Apparition Lake

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  He'd been working the park for nearly five years, Memorial Day to Labor Day. The money wasn't bad and it would get better if he could ever get a full-time slot. In the meantime, he spent his winters working with Beans or helping out at the Gardiner Feed Store. Houser would, on occasion, bend the rules a little bit. There was good money in wild meat and hefty antlers. There were too many elk in the park anyway; even some environmentalists agreed on that. They wouldn't miss a few. Besides, if you asked Houser, the park owed him.

  Beans had a thorn in his saddle and needed a hand removing it. The cowboy went to see the part-time ranger following his encounter on Hellroaring Creek. After all, Houser was his friend and he was connected. He agreed it would be more effective to shoot the things but he also realized that hiding a grizzly kill, let alone four, would not be an easy task. He preferred doing things the easy way.

  “Let's give the problem to the park,” Houser said. “Cows aren't worth much to the government but bears are. It shouldn't be hard to convince them the sow and cubs are a threat to human life and in danger themselves.”

  “How you going to do that?” Beans asked.

  “Easy,” Houser said with a grin. “I just tell them some irate rancher will end up shooting their precious bears unless they're relocated. If they have a choice between four bears in the wild and four bears in boxes, they'll move the bears.”

  *

  That's what Bart Houser got for opening his big mouth.

  Sure, Superintendent Stanton had said, we can trap the bears and move them out of the allotment. Unfortunately, his regular teams were all busy. Houser had been on bear relocation projects in the past and had done well. There was no reason, Stanton said, he couldn't take the plunge and run the operation himself.

  So Houser had to move the bears and, man o' man, Beans was going to owe him.

  Apparently, the chief ranger didn't think he'd been dumped on enough. On top of everything else, he'd ordered Houser to take two environmentalists along; a young fellow named Todd Muncey and a mean-looking broad named Priscilla Wentworth. “They need to observe our operations,” Chief Merrill said. “Their extra hands might be useful.” Yeah, Houser thought, useful as screen doors on a submarine. So there he was, misunderstood, under-appreciated, improperly rewarded Ranger Houser, saddled with two greens and in charge of relocating a grizzly sow and her three cubs. Life was not fair.

  An aerial survey had been conducted the evening before to check the four culvert traps set and baited in the meadow on Hellroaring Creek. The helicopter pilot confirmed that at least one of the traps had been sprung. Eight o'clock in the morning brought that same helicopter, Houser and his team to a flat piece of real estate one-half mile south of the trap zone. The team consisted of five members, necessitating two trips between Mammoth and the target area. The team would hike into the area, verify bear capture and, in the event they'd been successful, call for an airlift. When the operation was completed the team would hike back to the drop zone to be lifted out. It was going to be a long day for Bart Houser.

  The last of the team unloaded their gear. The chopper lifted off and disappeared beyond the Absarokas. Houser reviewed the operational plan with the group one last time to make sure they understood their responsibilities. He was in charge and everyone needed to understand that too. Art Sebastian, biologist and all-around nice guy, was responsible for darting any bear in the area that had not been trapped. He carried a specially designed rifle for that purpose. He would also evaluate the health of the animals and provide any special treatment needed before their relocation. Mark Montayne, another seasonal ranger, with three years of experience, stood as the team gun-bearer. He would keep them in one piece should Sebastian fail in immobilizing any immediate threat. Montayne carried the customary 12-gauge with slugs. As far as Houser was concerned, Muncey, one of the observers, might just as well make himself useful. The ranger heard, of course, about the chief's trouble with his green observer and Bear #264. That was Merrill's problem. Houser had four bears to deal with, so Muncey was given a 12-gauge to carry as well, end of story.

  Muncey had no interest in shooting a bear but he was not a stranger to weapons. He'd used a 12-gauge before, pheasant hunting with his dad back in Illinois. Besides, he'd grown up in Chicago and had seen his share of chopped-barrels on the south side. He knew how to use a gun and would if given no other choice. Wentworth was told to assist Sebastian if the need arose. As far as Houser was concerned, she'd contribute plenty by just looking good in her designer jeans. If only she wasn't such an uppity snot.

  With assignments confirmed, Houser started the hike toward the beaver pond turned half-flooded meadow on Hellroaring Creek. They cleared the final rise and closed to within forty yards from the traps when the ranger discovered he had his hands full. Two of the traps were sprung. One contained the sow, the other one of her cubs. The remaining pair, one hundred-pounds of thick fur and energy each, stood beside the sow's trap. Their mother was unhappy, to put it lightly, and letting the world hear her displeasure. One of the cubs spotted the group as they approached and made a dash for the willows to the right of the traps.

  Sebastian had been there before. He raised the rifle and, with uncanny accuracy, fired a dart into the fleeing cub. Now he had a real problem on his hands. Not knowing what they'd find upon arrival, Sebastian had loaded the dart with dose enough for a full-grown grizzly. Coursing through the small cub's body, that heavy a dose would be lethal if not counteracted quickly. Even as the thought occurred, the cub collapsed at the edge of the willows. The second cub was on the move in the opposite direction.

  Sebastian dropped to one knee and retrieved a second dart, color-coded as a smaller dose, from a carrier on his vest. He loaded and raised the rifle. The cub was moving fast, putting distance between it and the intruders. Sebastian aimed and fired. The dart caught the cub high on its left flank.

  “Bart,” Sebastian screamed. “I don't know if that will take.”

  The cub disappeared into the willows left of the traps. The sound of the two reports from the dart gun had the sow incensed. Roaring, she threw her body against the inside walls of the trap, making it clear they'd pay if she got out.

  “I've got to get an antidote into that first cub,” Sebastian yelled. “I don't have much time.” He sprinted towards the downed animal with Montayne right behind. Halfway there, Sebastian hollered back, “Follow that second cub. We don't want to lose it.”

  Wentworth dashed after the second cub feeling an adrenaline rush she'd never experienced before. Houser, meanwhile, felt like he had lost control. His team had suddenly scattered like chaff in the wind. He heard the outraged bellows of the sow as she slammed into the sides of the box. He saw the lady green making tracks. He turned to Muncey and pointed in Wentworth's direction. “Stop her!”

  Muncey's athleticism showed as he sprinted after her. He caught her from behind, grabbed her by the back of her jacket, and locked up the brakes. Wentworth's legs kept going but her upper body came to an abrupt halt. She dropped, screaming, to her butt on the soggy ground.

  “I need you here,” Houser shouted, catching up to the greens on the run. “If that old sow breaks loose, I need you two here.”

  “What about the cub?” Wentworth protested.

  “Let it go.” Houser's voice was nearly drowned out by the roar of the angry sow. He shouted louder, “We'll go after it later.”

  Refusing the assistance of either Houser or Muncey, Wentworth lifted herself to her feet. With her lips a pressed line and her nose in the air, she started back toward the other members of the team. Muncey and the ranger followed.

  Sebastian knelt over the first cub. The antidote had already been injected but whether or not they'd been in time was a question the biologist couldn't answer. They struggled awkwardly with the bear's limp body as they carried it back to the trap area. Should the drug wear off and the bear revive, cub or not, one hundred pounds of fighting bruin was nothing to mess with. They placed the animal inside an open
box and secured the door.

  The sow was going crazy, rocking the trap and roaring in anger. Fearing for her health, Sebastian reloaded his gun, lifted a small hatchway in her trap and sedated the animal. A moment later, the sow dropped over in silence. The third cub paced its enclosure, wailing miserably for its family.

  “What do we do now?” Houser asked Sebastian.

  The biologist was embarrassed both for and by Bart Houser. He shook his head in disgust and turned to the rest of the group. “Let's find that last cub.”

  The team members were soaked from working in the swampy meadow. Their nerves had been stretched like guitar strings. Sebastian split them into two groups, with a gun-bearer in each, and led them into the thick willows where the small bear had vanished. Within fifteen minutes, Wentworth's high-pitched shout echoed across Hellroaring Creek and up through the tiny valley. “Over here,” she cried. “Oh, God, over here!”

  The team members raced in her direction. As each arrived at her side they became still, silently staring over the body of the last cub. The small animal had finally succumbed to the effects of the dart, which still protruded from its left flank. The bear had dropped on the run and lay with its muzzle submerged in an eight-inch pool of marshy water. The young grizzly had drowned in its sleep.

  Houser lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew out a gray cloud of smoke and frustration. Just then, he'd admit to himself that he didn't know much. But he did know one thing for sure. His Stars and Stripes saluting, rule book toting chief ranger, Glenn Merrill, was not going to like this. Not one bit.

  “Aren't we going to do something?” Wentworth demanded through a stream of tears.

  “Do what?” Houser asked. “It's dead.”

  Muncey knelt beside the creature and lifted its head from the pool. He laid it to the side on the marshy grass then stood and placed his hand on Wentworth's shoulder.

  One cub was captured, another dead, and a third near death. Their mother was deep in slumber; no doubt dreaming of tearing a whole lot of people to shreds. The unnatural silence along the saturated meadow near Hellroaring Creek was interrupted only by the quiet sobs of the lady green. And quite frankly, just then, she was getting on Houser's last nerve. He shook his head and barked, “It's a bear lady. Bears die.” He toked the cigarette again. “Besides, coyotes gotta eat too.”

  Priscilla Wentworth reared back and slapped Houser across the face.

  Chapter 9

  To the uninitiated, the trip north from the Wind River Reservation to Tie Hack Ranch near the southern entrance of Yellowstone National Park was uneventful. To Johnny Two Ravens, it was everything but. How people were able to traverse that incredible land, seeing nothing but the changing white and yellow lines in the middle of the paved highway, was beyond the outfitter's understanding. Every summer tourists infested the area like mites on a dog; hustling from one commercial spot to another, snapping the same pictures without even glancing at the creation of the Great Spirit booming about them. The tall, elegant lodgepole pines gave Two Ravens comfort as he maneuvered his pickup truck and horse trailer through the winding mountain roads. Minute by minute he fought the urge to pull off the road, step out, and smoke a pipe beneath their towering splendor.

  A second pickup driven by Ten Trees, the Indian cook he'd hired to feed his clients this trip, came and went in Two Ravens' rear view mirror with each twist of the road. Johnny wondered what the kid was thinking. Did Ten Trees appreciate where they were and what the land meant? Or was his radio blaring music to numb the senses and shrink the grandeur of their surroundings? The young were often blind to the futility of so many of the new ways. They'd forgotten or, sadly, never been taught the importance of the old. White men and their new ways; just like his present clients…

  The painful memory of Two Ravens' first meeting with his new clients flooded back to him. Four days earlier, at precisely five in the evening, he was pushing the front door of his shop closed when a smarmy little man leapt the three steps to his porch and jammed his foot in the door. “Hold on there, chief,” he'd shouted through gleaming capped teeth. “You can't close yet.”

  There could be no doubt, he was from The Big City with an expensive, brightly colored shirt, baggy khaki shorts, and sandals. His skin was bone white, as if he'd never seen the sun, and he wore a trimmed goatee like a French painter. In a failed attempt at fitting in he also wore a tall white cowboy hat no more than two or three days off the rack.

  Two Ravens pulled the door back, irritated by both the lateness of the hour and the goatee's greeting. That's how the Shoshone outfitter thought of the guy already, just the goatee, who, like most of his kind was unable to say hello without being rude. “How can I help you?”

  “We want to organize a fishing trip, chief. A couple of old braves downtown said you were the guy to take care of it for us.”

  Two Ravens winced. The guy was either a total jerk or ridiculously stupid; but which? As was his philosophy in times like these, he would wait and see. In the meantime, he offered the man silence and his shopkeeper's smile.

  “Well?” the goatee asked. “What do you say, chief?” He posed the question slowly, and as if he was talking to an imbecile, then raised his hand, palm up, and looked Two Ravens in the eye. “You want to make some heap big money or not?”

  “I'm not a chief,” Two Ravens quietly and calmly answered. “And I speak English perfectly well. If you would like to arrange a backcountry fishing trip, we can do that. If you want to play cowboys and Indians, go somewhere else.”

  The city fellow's eyes opened wide and his bearded jaw went slack. “No offense, chi… eh, buddy. I was just trying to be friendly.”

  Two Ravens nodded, stepped inside, and made his way behind the counter. The man waved to a friend out by their SUV who quickly joined him. The two entered the shop, surveyed the surroundings, exchanged worried glances, and stepped to the counter taking care not to touch anything. It wasn't out of respect; they just didn't want to get dirty.

  Two Ravens saw it and, though greatly amused, hid his smile. “What were you looking for?”

  “You tell us,” the new man said. He was white too, without a beard. That's where the description ended. To Two Ravens they all looked alike. “We want to get close to nature and catch some fish.”

  I'll bet you do. That was Two Ravens' thought. What he said was, “Just the two of you?”

  “No,” the goatee said. “There'll be three more. We're with Pennsylvania Shale.” He paused, waiting. When the Indian failed to react to the revelation, the goatee arched a brow, cleared his throat, and repeated himself, condescending to throw a pearl before a pig. “Pennsylvania Shale. I'm the son of the owner.”

  The other stepped in. “We've just moved up to become the United States' third largest producer of shale petroleum products. That means a big-time bonus for each of us. So we thought we'd celebrate by reeling in some big-time fish.”

  Two Ravens ogled the two; important and powerful men, by their own admission, come to tame the wild. “When do the other three arrive?”

  “They're flying in to Jackson tomorrow.”

  “Do you want to go right away?”

  “Whatever works,” number two said. Then to show he was a pal, he added, “Kimosabe.”

  That did it. “Look,” Two Ravens said, slowly setting down his pen. “Giimoozaabi is an Ojibwe word that probably means “scout.” I'm guessing, because in spite of your ludicrous white, guilt-ridden belief that those people, meaning me and my people, are all one big happy family of Native Americans, whatever the hell that's supposed to be, I am Shoshone and I don't speak fluent Ojibwe. To assuage your guilt at what you've done to the land and our people, while you continue to do it, incidentally, you have translated that word to mean “faithful friend” without once considering what those words mean in your own language.”

  “Hey, man,” the goatee said, coming to his friend's rescue. “I'm sure he didn't… “

  “I'm not done,” Two Ravens said, cutt
ing him off. “I am a guide and a good one. I am also, as you've clearly noted, an Indian. But get this, my being a proud American Indian has no bearing on our conversation or our business. You fellows want a fishing trip to the backcountry. I want your business. I'll guide your trip and you'll have the time of your lives. But I don't need your business.”

  The goatee, not used to being put in his place, rose up to his full five-foot-six-inches. “Maybe you don't understand who I am, buck. I'm Paul Hastings. Of the Philadelphia Hastings.”

  “At this moment,” Two Ravens said. “All you are is two white boys surrounded by a town full of Indians.” Then, fully aware of the sobering power of reflection, the outfitter just stared, letting silence do the rest. From the looks on their faces, it clearly did. With their discomfort making them pliable students, he offered one final lesson. “My name is Two Ravens, Johnny Two Ravens. I am the son of a Shoshone sub-chief and, like you, I pull my pants on one leg at a time. If either of you ever call me buck again, or take another swipe at my heritage, through ignorance or not, I'll show you exactly why this town is called Crowheart.”

  His potential clients got the message, stowed the nonsense, and became clients. The pair had secured lodging at Tie Hack Ranch. The remaining members of their party would fly in from Salt Lake City and arrive the next day at the Jackson airport.

  “That should work out perfectly,” Two Ravens told them. He would arrange for a cook and they would all meet at Tie Hack in four days. Two Ravens would supply the packhorses for the backcountry trip, the necessary gear, food, and tents for their camp. He would then lead them northeast to Heart Lake; a gorgeous, secluded spot a good distance off the beaten trail. If they wanted the best tasting trout in Wyoming, his plan would put them onto them there.

  “We bought rods and stuff,” the goatee said.