Stovepipe looked into the plastic bowl. “Hey, I remember chipping in on this pen for you. That’s a nice one, all right. Looks like they ran outa room for the words though, the way they spelled ‘service.’ ”
“Keep your fucking hands off it,” Barnum said, turning toward the hallway and gripping the top of his pants so they wouldn’t fall down around his ankles.
He expected to see Wendy at the reception desk. Instead, a matronly, darkhaired woman looked up.
“May I help you?” “Where’s Wendy?”
“She’s been reassigned. May I help you?”
“Reassigned where? Who are you?” He was surprised he hadn’t heard of the move, and hurt that McLanahan hadn’t bothered to consult him about it.
The receptionist cocked her head in annoyance. “Back to dispatch, I believe. Now, should I know you?”
Deputy Reed had apparently heard the exchange because he poked his head over the top of his cubicle and said, “Donna, this is Sheriff Barnum.”
“Oh,” she said. Barnum caught the shadow of revulsion that passed over her face, and he was shocked by it.
“I’m here to see McLanahan,” Barnum said, unable to bring himself to say Sheriff McLanahan.
Donna quickly looked down at a sheet in front of her for his name.
“I don’t have an appointment,” Barnum said, adding, “I shouldn’t need one.” He looked to Reed, expecting to see him smiling or nodding, but Reed had sunk back down behind his cubicle.
Donna picked up her phone, pushed the intercom button, and announced to McLanahan that “Mr. Bud Barnum”
was here to see him.
“No,” Donna said into the phone, avoiding Barnum’s eyes and lowering her voice, “he just came in.”
“Fuck it,” Barnum spat, and strode through the batwing doors at the side of the reception desk. As he passed Reed he looked over, but Reed pretended not to see him. A new deputy—Barnum couldn’t recall his name—watched him cross the office with contempt on his face. Barnum entered his old office and closed the door hard behind him.
McLanahan looked up and gestured toward a chair on the other side of his desk. My old desk, Barnum thought.
“So, what brings you here, Bud?”
Barnum sat down, grateful to be able to let loose his grip on the top of his pants.
“I was thinking about reporting something to you,” Barnum said in his most gravelfilled voice, “but after the way I’ve been treated since I walked into this building, I’m starting to wonder why I’m wasting my time.”
McLanahan smiled coldly, his eyes on his old boss. “We take security a lot more seriously than we used to around here, Bud. We don’t have a choice about that.”
“That son of a bitch Stovepipe took my belt.”
“Sorry, but I told him no exceptions.”
“Even for me?”
McLanahan raised his palms in a “what can I say?” gesture.
“Why’d you replace Wendy?” Barnum asked. “I promoted her to that desk job.”
“Things change, Bud,” McLanahan said, running his fingers through his thick hair. “As sheriff, I need to make hard decisions.”
“Was it a hard decision to get your hair permed?”
McLanahan sat forward and narrowed his eyes. “Bud, I’m trying to be civil here . . .”
“What’s that cost, anyway? Thirty bucks? Forty? You could just get your head wet and go stand in the wind for the same effect.”
McLanahan looked away. “I’m kind of busy right now.
Is there a point to any of this?”
Barnum sat silently, seething. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.
“I groomed you for this job,” Barnum said. “I overlooked your fuckups and taught you everything you know.
Now that you’ve got the job, you’ve forgotten who got you here. What about some respect? A little acknowledgment?”
McLanahan finally turned his head back around and met his eyes. “Your exit wasn’t exactly pretty. A lot of stuff came out. You’re lucky I didn’t pursue it after I got elected.”
Barnum felt something inside him pop.
“What do you mean, pursue it?” he shouted.
“Bud, lower your voice or I’ll have you thrown out of here,” McLanahan cautioned.
“You’ll have me . . . what?” Barnum hissed, scrambling to his feet. “I can’t believe your disloyalty, you little prick.”
The sheriff glared back, his face tight with anger. Barnum decided to try a different approach. “Look, McLanahan—”
“That’s Sheriff McLanahan. Now get out.”
Barnum’s rage returned to a boil. He looked down to see that his hands were trembling. How easy it would be to dive over the desk and sink his fingers into McLanahan’s windpipe, he thought.
“I’m leaving,” Barnum said, his voice a whisper. “I came here to do something good, to tip you off about something. But it seems you know it all now. You don’t need my help.”
“If you came in to report a crime, sit down out there with Deputy Reed and give him the information. You know how the procedure works,” McLanahan said evenly.
Barnum turned and walked out, feeling the eyes of Reed, the new deputy, and Donna on him.
Just let it happen, he thought. Just let the killing take place. Let McLanahan and his department of clowns try to figure it out. Maybe next time they’ll show me a little more respect.
Back on his stool at the Stockman’s, Barnum was still shaking. His anger had turned into selfpity. When Timberman walked down the length of the bar with a carafe of coffee, Barnum gestured toward a bottle of Jim Beam on the back bar and said, “Double shot, Beam and water.”
When Timberman stopped and looked at his wristwatch, Barnum said, “And don’t screw around. This isn’t the only bar in town.”
Part Four
In many places, human hunters have taken over the predator’s ecological role.
Michael Pollan, “The Unnatural Idea of Animal Rights,” The New York Times Magazine, November 10, 2002
Grub first, then ethics.
Bertolt Brecht, 1898–1956
Twenty Six
The sun was setting and the moon was rising and both anchored opposite ends of the cloudless sky when Joe turned his saddle horse and packhorse from the spine of the Continental Divide into what was unmistakably Two Ocean Pass. It was still and cold as he rode into the meadow, the only sounds the muffled footfalls of his animals in the thick, matted grass.
He reined to a stop and simply looked around. It was as Susan Jensen had described it, he thought, only more so. He could see why Will had chosen this place. Two Ocean Creek flowed narrow and clean through the meadow and split at a lone spruce. One channel flowed east, toward the Atlantic, the other west, toward the Pacific. Over the lip of the pass was the vast Yellowstone drainage and the Thorofare, the wildest and most remote wilderness in the Lower 48. The vastness was stunning: a rough carpet of dark trees and startling blue mountains as far as he could see in every direction. Surrounding him were landmarks he identified from his map: Box Creek, Mount Randolph, Mount Leidy, Terrace Mountain, Jackson Peak. Joy Peak was called that because it looked like a nipple. To the south, the crystal blades of the Tetons sliced up at the sky.
It had taken an entire day of steady riding to get there, and the light was fading. He had ridden through two snow squalls, a half dozen streams, and a surprise encounter with a skinny black bear who had not heard him ride up because she was so intent on extracting every last grub from a rotten log. The bear had thankfully run away, crashing loudly through the timber. Joe was pleased that his horses showed no fear and were, in fact, calmer than he was when it happened. The sight of the bear had reminded him to load his shotgun with slugs. The butt of the shotgun was now within quick reach in the saddle scabbard. Will may have preferred his .44 Magnum, but Joe felt much more comfortable with the shotgun. His bear spray was clipped on a lanyard that hung from his neck.