Wyoming Bold. Diana Palmer
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DROVE THE squirrel to the rehabilitator. It was necessary, because law prevented any veterinarian from treating a wild animal. That had to be done by a trained rehabilitator, and there were so few that many injured animals died. The rehabilitators were so overworked that many just stopped answering their phones in self-defense, not having realized the incredible number of injured wild animals they were signing up to treat. The law was in place to protect animals and the public, but it seemed to Tank that it was designed to let wounded wildlife die. Like so many other little-known laws, its good intentions sometimes were outweighed by its tragic consequences.
“At least this one will live,” Tank told Greg Barnes, his friend.
“Yeah, he’s just shocked and burned a bit.” Greg chuckled. “A couple of days rest and some good food, and he’ll be back out chewing up electrical cords again.” He put the squirrel in a clean cage with water and food. Nearby were many other cages, containing a raccoon with a bandaged leg, a wolf with a leg missing, even a raven with a broken wing.
“What happened to all of these?” Tank asked.
“Kids with guns” came the irritated reply. “A teenager shot the raven for sport. I had words with him and his father, and court action is pending.”
Tank shook his head. “And the wolf?”
“Ate two of a rancher’s calves. He was trapped. He lost the leg and would have died if I hadn’t found him. People and wild animals just don’t mix.”
“Ranchers have to live.”
The rehabilitator nodded. “So they do. Nobody wins in a situation like this. The rancher is being fined for trapping the wolf. It’s an endangered species. The rancher said his calves were also endangered, but it won’t help him.” He glanced at Tank. “Most of the people who write law concerning wild animals have never seen one.” He had a strange, wicked look on his face. “You know, I have this recurring daydream about putting a couple of these legislators in a room with several hungry wolves...” He sighed. “Well, never mind. But I guarantee it would change attitudes. The survivors would probably legislate for change.” He put his hand to the wolf’s muzzle through the cage and stroked it. The wolf didn’t seem to mind. “Not you, old fellow,” he said gently. “There are sweet wolves and mean wolves. Sort of like people.” He glanced at Tank. “But in the wild, a wolf is going to do what comes naturally, whether it’s kill and eat elk or cattle. The trick is to make sure the numbers aren’t so big that the habitat can support the pack and they don’t resort to raiding cattle ranches.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell Congress.”
“Wouldn’t I love to tell Congress how I feel about what goes on in the real world out here. How do you tell a wolf it can’t cross a property line? Or a raven that if it goes to ground hunting a rabbit it’s likely to be shot in lieu of a target?”
“At least you’re trying to help,” Tank pointed out.
Greg smiled. “Trying to. Yes.” He waved an arm around the room full of cages. “I have two more rooms like this.” He cocked his head and pursed his lips. “Ever wonder why I’m not married?”
Tank chuckled. “Not really. I don’t know a lot of women who’d like to share space with a wolf. Even one in a cage.”
“Got a cougar in the other room. A ferret and a couple of skunks. All victims of trapping.” He shook his head. “The raven was a special case, I mostly do mammals.”
“Who brought him to you?”
He grimaced. “The boy’s mother. His dad thought it was great, how he hit the raven on the fly. His mother was horrified.”
“Good for her. I like to target shoot, but I don’t do it with animals. Well, except deer, in hunting season,” he amended. “I love venison.”
“Me, too,” Greg confessed. “That’s rather a different case. Not enough forage for an overpopulation of deer, so we hunt the excess to keep the herds healthy. Can’t explain that to outsiders, either. We’re killing Bambi.”
“Bambi can kill you with those hooves,” Tank commented. “They’re like razor blades.”
“Indeed they are. Deer are powerful, especially the bucks, with those big racks.”
“Think the squirrel will live?”
“If he doesn’t it won’t be my fault,” Greg said. He smiled. “I love animals.”
“Maybe someday you’ll find a woman who does, too.”
He shrugged. “Or not.” He eyed Tank. “You got this squirrel from Merissa Baker, didn’t you?” he asked.
“No comments about curdling milk,” Tank said defensively.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” Greg replied. “She’s got this way with animals, is what I meant,” he said. “Brought me a snake one day that she’d bandaged. She was afraid the bandage wouldn’t stay on.” He whistled. “Biggest damned timber rattler I ever saw, and it was lying in her arms like a baby. Minute I touched it, it tried to strike at me. But I bandaged it and nursed it back to health and turned it loose.”
“She told me about that.” Tank laughed. He shook his head. “Some gift.”
“Some gift. There are people among the Cheyenne tribe here who have it. I’ve seen them gentle wild horses with just light touches and tone of voice. You know,” he added, “maybe there’s something to this theory that everything has a soul.”
Tank held up both hands. “I have to go.”
“Just thinking out loud, is all.” Greg chuckled. “Anyway, your squirrel is going to be fine. Might not be a bad idea to truck him up north a few miles to turn him loose. For the sake of the wiring in Merissa’s house, that is.”
“I was thinking the same thing!”
* * *
TANK WENT BACK HOME. He was still laughing about the snake.
“What’s funny?” Mallory asked with a grin.
Tank smiled. “Merissa once took a snake to Greg Barnes for treatment.”
Mallory shook his head. “I’ll bet she hates snakes, too.”
“She does, but that isn’t what makes the story curious. It was a timber rattler.”
Mallory’s eyes grew larger. “It didn’t bite her?”
“Greg said she brought it in, holding it in her arms, and it just laid there. Until he tried to work on it, that is, and it struck at him.” He laughed at his brother’s expression. “She has a way with animals.”
“A timber rattler.” He sighed. “Well, that’s one for the books.”
Tank nodded and smiled.
Mallory was watching him with interest. “Things heating up, are they?”
Tank was surprised. “How would you know that?”
“You’re my brother. It isn’t like you to take an interest in a woman. Well, it’s not an everyday thing, at least.” Mallory was alluding to his own wife, Morie, in whom Tank had been briefly interested before he realized that Mallory’s antagonism to her was concealing a growing passion.
“I love Morie like a sister,” Tank said quickly. “Just in case you wondered.”
Mallory clapped him on the shoulder. “I know you better than that.”
“We had a very nice supper,” he recalled with a smile.
“I like the food at that place, too,” Mallory began.
“We went to a Chinese place in Powell,” Tank corrected.
Mallory’s eyebrows lifted. “Why?”