Page 17 of Three-Inch Teeth

BRODY CRESS WAS an experienced LEO with twenty-two years of service and badge number one of fifty, the most senior warden still in the field. He was tall and lean with a weathered face and a distinctive handlebar mustache that made him look like an Old West gunfighter. Cress was the nominal commander of the team, and Joe sensed immediately that the man was liked and respected by the others. Cress had surprised him right away by greeting him with: “It’s an honor and a privilege to work alongside you, Joe.”

Tom Hoaglin wore badge number thirteen, meaning he was one badge senior to Joe. Like many wardens, Hoaglin had bounced around the state from district to district until landing in Dubois in northwest Wyoming. He was short, stout, and dark, with piercing eyes that belied an easy manner. Hoaglin was a deadeye marksman, a former sniper in Special Forces, and was responsible for the most grizzly bear and wolf kills on the team. He’d asked Joe when he might meet “this Nate Romanowski character,” because he said he’d heard so much about him.

“One never knows,” Joe replied. “He can be hard to track down.”

“Does he still carry that Freedom Arms .454 Casull revolver?”

“Yup.”

“That’s a hand cannon. I heard about that shootout last spring.”

“Yup.”

“Fucking amazing,” Hoaglin said.

“He’s settling down,” Joe said. “He’s legit now. You should have seen him before he got married and had a little girl.”

*

BILL BRODBECK WAS the youngest warden on the team, as well as the most fit and athletic. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his high cheekbones and chin looked like they were carved out of white marble. He was a former bull rider at Montana State who had won a couple of rodeos. He proudly wore his Cody Stampede buckle with his uniform. He admitted to being tongue-tied when he first shook hands with Joe. “You’re the reason I became a game warden in the first place,” Brodbeck confessed. “I’ve been following your work for years.”

“Now I feel old and embarrassed,” Joe responded.

“Not as old as me,” Cress cut in.

“No one is,” Brodbeck said with a sly smile.

*

JENNIE GORDON HAD been raised on a ranch near Kaycee and gone on to achieve her PhD in fish, wildlife, and conservation biology at Colorado State University before becoming the preeminent expert and spokesman for the large-carnivore division. She had a mane of unruly red hair bound into a ponytail and she exuded intelligence and calmness, as well as empathy for the predators she studied, hunted, and sometimes had to kill. It was well known within the agency that Gordon had to sign off on any actions that dealt with problem carnivores, from trapping and relocating them to euthanizing the dangerous ones. Like Joe, she had three children, but they were all boys. They were in elementary and middle school in Lander.

Unlike any of the other team members, Gordon had experienced a grizzly bear attack firsthand ten years before when a sow ripped through her tent in the Slough Creek drainage in Yellowstone Park and bit her leg, hip, and buttocks before going away as suddenly as it had appeared. To this day, Joe had heard, Gordon refused to talk about the incident in public, and if it weren’t for her slight limp, no one would have guessed that it had happened.

“Promise me you’ll introduce me to your oldest daughter,” Gordon said to Joe. “I’ve always wanted to meet a master falconer. Raptors fascinate me, and the partnership between the falcon and the falconer can’t be replicated with any other predator.”

“I’m sure she’d like to meet you as well,” Joe said.

“Great,” Gordon said, looking at the mountains over Joe’s shoulder. “Now take us to where the attack took place.”

Joe was impressed by the calm professionalism of the team thus far, and he was struck by the contrast between them and the clown show in his own county law enforcement community since the sheriff had retired and skipped town.

*

JENNIE GORDON RODE with Joe in his pickup on the way to the ranch. Daisy made fast friends with her and rested her snout in her lap. Joe tried to call his dog off, but Gordon said she wouldn’t hear of it. So while stroking Daisy, she peppered Joe with questions.

“I read the preliminary incident report,” she said. “Are you sure it was only one bear?”

“I’m sure of nothing,” Joe said. “Only what I saw when I got there.”

“You said you saw tracks. Were they from one bear only?”

“I saw one good track in the mud. You probably saw the photo I sent along.”

“I did, but it’s hard to get much perspective. I hope the track is still there.”

“Me too,” Joe said. “I hope none of the locals stepped on it last night.”

“Is it possible this fisherman provoked the bear in any way that you could tell?”

---