The Dinosaur Hunter(14)
Brian and Phillip looked at each other again, then Phillip said, “We don’t have any helicopters, sir.”
Sam crossed his arms. “So you say.”
“No, really. I mean we just want to—”
Aaron interrupted. “What’s the name of your organization?”
“We’re from Green Planet, a private non-profit,” Philip answered.
“Why you sons of bitches,” Aaron growled. “It was you two who killed my heifer, wasn’t it?”
“Sir?”
Aaron stood. “They knocked her out yesterday with a sledgehammer, looked like, then cut her throat. And my fence was cut in two places. I found this note. It’s how I know’d it was them.” He dug around in his pocket and then produced a folded up paper, unfolded it, and read its contents. It said:
This range improvement project brought to you by the Green Monkey Wrench Gang. No Address—we’re everywhere. No phone—we’ll be in touch.
A shocked silence ensued while the brothers took on an expression best known as “deer in the headlights.” The Monkey Wrench Gang was the title of a novel by Edward Abbey about a crew of rowdy, drunken guys raising havoc with private property throughout the west during the 1970s. I’d read it and I suspected most of the ranchers at least knew something about it. The novel had inspired ecoterrorists who specialized in things like spiking trees to cause chainsaws to whip around and kill lumberjacks. They also cut fences, burned homes being built in what they considered eco-sensitive areas, and occasionally killed livestock. In other words, menaces to decent society.
Philip found his voice although it was a bit squeaky. “Sir, we’re from Green Planet. We don’t know anything about the Green Monkey Wrench Gang.”
“And we just arrived this morning,” Brian pointed out.
Edith took up for the brothers, saying, “Senator Claggers said these boys would drive in from Bozeman this morning. I saw them pull in. They haven’t been here long enough for any mischief.”
“Senator Claggers!” This eruption was from Tom Wattles, a rancher from down south. “That old hypocrite? You taking orders from him now, Mayor?”
“It never hurts to be polite to a member of the United States Senate, Tom.” Gently, Edith reminded everyone of the sad and sorry truth that made Claggers so important. “Senator Claggers is on the committee that oversees the BLM.”
“That don’t give him the right to send these two girly-boys over here,” Sam said. “But, hell, they look to me like they’d be afraid of a cow. Naw, Aaron. I don’t see them doing what you said.”
Jeanette stood up. When Jeanette Coulter stood, I don’t care what else is going on, folks tended to pay attention. “I had a bull killed the same way,” she said. “And our fence was also cut.”
“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Sam demanded.
“It was Square C business, Sam,” she replied and Sam nodded, getting that.
“If these two didn’t do it,” Frank Torgerson, the county mortician, said, “then who did?”
I had been watching the brothers. If they were guilty of these crimes, I wasn’t getting a vibe in that direction. Sam was right. I doubted either one of them had ever seen a cow up close.
Jeanette nodded to the Green Planeteers. “You’d best leave,” she said, quietly.
“Get out of the county and stay out,” Sam added. “We catch you around here, I got a rope for a necktie party.”
“You’d hang us?” Philip gulped.
“Stretch your neck from here to Bozeman. Now, git!”
The Marsh brothers fled the room and, after some grins and winks, the conversation turned to who had done these major affronts to our cow society.
Frank said, “I saw a young fellow in a white truck the day after that big storm. He turned up toward Ranchers Road.”
“I know who you saw,” Jeanette said and then told them about the young fossil collector. This started another round of talking.
“You let a fossil collector go out on the Square C?” Sam demanded, raising his eyebrows so high I thought they were going to fly right off his forehead.
“He look like he could kill a cow?” Julius asked.
“I tell you somebody’s got to look into all this,” Sam said.
“Job for the law, Sam,” the mayor said.
“Which we don’t have,” Sam retorted. In fact, the position of county sheriff hadn’t been filled for a couple of years after the last one had died peacefully in bed. He was a Brescoe, named Spud. Since there was virtually no crime in the county other than the occasional fender bender outside the Hell Creek Bar on a Friday or Saturday night, the county commissioner, who happened to be Julius Brescoe, Spud’s son, had decided to save some money and not hold an election for another one.