The Predators

By Howard E. Adkins

A wolf pack has been moved into central Idaho from Canada and deposited near the small ranching town of Challis, on the Salmon River. Usually only a breeding pair is introduced, but on this occasion an entire pack has been brought as a group in order to observe how long it remains intact before some drift away. B-17, the alpha male, B-14, the alpha female, and their offspring all wear the hated radio collars about their necks.

Charlie, the third generation of the Buchanan family to occupy the Rafter B ranch, had joined the army nine years ago because of continual feuding with his father, old C.S. Buchanan. Upon separation from Special Forces, he returns to the ranch because of a feeling of familial obligation to carry on its hundred-year tradition. He finds the ranch in disrepair and occupied only by C.S. and Buck Travers, the elderly ranch foreman. They are aged and irascible, constantly sniping at each other, and virtually uninterested in the prosperity or appearance of the Rafter B. Worse, C.S. is under siege by various governmental agenciesIdaho Fish and Game, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the Environment Protection Agency, I.R.S., and the Forest Service are all sniping at him for various transgressions. Although discharged from the Service, Charlie remains very patriotic and cannot believe the irrational stand his government is taking on some of these issues. C.S. is served with a warrant for draining a wetland and has to appear in District Court. Charlie seeks the legal aid of Henry J. Twilling, the only local attorney, and is informed of a number of egregious actions taken by the E.P.A. in such matters in the past.

The local militia group, the Christian Guard Tabernacle, and its ordained-by-mail minister, Clete Jarvis, volunteer their assistance to the Buchanan cause, but Charlie finds their creed too bigoted and violently racist, clothed though it is in religious trappings. He shuns them.

A trial date is set, but before it arrives the wolves get among the Rafter B cattle. C.S. shoots a wolf in full view of some Fish and Wildlife agents who are in a helicopter overhead. They swoop down, arrest him, and place him in handcuffs. He suffers a heart attack under the emotional strain and dies on the spot. Charlie considers this the ultimate harassment and he sets out to kill the reintroduced wolf pack as his anti-government statement.

His ill-advised mission carries over into the winter season and becomes a grim wilderness adventure. His intentions cause much anger in Amy Richards, Charlies lover, who is a strong environmentalist. She reports his actions to the local sheriff. Soon Charlies hunt for the wolves involve him and sometimes the militia group on one side of the struggle, and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Sheriff Baxter, National Guard helicopters with their infra red heat scanning, in concert with the brutal winter weather on the other side. After three in the wolf pack have been killed, B-17, the old alpha male, also becomes a hunter and antagonist of Charlie Buchanan.

In the end, the struggle focuses on B-17 and Charlie alone. Only one survives in this novel which, being essentially pro-wolf in nature, illustrates clearly that many levels of predatory activity exist in our society. The wolves are not the only predators.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 10, 2000
• ISBN: 9781453565810

Howard E. Adkins

Howard E. Adkins, a graduate of Harvard Medical School, is a retired Ophthalmologist who lives in Boise, Idaho with his wife, Nettie. A fourth generation Idahoan, most of his writing has had either a western or an historical theme. A time period of particular interest to him has been the early Twentieth Century.

Book preview

Copyright © 2000 by Howard E. Adkins.

Library of Congress Number:     00-191912

ISBN #:

             Hardcover          9780738834474

            Softcover             0-7388-3447-5

            Ebook                  9781453565810

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Zella Strickland, Boise, Idaho.

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The alpha male wolf lay with his aging muzzle cradled on crossed paws, seemingly indifferent to his surroundings. But as always, his greenish-yellow eyes… wide-set, alert, intelligent, and rimmed with black hair… missed nothing. Vigilant ears stood erect over the gray ruff of his face. As he had done so many times over the past days, he pawed ineffectually at the stout leather strap of the black radio collar with a white B-17 stenciled on it and then, one more time, tried to ignore its presence.

He watched the beta wolves of the pack as they frolicked in their newly found freedom. Spirited in a drug-induced coma from their hunting grounds amidst the towering granite massifs of Canada’s Jasper National Park, they had endured the holding pens of Yellowstone Park and the torrent of new experiences. Strange noises, strange odors, strange beings, but most of all, the strange horror of restraint had assaulted them. Then suddenly they had been transported to these mountainous wastes of central Idaho and given their freedom. Having now traveled beyond any smell of man brought great contentment to B-17. But etched forever in his brain was the suddenness of the attack and the ease with which his capture had been accomplished. He had learned a lesson.

The scattered bones lying in the lush grass surrounding the pack were mute evidence that an elk had not survived last winter’s boreal cold.

The wooded ranges of Idaho mountains seemed to extend on forever, one stacked upon another, and did not resemble the familiar terrain of their native Alberta. But, judging from the array of smells that greeted them here, this land promised a greater variety of food than the wily, cliff-scaling mountain sheep to which they were accustomed and which, all too often, retreated to such great inaccessibility.

The young wolves playfully tossed an elk bone back and forth until B-13 stopped. Provoked by whatever reason, he sat back and howled mournfully. B-7, B-8, B-10, and B-11 responded with a series of squeaks, barks, growls, and whines. As they communicated, B-14, the alpha female of the pack, came down from the hill where she had been scouting. She nipped at B-13 as a maternal criticism of his unnecessary noise and came directly to B-17. She licked his muzzle, and he stood in response. She growled softly, and he sniffed the wind.

The unmistakably fresh scent of elk now reached his nostrils also. With a single low growl, he issued his command and bounded off.

The pack broke into a loping scramble to follow him and set about exploring its new hunting grounds. The wolves’ endurance and strength was such that they could travel at this pace for fifteen or twenty miles without rest.

* * *

Charlie Buchanan waved his thanks at the pickup truck that had given him the lift. Trailing dust was the only response as the vehicle labored away down the county road. Charlie tried to place the identity of the driver. He searched among the foggy memories of his youth, but too many passing years had misted them. The driver, if he ever had been an acquaintance, remained a stranger.

Buchanan was bare headed. His jeans and plaid shirt were unwashed-new and seemed a contrast to the military boots and duffle bag. Medium height, powerful shoulders, a hint of a wave in his auburn hair, his stocky appearance was unremarkable except for his graceful movement. He flowed confidently as he walked, an indication of a restrained assurance in his own capabilities.

The mountains that had been his boyhood world marched upward toward the clouds in almost every direction, and his eyes followed them. Even from their hazy distance, the peaks enveloped him with a protective security he could feel deep in his bones. Their comforting embrace welcomed him and made him realize just how much he had missed them over the years. The feeling was good.

Lifting his duffle bag, he started up the parallel tracks that meandered a half mile from the county road to the Buchanan Rafter-B Ranch, and now his thoughts drifted to the Old Man.

God, he thought as he looked about him, I couldn’t get far enough away from here or from the Old Man when I joined the Army. Once I got that in my mind, there was no other way to go. Funny how a man’s thinking changes about all sorts of things as he matures.

A meadowlark warbled its almost-endless song as he approached. The yellow-breasted bird suddenly dipped its rump in alarm and then panicked into flight from the pole fence, disappearing into the protection of surrounding sagebrush.

I guess I should have written him that I was getting discharged, Charlie muttered to himself. He probably won’t even want me around here again. Charlie knew he’d been a royal pain in the ass in the old days. But so had his father.

Charlie stopped and slowly turned a full circle, drinking in sights that were so familiar and yet in such conflict with his memories. The lane was weedier and shorter than he remembered. The bull pasture was empty. Rotting posts and neglect lent a hangdog appearance to the fence that bowed in shame toward the lane and then reeled drunkenly off into the distance.

As he slowly followed the overgrown tracks across the bridge and northward up Crooked Creek, the barns and bunkhouse of Rafter-B gradually came into view. Their unpainted dilapidation was a sun-bleached contrast to the sheltering cottonwood trees beyond. The gray, shrinking boards of the buildings lent it that wind-wracked, ghost-town cast which engulfs neglected buildings in the arid West. The whole ranch seemed a mummified relic from another era.

Shocked, Charlie stared at the run-down spread in disbelief. The elegance of the Buchanan ranch had always been the pride of his father and of Grandpa Buchanan before him. Order and a prosperous neatness had been a Rafter-B trademark that the Buchanans proudly displayed over the years. Grandpa always said even an old shoe became elegant when you stuck a silver buckle on it.

Charlie suddenly grew worried. Something must have happened to the Old Man. Maybe C.S. died and nobody bothered to let him know. Remembering the way he and his father had always fought, Charlie wondered if possibly everyone thought he wouldn’t even want to know. No, surely that couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be! Still, the place sure as hell looked abandoned.

He quickened his pace.

As Charlie moved past the weed-choked Buchanan burial plot, the resting place of so many of his family, he noted with relief that there were no new graves. Then, he heard a voice that he could never mistake for another.

I don’t care what your goddamn job is! You ain’t coming on my ranch. Now git your fat ass off my property, feller, or it’s going to leak like a sieve. Goddamn it! Git!

There was a mumbled response that Charlie couldn’t hear. He rushed forward in order to look into the yard that surrounded the Big House. The angry tone he had heard his father use so many times kindled long-suppressed memories, cruel and hostile memories. At the same time, he was happy to find the Old Man alive, though apparently he was as ornery as ever.

Rounding the drooping boughs of the huge Norway Spruce, Charlie beheld the scene.

C.S., the crusty Old Man, stood on the front walk with hands high on his hips as though massaging painful kidneys. He was smaller than Charlie remembered, and he somehow resembled a crabby old fighting rooster, scrawny neck, blazing eyes, and all.

Old Buck Travers, the ramrod of the Rafter-B in years gone by, slouched against the house as he built himself a cigarette. Buck, still bone-sharp skinny, seemed not much changed from Charlie’s memories of him.

A light green pickup truck was parked near the front walk and had Idaho Fish & Game stenciled on the door. The driver appeared ready to flee. One foot still lingered on the sidewalk, but the man’s hand groped behind him for the security of the truck’s door handle. The Warden glanced back at the truck to assure his escape and then spoke again. As Environmental Enforcement Officer, it’s my duty to track down the source of the sedimentation in Crooked Creek. We can do this the easy way with your permission, or we can do it the hard…

Goddamn it, I already told you to git! C.S. shouted. I ain’t tellin’ you again, feller. My granddaddy, my old daddy, and me all paid taxes on this here land for going on a hundred year. All we seem to get in return is your worthless ass and nosy nature. That’s surely enough to make a man shooting-mad. Shooting mad, I tell you. Git now, you rotten sonuvabitch, else I’m going after my 30-30.

The door of the Fish & Game pickup slammed shut and its motor issued a throaty roar. The wheels scattered gravel as they spun in reverse and then again as the truck roared off down the lane toward the county road.

Charlie stepped aside to let it pass.

Only then did C.S. see Charlie standing there with his duffle bag on his shoulder. The Old Man leaned forward and squinted against the glare of the sun. He started to return to the house but then turned again for another look.

I’ll be goddamned, he said at last. Well… now don’t this just round out my day? Step in shit in the morning, and you’ll sure ‘nough stink ‘til sundown.

The Old Man shook his head as though overwhelmed by it all. Without a word of greeting, he turned and retreated into the house.

Well, I’ll be damned if it ain’t the colt himself. Buck said, coming forward. Welcome home, Charlie. Aye God! Welcome home, boy.

The two shook hands warmly. He ain’t changed much, has he? Charlie asked, nodding toward the screen door his father had just used.

Not such as you can tell, hoss. He just gives the Government seven kinds of hell now, instead of me. Feels good though, having him yell at others and for me not to be under the lash of his tongue for a change. Buck gave Charlie a close look. How you been, Charlie boy? he asked, as he slowly licked the newly rolled cigarette from end to end.

Good, Buck. I been doing good, I guess. Better than things around here from the looks of the place.

Yeah, and you’re only seeing the shining best of it, hoss. The herd’s gone to hell in a hand basket, just like this whole shiteree. He made an all-inclusive wave of his hand. You don’t even want to think about it. Buck shook his head in resignation. Popping a match into flame with his thumbnail, he lit his cigarette. Hell in a hand basket, for damn sure. He gathered the contents of his mouth thoughtfully and spit with unhurried precision.

What was all that about? Charlie asked, pointing at the dust from the retreating pickup.

A long story. I’ll tell you about it by and by.

Charlie could see the Old Man peeking furtively at him from the other side of the screen door. He started to hoist his duffle bag and go toward the house.

Why don’t I saddle up old Dixie and let the two of you cruise the ridges for a spell? Buck said, placing a restraining hand on Charlie’s shoulder. A few hours on Dixie and you’ll never know you was gone all them years. Hell, I even kept your saddle oiled up in prime shape. Seeing Charlie’s reluctance, Buck pressed on. Come on, boy. You’ll truly admire old Dixie. She’s a shining piece of horseflesh.

* * *

Certain of what Buck would be doing in the meantime, Charlie agreed.

Buck was right. Dixie was a big mare and a rider never had to put a heel to her. After Charlie’s firm hand assured her that a suitable substitute for Buck was on her back, she stepped out with a long-legged gait. First, he sent the mare across ragged meadows in need of haying. Then he rode along the trail which hung over Crooked Creek and skirted slides of rock whose obstruction should have been cleared out of the path years ago. He climbed the ridge ever higher toward one of the spines of the Lost River Range and not once did he see a Rafter-B cow grazing the chaparral or errant calves frolicking the meadows. This depressing sight was a far cry from the days when Buchanan stock swarmed these hills.

Charlie gave the mare a rest when they reached Sentinel Rock, a prominent overlook that had always been his secret place. From here, banks of mountainous ridges stretched into a hazy infinity. Charlie had always come to this place as a youth to work out his personal problems.

He looked down into the wide valley below that stretched from the Rafter-B south toward the town of Challis. Land that had been neighboring cattle ranches was now laid out in fields of hay for the most part, all being irrigated with the sprinkling systems of giant central pivots. The owners had capitulated to economic pressures and given up their ranch life to grow hay as common sod busters. No Buchanan would ever do that, Charlie thought with pride.

Gradual slopes of high desert sagebrush edged up toward the skirting of timber where he now was. Farther up above him, the rocky crags beyond the timberline rose toward the sky and sawed angrily at the horizon. The sight had always been a balm to Charlie when his spirit seethed, and he drew comfort from it now.

Charlie patted the mare’s neck and gazed over his wilderness. Experiencing old C.S.’s rejection today seemed to pick up the beat of life just as it had been many years ago. As though, instead of nine years, there had been no interruption. Was this the way all fathers and sons reacted to each other? Had there been this same hostility between the Old Man and Grandpa Buchanan? How could the Ranch have prospered if the two of them sniped at each other in hatred like C.S. and he had done over the years?

Gradually, Charlie became aware again of where he was and how much he had longed to be here. The valley quivered as he watched it through the rising heat waves, a billowing thunderhead caressed a ridge to the northwest, and a pair of osprey rode their private thermal as they sought their prey.

He thought about the aimless trail he had wandered toward manhood from this place of his youth. At first, the Army had been such a welcome escape from his conflict with C.S. True, the discipline had been a repeat of what the Rafter-B offered, but its rigors had been tolerable because they were so depersonalized and so devoid of malice.

Then came the disastrous marriage to Eunice, which he now realized was destined to end in divorce from the beginning. He remembered finding her in the sack with that slimy-assed Marine. Still bewildered at why Eunice would cuckold him, he shook his head slowly back and forth several times. The mayhem that followed still frightened him. He had lost control and beat the marine until neighbors dragged him off. Without their interference, Charlie would have killed the man. The alcoholic orgy that followed was almost endless. He had remained stinking-assed drunk for three months. He shuddered at how compulsive he had been in his self-destruction. Then Sarge Metz stepped in with a transfer to Special Forces, saving him from a dishonorable discharge or even worse, a blood-vomiting, drunken death.

His thoughts drifted back to all the good times in the Tenth Mountain, the light infantry division of Special Forces at Fort Drum. The assignment truly became a home and was filled with memories of happy times and good friends.

Charlie swung down out of the saddle. Holding Dixie’s reins, he lay down beside a spiny clump of bear grass and continued to gaze out over the ranch and the valley below. He had done this often while growing up, spending hours thinking about those who had peopled the mountains before the ranchers moved in. First, the Indians had roamed these valleys and slopes. Then came the Hudson’s Bay trappers. He wondered what those men, who first appeared here nearly two centuries ago, thought when they saw this land. No doubt, they trapped for beaver along the Salmon River that wound its way through the valley below. Then came the miners and, eventually, the cattlemen and farmers. Even though the fierce Bannock, Blackfeet, and Gros Ventre Indians tried, they couldn’t keep the white men out.

Slowly, Charlie’s thoughts settled back onto himself. He wondered if he had been immature to get such satisfaction from all the stalking and phantom-movement stuff in the Tenth Mountain. He had gained real pride in being able to wiggle completely undetected right up under somebody’s nose, knowing he could kill an adversary with his bare hands if he wanted to. He knew his enjoyment was something of a power trip, a confirmation of his own personal importance. And though some called this a macho thing, Charlie saw it as pure independence. The training gave him the feeling he could stand against the world, that he was perhaps better trained than the best of the Indians who roamed these very mountains. Of course, even the Blackfeet eventually got defeated. And he himself had ended up getting discharged with the demobilization. But that didn’t change anything. He still knew what he was capable of doing.

He plucked a weed to chew and lay back, closing his eyes.

For a while, he had even considered marketing his martial skills as a mercenary, but something festered just beneath the surface of his consciousness, constantly reminding him of a duty back at the Rafter-B. The obsession was a confusion of shame, obligation, and a desire not to break family tradition. Though he had tried, he had been unable to shake the forces that drew him back. Finally, he had reached the conclusion his roots were at the ranch, and he’d never be at peace with himself until he came back and gave his best shot at getting along with his father and helping to run the Rafter-B.

He hoped he had matured enough to accomplish that. If not, well then to hell with old C.S. The time had come for a new generation to have its turn at running the Rafter-B Ranch.

Charlie Buchanan stood up and half draped himself across Dixie’s saddle, the smell of oiled leather filling his nostrils. Gazing again into the expanse of wilderness, any doubts he might have had at returning evaporated. Though he had been home only a few hours, he knew he had done the right thing. Dixie turned her head, and Charlie gazed into the animal’s brown eyes. She blinked without emotion and seemed to look right through him. Smiling, he asked, I wonder if you are agreeing with me, Dixie?

Charlie stroked her tousled mane for a moment, and then swung up into the saddle.

Yes, he was glad to be here. And the time had come to face up to the Old Man.

* * *

Charlie returned around suppertime. Buck lazily chewed on a match as he watched from the shadows of the barn while the young man unsaddled and then curried Dixie’s sweaty back.

Sure as hell is an all-day hoss, ain’t she, boy? he asked.

She’s all right, Buck. No need ever to pull leather on her.

She threw a filly three year back what ain’t been broke. That hoss is every bit as good as Dixie. Got hellacious withers, she has. Great for mountain ridin’. I think you best break her out for yourself, Charlie. You’ll need a good mount if you stick around here.

Sounds good to me, Buck.

"We’ll catch her up tomorrow and have ourselves a little rodeo. But come on in, now. Old C.S. has been trying to ignore your homecomin’, but he’s gone and cooked supper enough for half