Savage Run

10

Returning home, Joe crossed the bridge that spanned the Twelve Sleep River and drove through the three-block length of Saddlestring’s sleepy downtown. The insides of his thighs and the palms of his hands still stung from the fall. There was a dull ache in the back of his neck. Worst of all, his hat was crushed. It was just after five o’clock and most of the shops were already closed and the street virtually empty of traffic. Knots of cars and pickups were parked in front of the two bars on Main Street.

Saddlestring, once on the verge of a natural gas pipeline boom two years before that Joe inadvertently helped stymie, had once again settled into being a place considered “unchanging and rustic” in the view of some or “nearly dead” in the view of others. The discovery of species thought extinct-Miller’s weasels-had created a tourism surge at the same time the town was seeing a brief cessation of traditional industries such as logging, mining, and outfitting in the remote area of the Bighorns, now known, sort of, as the Miller’s Weasel Ecosystem. Interagency squabbling was still delaying the official unique designation of the ecosystem. In the meanwhile, the last known colony of Miller’s weasels, the Cold Springs Group, had died out. Although Joe knew of another colony, the location remained a cherished secret between Sheridan and him, and neither ever talked about it. Scientists, biologists, and ecotourists no longer came for the purpose of seeing where the creatures that “captured a nation” once were, but the town, and the valley, continued to limp along. Saddlestring, as a place of interest to most outsiders, had once again dropped out of view.

Joe stopped at the corner before he turned toward Bighorn Road. Across the street were two buildings with ancient western storefronts, Bryan’s Western Wear and Wolf Mountain Taxidermy. The taxidermy studio was a rarity in that it was so well known in the state and throughout the Northern Rockies that it stayed open the entire year. Most studios closed for three or four months until hunting seasons opened again. The taxidermist, Matt Sandvick, had won dozens of awards for his work and was sought out by wealthy hunters. In addition to moose, deer, pronghorn antelope, and other Wyoming big game and fowl, Sandvick often did tigers, Alaskan brown bears, and other exotic species from around the world. He was the taxidermist of choice for wealthy, status-conscious men.

Which is why Joe canceled his turn signal and proceeded through the intersection and parked his pickup on the curb. He had been thinking of Matt Sandvick’s work for several days. He was the best Joe had ever seen. A Sandvick mount had a certain clean, natural simplicity that brought the animal back to life. His work was subtle but regal, and left an impression on the admirer. Joe was just such an admirer. And it made him wonder about something.

As usual, there was no one in the outer office when Joe entered Wolf Mountain Taxidermy. Dozens of photos of mounts were beneath a sheet of glass on the counter, and a huge moose head dominated the wall above a door that led to the studio. Joe rang a bell next to a brochure rack full of price lists and waited.

Matt Sandvick was a short, powerful man with close-cropped red hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses. He emerged from his studio cleaning his hands with a stained towel. Joe had met him several times and had been in the shop during hunting season to confirm that hunters had properly tagged all of the game animals turned over to Sandvick. Sandvick took a good deal of pride in his work. They got along well.

“What happened to you?” Sandvick asked, his eyes widening as he looked at Joe’s torn shirt, bloody hand, and crushed hat.

Joe tried to think of something snappy to say, but couldn’t think of anything.

“Fell out of a tree,” Joe said, smiling with a hint of embarrassment.

Sandvick stifled a laugh. “Okay,” he said, drawing the word out to indicate disbelief.

“Getting ready for hunting season?” Joe asked in a neighborly way.

“Always,” Sandvick nodded. “Things are slowing down around here. A few fish is all. A nice twenty-two-inch cutthroat trout back there. You want to look at it?”

Joe shook his head no. He agreed that 22 inches was big for a cutthroat. Matt, Joe thought, I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.

Then: “You know that big bull elk you did for Jim Finotta last year? Was that an eight-by-eight?”

“Nine-by-seven,” Sandvick corrected. “The only one I’ve ever seen.”

“I would have sworn it had eight on each side.” Joe said, looking quizzically at Sandvick. “I saw it just a few weeks ago in his office.”

“Nope,” Sandvick countered, “I’ll prove it to you.” Sandvick pushed his glasses up on his nose and studied the photos under the glass on the counter. He settled his index finger on a shot of Finotta’s bull elk mount while it was still in the studio. Joe bent, a little stiffly, to get a better look.

“You okay?” Sandvick asked.

“My back hurts from that fall,” Joe said, distracted. He studied the photo. There were nine tines on one antler and seven on the other, just like Sandvick said. There was also a very small LCD date stamp on the bottom right of the photograph that read “9-21.”

“That’s it, all right,” Joe conceded. “You were absolutely right.”

“That was a damned big elk,” Sandvick said, but there was something different about his voice. Joe looked up to see that Sandvick was studying him intently, practically squinting. There was fear in Sandvick’s eyes.

“You had this mount finished by the twenty-first of September,” Joe said. “And rifle hunting season doesn’t open until the fifteenth of October. You say in your brochure that it takes about six to eight weeks to finish a mount. So when did he bring it in? June or July?”

Sandvick’s face drained of color and his eyes widened. He was caught. A taxidermist who worked on a game animal that wasn’t accompanied by paperwork to prove it was properly taken could not only get his license revoked and be put out of business, but he could be jailed or fined. Matt Sandvick was well aware of that. So was Joe Pickett.

“June or July?” Joe asked, not unkindly.

“Maybe I ought to call my lawyer or something,” Sandvick said weakly, then swallowed. “Except I don’t have a lawyer.”

“I’ll tell you what, Matt,” Joe said, feeling ashamed of his trick but pleased with his discovery, “if you agree to sign an affidavit stating that Jim Finotta brought that animal in to you out of season I won’t ask the County Attorney to prosecute you. I’ll even argue against it if he brings it up. But I can’t promise that he won’t do it anyway.”

Sandvick brought both of his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. “Finotta didn’t bring it in himself. His ranch hand brought it in.”

“When?”

“I think it was June,” Sandvick said. “I could check my records for the exact date. I talked to him on the phone. Finotta offered me one of his new lots for it. That was kind of hard to pass up. Plus I didn’t want to piss the man off.”

Sandvick continued to rub his eyes, then his face. It was painful for Joe to watch.

“You do good work,” Joe said. “Finotta told me he had that mount done in Jackson Hole, but everybody knows you’re the best around and you’re right here in town. So it makes sense he would come to you.”

“He said he had it done in Jackson?” Sandvick asked, clearly hurt by that.

Joe nodded. “I’ll leave you alone now. But I’ll be in touch about that affidavit, okay?”

“That’s really an insult. Jackson?”

Before Joe left the studio, he reached across the counter and patted Sandvick on the shoulder. “You’re a good guy, Matt, but don’t ever do that again.”

Sandvick didn’t need to be told. He was still trembling.

“The thing was,” Joe explained, “they left the meat. Finotta shot it, probably got his flunky to cape it and take the head off, and they left the body to rot.”

Sandvick said nothing. He lowered his hands to grip the counter and steady himself.

“That just makes me mad,” Joe explained. Then he tipped his bent hat brim at Sandvick and left the shop.

I think I got him,” Joe told Marybeth when he entered the house, tossing his misshapen hat through his office doorway.

She looked him over carefully, her eyes widening in alarm at his appearance.

“I’m fine,” Joe said. “I think I’ve nailed Jim Finotta.”

“I heard you,” she said, approaching him and fingering a tear in his shirtsleeve.

In his excited state, he blurted: “Marybeth, we have to talk.”

She probed his eyes with hers, then patted his cheek.

“Soon,” she said.