Page 49 of Three-Inch Teeth

“Remember that cliff face by Staghorn Creek that Sheridan and I scouted last year looking for falcon nests?”

“Yup.”

“I’m up on top of it. The situation I told you about is down below me in the campground. I’m watching it through binoculars.”

“Got it,” Joe said. “I’m probably twenty minutes away.”

“Do you know the road to get up here?” Nate asked. “It’s a crappy old logging road the Forest Service tried to block off to the public. Well, I cleared it on the way up.”

“Please don’t tell me things like that,” Joe said.

Nate chuckled and punched off.

*

NATE HAD, IN fact, pushed aside downed trees that had been placed across the old road and had cut through other logs with a chain saw. His friend had also flattened two ROAD CLOSED: NO ACCESS signs placed along the old two-track by the Forest Service. Joe rolled his eyes as he passed them.

He said to Daisy, “And Nate wonders why the feds are always after him.”

*

JOE FOUND NATE’S location on the rim of the cliff. His dented-up Jeep was parked between two large boulders and there was a pile of items heaped on the ground that Nate used for scouting falcon nests: climbing rope, harnesses, and other climbing gear. Joe still felt a chill from the year before when he’d witnessed Sheridan rappelling down the sheer cliff face like a spider setting mesh bow net traps near nests to capture live falcons.

Nate was sitting on the edge of the cliff with his feet dangling over the side and his broad back to Joe. He’d shed his jacket to the side and Joe could see that Nate was wearing his shoulder holster with his massive five-shot .454 Casull revolver strapped across his midsection.

“I’m not going to sit there beside you,” Joe said to Nate as he approached warily.

Nate had no fear of heights and wasn’t bothered by the fact that below his climbing boots there was a straight two-hundred-foot drop to the rocks of the Staghorn Creek.

Instead of responding, Nate handed his Zeiss binoculars over his shoulder to Joe, who took them.

“Down there,” Nate said, pointing toward the gravel parking lot of the Forest Service campground about a half mile away. Campsites extended from it into the timber in every direction.

Joe took the glasses and carefully focused in. There were two vehicles in the parking area: a muddy newer-model F-350 ranch truck and a white Range Rover. The Range Rover was parked haphazardly by a brick outhouse, and both front doors were agape. The F-350 was about fifty yards away from the outhouse. Its driver’s-side door was hanging open.

Joe recognized both vehicles. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I’m glad you called me. The Range Rover belongs to the Mama Bears and the pickup looks like the ranch truck driven by Clay Hutmacher.”

As Joe said it, Hutmacher appeared from behind the outhouse, where he’d previously been out of view. The rancher circled the facility and seemed to be shouting at it. He was too far away for Joe to hear any of the words.

Hutmacher had a lever-action rifle in his right hand, the weapon upturned with the barrel resting on his shoulder.

“Who are the Mama Bears?” Nate asked.

“Grizzly bear activists from Jackson. I met them last week.”

Nate moaned and said, “Hell, if I’d have known that, I wouldn’t have called you and just let Clay finish them off.”

“Again, please don’t tell me things like that.”

“Are you going down there?”

“Yup.”

“Take it easy on Clay,” Nate said, leaning back on his hands and peering over his shoulder. “He’s kind of a blowhard at times, but he’s lost a son and he’s probably a little out of his head.”

“I’m well aware,” Joe said. “I just hope he hasn’t hurt or threatened anyone.” Then: “Thanks for calling me. Let’s pray this ends in a good way.”

Nate agreed and Joe returned the binoculars. “I’ll be watching,” Nate said. “And if you get into any trouble down there, things will get Western real fast.”

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