The Dinosaur Hunter(8)

“OK,” he said.

He got in his truck and drove through the gate but he didn’t get far before I waved him down. There were a few more things I needed to say. “You got a firearm or any kind of weapon?”

“A gun? No, but I have a pick and a shovel.”

“It’s prime time for rattlesnakes. Watch yourself. Usually, Montana rattlers will just mind their own business but if you get bit, give us a call so we can let the mortuary know. Do you have a radio?”

“Yes. An FM handheld.” He opened the glove compartment to show it to me.

“That’ll do.” I gave him the ranch frequency and he jotted it down in a little notebook. “Set it now and keep it on you. I’ll be listening. If I don’t answer, climb up on a hill and try again.”

He fiddled with the radio, then placed it on the seat beside him. “So I just stay on this track and it will take me out to the BLM?”

“Follow the ruts, stay right at every fork, and go through three gates. The third gate, the BLM’s on the other side. It’s marked.”

“OK.”

I gave him my version of the Fillmore County stare. “Listen, there are a lot of ways this country can kick your butt. A little rain, you’re down in a coulee, and a flash flood will drown you in a second. Temperatures can spike up to over a hundred degrees by day and then drop below freezing by night. Hell, I’ve seen it snow in July. I’ve already mentioned the rattlesnakes. There’s scorpions out there, too, and black widows.”

Pick was clearly impatient to get going. “OK, OK. I’ll be careful.”

“Do you have water?”

“Five gallons in a jerry can. There’s also natural water out there, right?”

“It’s full of alkali. Drink it if you want your guts to explode. How’s your sense of direction?”

“Abysmal,” he confessed, “but I have a GPS.” He again opened the glove compartment and produced a handheld device.

“A tent?”

“Yes, but I’ll probably just sleep in my truck.”

“Food?”

“Canned stew. Some rice. Coffee. I have a pot and a little gas stove. I don’t eat much when I’m in the field.”

“Age? Next of kin?”

“Thirty-five. I have a mother in Topeka, Kansas. Why do you ask?”

“If you get killed, the authorities will want to know.”

“I’m not going to get killed, Mike. I’ve lived off the land in Argentina, Mongolia, Africa, all kinds of places.”

I figured it was time for me to wave him on so that’s what I did, then closed the gate behind him. The track he was following led past Blackie Butte and I was heading out that way pretty soon to catch that damn gimp bull, anyway. I would check on him to make sure he got to the BLM. As I watched him drive away, I was not encouraged. I saw his truck go up the first hill, then reach the fork in the road. He turned left, instead of right. I ran to the barn and got on the radio. “Pick, this is Mike. You went the wrong way.”

A minute passed and I called him again. Finally, he answered, “Pick here. I thought you said stay left.”

“Stay right. All three forks.”

“Got it.”

“You want to wait for me? I’m heading out that way in an hour or so.”

There was no answer, although I tried a couple more times. Now I not only had to find a gimpy old bull and bring it in, I had to look for a pony-tailed paleontologist, too. I allowed a cowboy curse, then got going.





3




That evening, I came rolling in with three heifers and their calves plodding in front of me. At the sound of the big truck, Jeanette came out of the barn. Ray, home from school, rose from behind one of our four-wheelers. The empty cans of 10W-40 on the ground informed me he’d been changing its oil. We take good care of our equipment on the Square C. I climbed out of the truck and opened up the pasture gate and herded the cows through it into the turnaround. They were looking pretty unhappy about the entire experience. Soupy added to their discomfort by nipping at their heels, aiming them toward the holding pen while Ray held its gate open. After weeks on the open range, we would have to give the free-rangers a thorough inspection to make sure they were healthy enough to go back into the general cow population.

Jeanette frowned after the bawling cows and calves, then said, “Mike, I don’t see that gimp bull. I guess he’s a pretty good hider. Maybe I’ll go out there tomorrow myself and catch him. My eyes are better than yours.”

I was upset or I wouldn’t have snapped at her like I did. “There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, Jeanette. I found that damn bull!”