger started to open the SUV’s door to step out. “So you don’t see a threat. . . . Is that your honest opinion or the company line?”

  Gus cocked his head and grinned as he pulled on his gloves and grabbed his cap from the console. “What do you think, Sport? They pay me to worry.”

  * * *

  “Target in motion at 300.2 yards, wind northwest at 5, elevation 472 . . . now wind northwest at 7 . . . 301.1 yards. . . .” The man whispered the coordinates to his shooter. His gloved hands were steady on the optical range finder, the best civilian piece money could buy—over $2,900 at Bass Pro Shops.

  The shooter raised his head above the black Leupold Mark 5HD scope. “Damn, he needs to move from behind the plow. . . . Hold!” he whispered back in a frustrated tone. The shooter tugged at the white hood covering his military field cap. It was actually part of a white no-iron sheet set his niece had bought at Walmart; she’d done a real nice job making the white jacket and pants. Pretty good waterproofing on it too. But he was ready for the high-country snow to melt so he could shed it. Wearing a damn sheet—helpful as it was for camouflage—it just didn’t seem right.

  “Reset! Reacquire target.” The hushed voice behind them had a lethal urgency. He wouldn’t tolerate any screwing around.

  “Reacquired at 298.7 yards, wind northwest at 3, elevation 472.2,” the spotter whispered in response. They were lying on top of a limestone bluff, 470 some-odd feet above the snow-covered park highway. Their heavy packs for overnight winter camping were seventy feet behind them—this was the sixth ambush set in a day and a half, and it was by far the most promising group of targets. The spotter liked to think of them as targets. It was easier that way. They weren’t living, breathing human beings who were out here earning a living, same as him. On any other day he might help them buy new tires at his regular job at the automotive shop in Gardiner. Today, however, they were targets.

  The shooter whispered a question to the instructor, who knelt close behind him. The spotter thought it was silly for them to be whispering. The noise from the idling snowplows and bulldozer below them would have drowned out a bullhorn. But he had to remember there was a protocol, a set method, and stealth would be a huge factor in their future success. He took a deep breath and wished he’d brought along another Snickers bar. It wasn’t horribly cold
on the ridge, but he’d been lying on the snow-covered ground for nearly an hour, and he knew chocolate would go a long way toward easing his discomfort.

  The shooter was making another adjustment to the scope. His rifle was a Remington M40 with a fiberglass stock, the same type he’d trained with years ago in the Marine Corps—an excellent long-range weapon. He knew there were newer, whiz-bang sniper rifles the military had now. Hell, the new scopes could measure and calibrate themselves. But those fancy guns didn’t shoot themselves. You still had to have the marksman. And he was a marksman. He had the service medals to prove it. He shifted slightly on the waterproof tarp. Yeah, well, he might be older and a little slower, but he was still good, real good. Soon he’d get the chance to prove it. This shot was only three hundred yards, almost no wind. Piece of cake.

  The stretch of highway below was notorious for snow and rockslides, and the park’s plowing crews had brought in a big Caterpillar bulldozer to pull the two snowplows through the roughly eight feet of slide and new snow blocking the highway. They’d go through this routine day after day from late March until late April or early May—sometimes much later. The northwestern part of Yellowstone usually received over six feet of snow, half of which often arrived during the time of year other parts of the country called “spring.” Clearing all 310 miles of paved roads for tourist traffic wouldn’t be completed until later in May, another nine or ten days at least. That was typical for this time of year in Yellowstone National Park. What was not typical was the sniper team lurking less than five hundred feet above the plows.