The Dinosaur Hunter by Homer Hickam Page A

empty beer bottle on the table, confident, I suppose, that someone would take care of it. Like me. “Guess I’ll be off,” he said and when no one said or did anything to stop him, he made good on his plan.
    Laura was shooting eye-daggers at Pick. “Pick, what’s wrong with you? The man was offering to help.”
    Pick ignored her and looked over in my direction. “Mike, I appreciate you volunteering to work with us.”
    This was news to me. Jeanette said, by way of explanation, “I volunteered you, Mike. The cows are all where they need to be, things have slowed down on the ranch, and I figured you’d enjoy it.”
    â€œI was thinking about going to Vegas in a couple of weeks,” I said, which happened to be the truth. Every so often, I still needed a bright light or two.
    Jeanette didn’t think much of my vacation plans. “I’d appreciate it if you helped Dr. Pickford,” she said, pointedly.
    â€œThen I guess I’ll do it,” I answered, the Las Vegas strip blinking off in my head like a busted street light. I sometimes surprised myself with how eager I was to please the queen of the prairie. Every man has to have a weakness. Of course, I had no idea it would almost get me killed and I guess Jeanette didn’t, either. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt on that one.

10
    I didn’t go out to Pick’s camp for another four days. Jeanette might have said we were caught up but I knew even as she said it, it wasn’t true. The Big Man in the Sky had turned off his faucet. The Square C was drying out, which meant we needed to stir the cows around to put them on some pastures that hadn’t been grazed for a while. This fell mostly on me and Ray, Jeanette worrying over the plans for the Independence Day celebration.
    Then word came of another murdered cow, this one south of Jericho on one of the Brescoe ranches. The modus operandi was the same, right down to the note from the Green Monkey Wrench Gang, which, come to think of it, we didn’t receive with our murdered bull. I wondered if maybe the note had blown away or maybe the cow murderer hadn’t come up with the idea of writing us a missive when he was on our land. When she heard about the new dead cow, Jeanette worked the phone, talking to the mayor and folks up and down the road on whether the state police ought to be called. I asked Jeanette what the consensus was and she said, “They’d send some kid up from Billings who wouldn’t even know where to start. We’ve decided we can handle things just fine.”
    I started to remind her of my police background but shut my trap. Jeanette had not asked for my help, which was tantamount to her saying she didn’t need it. So I told her I was heading out to the dinosaur diggers. At the time, she was sitting at her kitchen table with a legal pad full of notes, a ledger, a calculator, and a telephone. “I’m glad somebody gets to have fun around here,” she said as if going out there was my idea.
    I went back to my trailer and packed a cooler of veggies, then grabbed two bags each of beans and rice from my stores, a couple bottles of gin and tonic water, and the usual toiletries. I scrounged around until I found an old duffel bag and stuffed it with underwear, socks, work shirts, T-shirts, an extra pair of jeans, old running shoes, and a bandana. I found the old tent and sleeping bag Bill Coulter had given me when I’d first arrived on the Square C for the infrequent times I needed to stay overnight out on the far fringes of the ranch. I also retrieved a five-gallon water can from beneath the trailer and filled it. I loaded my favorite four-wheeler with all my stuff and headed out. Ray opened the gate that led to the BLM. “I’ll be out there pretty soon,” he said.
    â€œHow about Amelia?”
    He shrugged. “Who cares about her?”
    â€œYou do.”
    He frowned, then shook his