“Wolves don’t lure. Not into a barn.”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
Williston let Angus think about it. It didn’t take long.
“We should let my dogs have at ’em,” Angus said.
And that was Williston’s plan, because it made sense on so many levels. Angus’s hybrids looked and acted enough like wolves to be the real thing. And Williston had witnessed the wolf-dogs’ work, tracking down wounded deer and keeping them penned until Angus gave the signal. They were accomplished killers.
He waited long enough to let Angus believe the inspiration was born of Angus’s own tongue.
“What?” Winthrop asked.
“You want ’em dead? My dogs’d take care of ’em. Fifteen minutes.” Angus was always bragging about his animals, and with good reason.
“Who knows about your hybrids?”
“Whaddya‘ mean?”
“Who knows you have them? Raise them? Sell them? Anybody local?”
“Out-of-state breeders. Nobody local. Could cause problems. I don’t want anyone local bitching to the authorities, or returning one of the mutts.”
“Angus. I think you’re onto something.” And then he explained the myriad reasons it made sense. For starters, it would eliminate Angus’s need for twice-a-day tending. When they finally sold the three cattle they would have to truck them to market. Trucking three head was expensive. But in the event a wolf pack gained entrance to the barn and slaughtered his livestock, his beneficiaries were entitled to full market value. The slaughter would be paid for by the Minnesota Department of Agriculture. A DNR conservation officer would investigate, but Williston knew there would be none of the usual absence of evidence. The barn would keep the slaughter confined. The barn floor would be bloody with the remnants.
And having the government pay for the slaughter of Williston’s livestock had a beautiful logic the Club members would understand. The DNR, the Department of Agriculture, and U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service were three governmental entities Williston had spent his life battling. Now they would unknowingly assist the Club in some recreation. The slaughter would support his assertion about the menace of the growing packs, and once the kill was verified, the state would pay for it. And for the Club, the slaughter of his calves would be a spectacle reminiscent of the Christians and the lions, a wagering opportunity that could not be denied.
“By God, Williston, I believe you’re onto something.”
“I’m onto something?! It was you who thought of it, my friend. Goddamn it,” he said, excited by the prospect. “What do you think is the next best step?”
Angus considered. “I know damn well what we gotta do,” Angus said. He stood up and moved over to pull his coat off the nearby peg.
“What?” Williston said.
“I’m headin‘ back right now. First I’ll make sure those fatlings are fed and watered. Then I’ll get back to my place. And nail every one of those dogs into their houses. Give them nothin‘ but water for a couple days. Get them good and hungry.”
“That’s it!” Williston said.
“Goddamn right,” Angus agreed. He finished suiting up.
“Radio forecasts a big storm, Wednesday night,” Williston said.
“Poker night,” Angus said.
“Maybe that’s the night. We could crate them up from your place and take them over to the farm. Then let them loose... after poker. Wolves’d come in the middle of the night. And if it’s coming down as hard as they predict, nobody’ll be out in it.”
“Two days with nothin‘ but water,” Angus said. “They’ll be ready.”
“Damn right. Tell the others. I’ll keep an eye on the weather. Pick me up night after next, after dusk, and we’ll have ourselves a little party.”
Angus grinned, opened the door and stepped down into the shadowy woods. The pot-bellied stove and the whiskey had warmed him. The more he thought about it the more he liked the idea of his dogs taking care of those calves. Night after next, they were going to have a party.
Chapter Four
January 27th—Judy Rutgers’s sheep ranch outside Denver
Just after 4:00 p.m. Sam pulled onto Judy’s gravel drive. The sky was clear, with the sun starting to drop into the distant ridge of mountains. Sam recognized Judy’s large silhouette in her living room window. He wondered how long she’d been waiting for him.
Sam and Judy were members of a citizen wolf management committee. The USFW created it to provide a platform for ranchers to air their opinions and be heard. Judy wasn’t shy about sharing her perspectives. But she was disappointed that few of her arguments were sufficient to move anyone at the USFW, or change Service regulations.
Her front door swung open and the substantial Ms. Rutgers stepped out, cradling the Marlin 336. She wore a faded work shirt over an anemic red T-shirt. The work shirt hung blouse-like over her large, barrel-shaped middle. There was nothing fragile about Judy Rutgers. Her arms were stout as stove wood and her oversized legs disappeared into a pair of well-worn cowboy boots. Carrying the rifle, she looked menacing. But Sam knew it was more bluster than blow.
Sam turned to the back trunk space of his jeep and extracted his camera bag.
“Bout time, Rivers,” she said, her voice like a distant chainsaw. “I called your office this morning.”
“Judy,” Sam nodded. “Came out as soon as I could. I was under the impression you had plenty of evidence. And we both know a wolf, if that’s what it is, wouldn’t return in daylight.”
“If it was a wolf!” Her round face started to turn crimson. “Goddamnit Rivers, you know me. You know I wouldn’t call if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain it was a wolf.”
Sam had his doubts, which would heat her blood to a fractious boil. “You’ve read the latest wolf population report. U.S. Fish and Wildlife made a careful census of Colorado.”
“Don’t tell me about that goddamn Report,” she interrupted.
Sam paused, turning to look at the distant Front Range, hazy in the late afternoon. From here the mountains looked far off, inviting. Judy needed time to cool.
The Report was Fish and Wildlife’s annual Rocky Mountain Wolf Recovery Report. Since Sam had relegated himself to remaining local, he’d spearheaded the effort to research and write the new report. It detailed Colorado’s wolf population, which was practically non-existent. There were a few places on the western fringe of the state where wolves were starting to repopulate, but those were far from Judy Rutgers’s ranch.
Like many livestock owners Judy, had an expert’s eye for tracking and sorting through the remnants of a kill to determine what had done it. It was possible a wolf had come into her flock, one of those on a walkabout from a western pack, though its appearance this far east would be unusual. A lone wolf’s range could carry it hundreds of miles in just a few days. If had read the report, she would have noticed that just last year a wolf was struck by a car thirty miles west of Denver. It had been collared, and the most recent tracking data indicated it had covered 446 miles in less than two weeks. Wolves were marathoners of the highest order.
“The Report’s pretty specific,” Sam finally said. Even though her tongue was as coarse as a truck driver’s, he liked Judy Rutgers but didn’t care for how she felt about his reportorial efforts.
“Goddammit,” she said, this time a little softer. “Don’t mess with me Rivers. I’ve got enough to deal with just runnin‘ this place.”
True enough. A sentiment plenty in wildlife management were reluctant to admit.
Judy stepped around the corner of her house. “Let’s go have a look, Rivers.”
On their way past the barn she noticed the absence of his good- natured companion. On the few occasions he’d visited, Sam’s dog Charlie, an Australian Shepherd mix, had loved Judy’s ranch. Tending a flock was in his blood. “Where’s the dog?” she asked.
Sam
returned her question with a steady gaze, searching for the right words. “Gone,” was all he managed.
Judy understood. “Damn shame,” she said, turning into the bare field. “He was one hell of a dog.”
“He was,” Sam agreed.
They hiked out to the gulch. Sheep grazed in the waning sun, sticking close to the house, paddock and barn. At the ditch edge Judy pointed, then started down toward a small hollow rimmed with scrub oak.
They rounded a bend of head-high brush. They were still twenty yards above the hollow. The side of the hill was open and there were clear signs of struggle.
“Here’s where he took her,” Judy pointed to the dry ground.
There were few things that could focus Sam Rivers’s attention like a prey site. The grass was broken and the earth torn up in two or three places. There was a dark splash of something that looked like axle grease. Sam stepped carefully to the stained ground and peered at it, suspecting it was blood. He dabbed two fingers onto the spot; it was dry, but sticky. He smelled it. Wet iron. Five feet downhill there was a scrub oak thicket, the perfect hiding place. Sam imagined the predator waiting in the brush until the ewe grazed close, then springing. A big wolf could finish the job in less than ten seconds. But so could a cougar. He looked for other signs, but found only dirt from the scuffle and blood. “Tell me there’s more than this.”
“Oh hell yes.” Judy turned and started down the hill toward the bottom of the gulch. They bushwhacked through heavy scrub oak. When they pushed through the brush edge their racket startled three ravens that rose squawking in the dusk light.
“Ravens,” Sam said, watching them rise into the afternoon light. He paused to watch their loping wing beats carry them over the ridgeline.
“Goddamn scavengers,” Judy said.
The ravens were a good sign. Ravens were sometimes known to follow wolves. And it meant there was still evidence.
In the narrow opening they found what was left of the ewe. Her gaping throat had the look of a wolf kill, Sam thought. Something had fastened on and tore. Coyotes dart and nip, usually at the flanks or hindquarters. They seldom made frontal attacks, particularly on a full-grown ewe in a flock. Cougars dropped or leapt onto their prey, raking its back while trying to break its neck. This ewe had her underthroat torn away in one deep gash. Wolf. He was pretty sure. The hindquarters and entrails were largely missing. Last night’s dinner, Sam guessed. Or a very early breakfast.
Judy made a wide sweep around the ewe, carefully picking over the ground. “I think you’ll find some good prints over here,” she said, pointing to the bush edge.
Sam looked down, pulling his camera out of the bag. He pulled off the lens cap and bent over the prints. There were two pairs, the front and hind paws. The pairs overlapped, as though each foot attempted to step inside the footprint made in front of it. Coyote prints were similar in position, but much smaller; two and a half inches in length, or less. Wolf prints were four and a half inches in length, or more. Certain large breeds of feral dog could approach the size of a wolf’s print, but they were usually set much further apart. Sam had seen hybridized animals, wolves crossed with dog breeds that made them practically indistinguishable from full-blooded wolves. But these prints appeared to be the real thing.
Affixed to the camera was a 200-millimeter macro lens. He paused over each print, focusing the lens. He was almost certain it was a wolf. But he noticed the prints were a little small, and the observation caused his pulse to increase. He reached into his bag and pulled out an eight-inch measure. He placed the rule next to the print, then bent over, focused, and snapped. These prints were just over three inches in length, including their claws. He took a couple more shots and placed the ruler perpendicular to the print, repeating the action with the camera.
“That’s interesting, Judy.”
“What?” She didn’t like his tone.
“Any hair?”
She turned around the carcass and pointed to where a tuft marked the sharp end of an oak branch. Sam closed the space between them, reaching into the satchel and extracting a plastic zip lock bag.
“Let’s step careful. I think we want this one to return. Any other prints?” he asked.
“Just these. But they should be enough,” she said, defensive. “We want him back so we can shoot the sucker,” she added.
“Take it easy, Judy. I’ll issue you a shoot-on-sight permit, no questions asked. And if it’s a Rocky Mountain gray wolf, you have the government’s blessing to take the animal down.”
“It’s a wolf, Rivers,” she affirmed.
Sam paused, absorbed in his work. “Yeah,” he finally said. “It’s a wolf.” But he was intent on the hair.
He bent down with the camera, focused the lens on the hair tuft, and took several shots in rapid succession. Then he placed the tuft into the bag, careful to keep it clean. “I have good news and bad news,” he said. “Which would you like first?”
“The good news better be full reimbursement. The bad news is the bastard got away.”
“That is the good news,” he said. “You’ll receive full compensation. The evidence is substantial. Prints too big for a coyote, and this hair,” he said, holding up the bag in the fading sunlight, examining it. “Take a look at the color,” he said, holding it so Judy could see it in the light.
Judy examined the follicles. “Hair,” she said, bluntly. “Wolf hair.”
“And the color?”
She took a closer look. “Black. Grey. It’s got some red in it.”
“And that’s a subtle feature. That, and the prints over there,” he said, pointing to the wolf prints.
“What about ’em?”
“A normal Rocky Mountain gray wolf, particularly a lone hunter on walkabout searching for a mate to start a pack, would have a paw length over four inches. Coyotes aren’t even close to three inches. This one’s right in-between. Could be a feral dog, but its prints are too close together. It has the gait of a wolf. Could be a coyote-wolf mix. There is a remote chance it could be a Mexican wolf, slightly smaller than the Rocky Mountain or Great Plains sub-species. A very rare Mexican Gray Wolf. And that’s surprising,” Sam said.
Judy was just happy it was a wolf. “So what’s the bad news?”
“It may be a Mexican Gray Wolf.”
“You said that.”
He looked at her carefully. “There are around 150 of them throughout the Southwest, at least that we know of,” he explained. “One this far north and east would be unusual, but not impossible.” He continued, watching her. Clearly she didn’t understand. “This subspecies isn’t threatened,” he said. “It’s endangered.”
There was a pause before recognition and outburst. “Oh for Christ’s sake!”
“Judy,” Sam started.
“I don’t give a shit. If that wolf takes another ewe and I’m anywhere near it, it’s a dead wolf. A dead Mexican wolf.”
“That could be a problem, Jude.”
“I don’t give a rip, Rivers. And you know I’ll do it.” She was blistering, her fists clenched.
The most recent wolf recovery plan had eased rancher’s concerns regarding the Rocky Mountain Gray Wolf and the Great Plains Gray Wolf. Populations of the subspecies had sprung back healthy enough in other parts of the country so they were downgraded from endangered to threatened. If ranchers found the common wolf skulking around their barns, or attacking their stock, they could apply to U.S. Fish & Wildlife for permission to trap or shoot them. The kill had to be reported, but it was legal, no questions asked.
But Mexican gray wolves were extremely rare. U.S. Fish and Wildlife was doing everything it could to cultivate the animal. Sam had never heard of one this far north and east. Never in Colorado. But given wolves’ loping gaits, long legs, ultrathon capabilities, and drive to find a proper mate, it could happen. Judging from the animal’s morphology it looked p
romising. But morphology, the art of discerning a species from its physical characteristics, was always dubious. He would have to send a hair sample to the U.S. Fish & Wildlife’s Forensics lab in Ashland, Oregon, just to be sure. DNA tests would give him a definitive answer. But it would take time. And meanwhile Judy would be waiting with her Marlin 336.
Sam knew Judy could cross the line. She didn’t give a damn about Mexican wolves, only that they were taking her stock. He liked Judy, but her perspective on wolves was shortsighted. “You shoot it, you pay,” he said, evenly. “Might even do some time.”
One good swing of Judy Rutgers’s arm, with that mitt for a fist, and his face would be down in the dirt.
“We’re gonna help you out,” he added. “I’ll come out tomorrow with tranquilizer traps and we’ll catch him alive, if he ever comes back. Now that he’s killed livestock he’ll have to be taken in, made part of our captive breeding program.”
“You mean he gets to live?” she asked, incredulous.
“If he’s a Mexican wolf, he’s too rare to kill, Judy. We’ve got to keep him alive. We can use him.”
“To make more of these ewe-killing devils?”
Sam had no illusions about the animal. Wolves were merciless killers. But they were remarkable, tender, even loving parents, fiercely loyal to their packs. They could also be ruthless and deadly, killing the members of other packs to defend territory or maintain order. They were complicated social animals, like humans, which was just one of the reasons Sam appreciated them.
“I’ve got a claim form back in the jeep,” Sam said. “No question about compensation,” he added. But Judy wasn’t mollified.
Before Sam left he completed the USDA’s Wolf Compensation Claim form. She’d get a check in the mail in just a few days. It would probably be a few days after that before she calmed down enough to thank him. This time Judy needed a little extra time to cool.
One of Sam’s favorite aspects of fieldwork, particularly when it involved a prey site, was how investigations engaged him. His absorption was instantaneous. His senses calmed and he focused, his blood coming alive. The act itself was one of forgetting, of putting the pain of his recent past behind him, of ignoring headache and heartache until the details of an investigation totally absorbed him.
Wolves Page 4
