The Dinosaur Hunter(38)

She looked a bit flustered, then said, “I am not a paleontologist, Mike.”

“She’s a first-class digger,” Pick chimed in, “and a great assistant.”

“I am Russian,” she said, quietly. “I have a green card. I will apply for citizenship.”

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” I apologized.

“It is all right,” Tanya said and gave me a small smile.

Of course, eventually the talk turned to me and I gave them my quick spiel. I had been raised all around the world, with my father being in the Air Force. When Dad retired, he took a job in California and we settled in. Eventually, I joined the army, and afterward, went to junior college, then joined the force as a rookie cop. I rose to detective but a bullet from a bad guy shortened my career. After that, I spent three years being an investigative gofer for the major film studios and a couple of Indies. In between all that, I married a couple of times to good women who, after a time, wised up to my bullshit and threw me out. I had come to Montana to escape life in general and met Bill Coulter who agreed to make me into a cowboy. That had been a decade ago and I had not left since except for brief forays to Las Vegas.

We also talked about dinosaurs and what they were like and why they were so fascinating. When Ray asked what killed them, Laura, Tanya, and Pick said, almost in unison, “We don’t care. We only care how they lived.” It seemed a mantra they had settled on.

Summer in Montana means long hours of daylight but when the sun finally set, the full glory of the sky was ours to admire as we sat around the fire pit, the twisted little cedar sticks turned to glowing embers. Not only the stars, planets, and the edge of our galaxy were on full display but multiple satellites as well. One flew over every few minutes and from all directions. They were fascinating to watch. Laura, it turned out, was a space buff and could accurately predict the arrival of the Hubble Space Telescope and the International Space Station. The latter looked like a gigantic, sparkling city passing overhead and all we could do was watch with open-mouthed awe. “I wish I could go up there,” Amelia said after a dramatic pass.

“Is there anything you don’t want to do?” Ray demanded. “I mean other than stay around here?”

“Ray,” Laura said quietly, “let Amelia be what she wants to be.”

“Who am I to stop her?” Ray griped, then got up and went to bed.

Sometime into the night, I woke, hearing once more a low, almost moaning engine sound. I climbed out of my tent and listened. It was far away, whatever it was, but seemed to be getting closer. I put on my clothes, boots, and some leather gloves then climbed the hill in front of the camp. Everything was immersed in a milky light provided by the moon. The way up wasn’t easy, the dirt and rocks slippery, but I took my time. At the top of the hill was a layer of sandstone. I carefully ran my gloved hand over it, checking for snakes, then pulled myself up and over. From the top, which was a small plateau, I could look across a great expanse. A sliver of Fort Peck Lake could be seen, the moon glittering on it. The sound of the machine, whatever it was, continued for only a few seconds, then went abruptly silent. I strained my eyes but could see nothing. Then I wondered if maybe the noise was coming from the lake and what I was hearing was a boat of some kind. I’d never seen anything on the lake bigger than a medium-sized houseboat but Fort Peck was large enough for a small cruise ship. I waited, hoping the sound would start up again but it didn’t and I climbed back down. Near the bottom, a rattlesnake buzzed a warning and I jumped about six feet, fell, and landed on my butt. Sore and a little shaky, I climbed back into the sack.

The next morning, over a breakfast of pancakes, I asked Laura if she’d heard any noises. She said she hadn’t. No one else had, either. I was beginning to wonder if it was just me.





12




One night, sitting around the fire pit, Pick said, “Sometimes, I tell a little story about the bones we find according to the evidence. I hope I won’t be boring you if I tell one now, will I, Mike?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. By then, I had a couple of beers under my belt and was ready for anything.

Pick leaned back in his chair. “I think our Triceratops—let’s give him a name, Big Ben is what I’m thinking—was probably a bull, old for his species, tired, and, based on the gnarly growth I have observed in his joints, painfully arthritic. As he grew ever older, he slept a lot. We can’t say how Trikes slept but most likely, like cattle and other herbivores, he slept standing or kneeling. I am certain Trikes never rolled onto their side to sleep or rest. Much too heavy for that. Their heads were especially heavy and made up nearly half the length of their bodies so, most likely, they let their heads droop to touch the ground. So, let’s say, old Ben one day went to sleep, his beak immersed in a meadow of sweet-smelling ferns.”