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Joe wondered, as he walked down the hill through the cemetery, how long the engine of the pickup would keep running and whether or not the cemetery staff would choose to shut it off before they filled up the grave with the earthmover.

After the funeral, Joe went to work.  It felt good to get out of town and away from the cemetery and go to work.  He had packed his lunch that morning in the kitchen and filled a Thermos of coffee. Maxine had been waiting for him in the back of the pickup, her heavy tail thumping the toolbox like a metronome as he approached.

He patrolled a Bureau of Land Management (BLM) tract to the west of Saddlestring, a huge, nearly treeless expanse that stretched from the river to the foothills of the Bighorns.  It was deceptive, complicated country, and he had always liked it.  From a distance, it appeared to be simply a massive slow rise in elevation from the valley floor to the mountains.  In actuality, it was an undulating, cut-and-jive high-country break land of hills and draws and sagebrush.  The landscape had folds in it like draped satin, places where shadows grew and pronghorn antelope and large buck mule deer thrived.  A spider's web of old unnamed ranch roads coursed through it.  Herds of deer and antelope had long learned how to take advantage of the land and the landscape, to live within its folds and draws and literally vanish  when pursued.  The antelope especially used the starkness of the break land for defense, and they often frustrated hunters by silhouetting themselves on the tops of hills and rises so that they were so much in the open there was no way to sneak up on them.  The only trees in the area were the silent markers of hundred-year-old failed homesteads and

cabins.

It was opening day of antelope season, the only day there would be real hunting pressure, and it was Joe's job to check the licenses and wildlife stamps of hunters.  Most of the hunters he had checked that morning were local and out for meat, although he did visit the trailer camp of an outfitter with four hungover Michigan auto executive clients who were wearing state-of the-art outdoor gear and were struggling through a Dutch-oven breakfast.  Everyone was legal, with the correct licenses and stamps.  They planned to go hunting later in the day when they sobered up.

Joe idly wondered how Missy Vankeuren would react when Marybeth told her about Joe's job offer with Inter West Resources.  Joe harbored a feeling of sweet vengeance and secretly wanted to be there when Marybeth gave her the news.  It had been a special time in bed after he told Marybeth, and they had both been a little giddy.  Marybeth had even broken her rule about not having sex  hile her mother was under the same roof.  Neither before or after had Marybeth said she wanted Joe to take the job, and Joe didn't say he wanted to take it.  But the possibilities electrified them both.  He wondered now if Missy would warm up to him, now that she knew that his salary could soon triple. In his experience, the women in his life were brutally, honestly practical.  Maybe she would think that her daughter had done all right after all.

As he left the camp, he heard the booming of rifles in the distance, and he drove toward the direction of the shots.  There was the closed-in pow-WHOP sound rather than an open-ended explosion, and he knew that whoever had been shooting had hit something.  They had; three local hunters had killed four antelope, which was one too many.  The hunters explained to Joe that a bullet had passed through a buck and hit a doe unintentionally.  Although Joe believed them, he gave them a speech about shooting into the herd instead of selecting specific ta gets, and he ticketed the hunter who had killed two.  Joe asked the hunters to field dress all four animals and to deliver the extra animal to the Round Home, a halfway house in Saddlestring that fed and housed transients and local alcohol and drug addicts.  More than half of the Round Home population consisted of Indians from the reservation, and they preferred wild game meat.

Throughout what remained of the morning, joe moved from camp to camp, stopping periodically to survey the landscape through his spotting scope.  He liked working outside, in the break lands and in the mountains.  He liked working outside and coming home and taking a shower before dinner.  When he went to sleep most nights, he was physically tired.  He knew there were not many jobs left like his anywhere in the world.

Joe vividly remembered, as a 10-year-old, when it first came to him that being a game warden was the thing he wanted to do.  He and his younger brother, Victor, had been sleeping outside in the backyard like they did most nights in the summer--in sleeping bags spread out on the trampoline.  The stars were bright, and there was a light night breeze. Inside the house, his parents were yelling, fighting, and drinking, which was not unusual for a Friday night.  Outside in his sleeping bag, young Joe Pickett read the latest issue of Fur, Fish, and Game magazine under a flashlight.  He couldn't wait until the magazine was delivered every month, and he read it from cover to cover, even the advertisements in the back that sold animal traps and urine lures and do-it-yourself boats.  Victor slept next to him in his sleeping bag, or at least Joe hoped he did.  It was worse than usual with his parents that night.  Inside, there had been a loud crash of glass, and he had heard his father scream "Goddamnit, woman!"  and then his mother was crying and his father was consoling her.  It went back and forth like this a lot, only usually it wasn't this loud.

While he read and hoped his little brother slept, he heard the clattering rattle of ice in a shaker.  His father was the last of the great martini drinkers, and this was the eighth time he had heard the shaker that night.  The hollering and crashing was punctuated by periods of silence marked by ice rattling in a shaker, as if both parties had agreed upon time-out while they refueled.  Joe knew the neighbors had probably heard the commotion as well. His flashlight was dimming but he hadn't finished reading yet, so he climbed down from the trampoline and tried to sneak through the house to his bedroom where he kept fresh batteries.  He didn't want to be seen and he didn't want to see his parents, but he stepped on broken glass in his bare feet in the kitchen and trailed bloody footprints down the hall carpet, all the way to his room.  On the way back outside, with two D batteries in his pajama pockets, he met his mother in the hallway.  She was drunk and sentimental, the way she sometimes got, and she rained sloppy kisses on him (which he preferred, considering that if she were sober, he'd have gotten a violent rage and open-handed slaps because of what he had done to the carpet) and guided him into the bathroom.

While she tried to pull slivers of glass from his feet (she said she was sorry for breaking the glasses on the floor earlier), he watched her and winced.  Her makeup was smeared with tears, and a cigarette danced in her mouth as she talked.  It reminded him that she thought of herself as an early sixties hipster.

Because she was in such bad shape, she tended to drive the slivers deeper into his foot with the tweezers before regaining her balance enough to pull them out. He told her he was okay even though he wasn't, and he bandaged his own feet while she went out to rejoin his father and the pitcher of martinis

With new batteries, the flashlight glowed white and strong and he lay on his stomach in his sleeping bag and wished he lived somewhere in the mountains, anywhere other than where he was.  It was then that he read the advertisement in the back of the Fur, Fish, and Game magazine:

HOW TO BECOME A GAME WARDEN

Don't be chained to a desk, machine, or store counter.  This easy home-study plan prepares you for an exciting career in conservation and ecology.  Forestry and wildlife men hunt mountain lions, parachute from planes to help marooned animals, or save injured campers.