Page 36 of Three-Inch Teeth

Fortunately, there had been no more bear attacks in the Twelve Sleep Valley, but the unresolved nature of the hunt had darkened the mood of the team, including Joe. Jennie Gordon had spoken for all of them when she said she hoped the bear had been mortally wounded and had died somewhere in the Bighorns and wouldn’t kill or maim any more human beings. But, she said, it was unsettling not to know for sure. Joe felt the same way.

The plan was for the Predator Attack Team to return and comb the area a second time to try and get a resolution one way or another. Joe had been asked by Jennie Gordon to reunite with them.

The aftermath of the two attacks had cast a pall over the area. Hunters in the breaklands and the mountains had asked Joe for details about the attacks, and several said they found themselves jumping at every sound in the woods. Men wore large-caliber sidearms and bear spray holsters at all times, and several long-established elk hunting guide operations had already broken up their camps and moved out when their out-of-state clients canceled at the last minute.

Three days before, a hunter from Michigan had killed an Angus steer in a ranch pasture, thinking it was a bear. He’d turned himself in and was negotiating with the rancher to cover the loss.

In another instance, a hiker from New Jersey bought a canister of bear spray from a local shop, but he didn’t know how to use it and applied it to his skin as if it were sunscreen before setting off on the trail. The capsicum-rich formula burned his skin and temporarily blinded him and he wound up in the Twelve Sleep County Hospital.

The psychologist at the Saddlestring Middle School was quoted in the Roundup saying that a number of students refused to go outside for gym class because they were terrified of being mauled. Joe had rolled his eyes at that one.

But he’d felt the pall himself. He was looking over his shoulder more than ever, and was hyper-attuned to the snaps of twigs in the brush, as well as Daisy’s early warning woofs. Even Marybeth, who fed her horses hay every morning and evening, no longer ventured from the house to the barn without a canister of bear spray clipped to her belt.

*

JUDGE HEWITT SHOWED up five minutes late in his usual concentrated fury, pushing through the front doors. He made his way straight to their table. Small, dark, and twitchy, Hewitt ordered “the usual” from a waitress en route without breaking stride. He’d left his robe in his chambers, although Joe assumed the man was armed, since he always was.

“Greetings, greetings,” he said as he pumped Joe’s and Marybeth’s hands.

“You look very nice today,” he said to Marybeth. “I like an attractive woman who wants to look her best.”

Marybeth smiled woodenly at that, and Joe stifled a smirk. Political correctness was not something Judge Hewitt subscribed to.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Sometimes attorneys don’t know when to shut up. Have you ordered?”

“Not yet,” Joe answered.

“Colleen,” Hewitt called to the waitress he’d brushed by.

“Coming,” she responded.

Marybeth ordered a Cobb salad and Joe a cheeseburger and fries.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” Hewitt said, placing his hands palms down on the table and fixing both of them with his intense stare. “Joe, did you find the grizzly bear?”

“Nope,” Joe said. He caught the judge up on what had, and hadn’t, happened in the past week.

“I take bear spray and my weapon with me every morning on my walk now,” the judge said, shaking his head. “If that bear shows up, I’m going to blast him with the spray and finish him off with my .44.”

Joe believed him. Judge Hewitt was a world-class big-game trophy hunter who started every morning with a vigorous three-mile walk around the golf course at the exclusive Eagle Mountain Club located on the outskirts of town. He’d once shot and killed a coyote fifty yards away who was sharing his path.

Inside the judge’s palatial home was a seven-foot full-mount brown bear that he’d killed in Alaska, among other big-game trophies.

“Okay,” Hewitt said. “Our time together is short, so I’ll get down to brass tacks. As you know, the election is two weeks away.”

Joe and Marybeth nodded. Both local and statewide elections would soon take place and the political atmosphere was charged. On the statewide level, Governor Colter Allen had announced months before that he wasn’t going to run for reelection. The reason he gave publicly was to “spend more time with his family,” but the actual impetus for his decision was to avoid being exposed for corruption and malfeasance while in office. His denouement had occurred in front of Joe in the state jet as it was parked at the Twelve Sleep County Municipal Airport months before. The real reason for Allen stepping aside wasn’t public knowledge. Regardless, most of the voters of the state were pleased to see him go.

Governor Spencer Rulon, who had served two terms prior to Allen, had been drafted to run again and had no serious opposition. Joe welcomed the return of Rulon, with whom he’d had a special, if sometimes baffling, relationship.

“Governor Rulon has asked me to be his AG,” Hewitt said. “He wants me to take on the feds in a blizzard of lawsuits. He wants me to bury them in litigation.”

“Attorney general?” Marybeth said. “Congratulations.”

“Are you going to do it?” Joe asked.

“Yes, but it’ll be hell,” Hewitt said morosely. “Living in Cheyenne and dealing with the D.C. Blob every day. It should shorten my life span by a decade or so.”

“But you’ll be good at it,” Joe said.

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