Michael held up his hand. “I didn’t get a slip.”
“I gave one to your nanny, Michael. Please ask her about it. Now, how many of you have the list of essential items for the hike?”
As soon as Mr. Farmington said “nanny” the boys around him giggled and his face felt hot. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he should have stayed with the Cub Scouts another year. On the walk back to the church, Fat Kenny sneaked up on him from behind. “Hey, Mikey! Going home to your nanny?” He spoke loud enough so the boys around him could hear his laugh. “Does your nanny give you milk from her titty?”
More laughter. Michael stopped and stared back at him, curling his hands into fists. Fat Kenny moved in closer and lowered his head, inches from his face. “What’s a matter? Are you gonna cry?”
Michael held his breath and walked away. Fat Kenny followed, whispering behind him. “Little boys who’ve got a nanny should stay out of the woods. It’s a scary place. You never know what could—”
Michael collapsed to the ground on his knees. As close as a shadow, Fat Kenny stumbled over him and slammed into the dirt.
“Dammit!” cried the startled boy. He lay on his back while holding his knee in the air with both hands and a look of mortal pain.
With the look of a sergeant, Mr. Farmington marched to the scene and glared down at his son. “Was that foul language coming from your mouth, Kenny?”
“I tripped,” he mumbled back. All of the boys stared at Michael.
“Shame on you for that kind of talk, Kenny. If I hear any more of that, you’re staying home this weekend. Move it out, boys!”
It had been a risky thing to do. One of Fat Kenny’s friends might beat him up later, but it felt good at the moment. The redheaded boy from the picnic table caught up with him. He said his name was Randy Cunningham. “My mom says I won’t get to go on the overnighter.” Although he wasn’t any taller than Michael, he looked older. “If you can’t go, maybe we can hang out at the campground together.”
“Who said I wasn’t going on the hike?” Michael replied.
“How come you don’t got a uniform anyways?”
Michael shrugged his shoulders, like it wasn’t important. Then Randy pointed at Fat Kenny limping and they both giggled. Michael had made a friend. Maybe it was going to be a fun weekend after all.
Mrs. Farmington dropped Michael and Megan off at home after the Scout meeting. Michael lumbered toward the cabin as Megan ran ahead. She waited at the side door until he unlocked it, then dashed inside to grab Rusty and wrestle with him on the kitchen floor.
He pulled a gallon jug of milk from the refrigerator. A note was stuck on the door:
Michael,
I’m sorry but we won’t be able to drive up to Bozeman this evening for your uniform. I’ll be home in time to fix dinner.
Michael ripped the note from the door and wadded it up in his fist. He hurled it onto the kitchen floor and ran into the bedroom where he plopped down on his bed. When Megan strolled into his room, he covered his head with a pillow.
“Remember,” she whispered, “you gotta take Rusty out.”
“Just get out of my room.”
“I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, I didn’t do it.” She scampered out and gently closed the door behind her, but not before whispering “Rusty” at him one more time.
He threw the pillow to the floor and stood, then walked to the chest of drawers and stooped to open the bottom one. Underneath his winter long johns, he reached for a Boy Scout form:
Please read this form. It must be signed and returned to the Gallatin District Scoutmaster before each activity.
Indian Creek Camporee at Yellowstone National Park
Circle ONE only: Overnight / Hike / Canoe Trip
Parent/Guardian for himself/herself and for his/her child or ward by signature herein below waives any and all claims against Boy Scout Troop 173, its leaders and parent volunteers for injury, accident, illness or death occurring during the hike or excursion.
Parent’s/Guardian’s Signature _____________________________
Date ________________
With the folded piece of paper behind his back, he crept toward the kitchen and stopped to peek around the corner. Megan sat on her knees in a chair at the table. With an opened jar and lid beside her elbow, she was painting a slice of bread with a glob of peanut butter. For her, it was more than a snack, it was a party. He tiptoed down the hall and entered his dad’s bedroom, where he pushed open the roll-top desk and stared at the mess. Searching through the stacks on top, he was careful to keep every piece of paper in place. When he thought he saw the bank checks, he reached too fast for them and knocked a stack of papers lying near the edge to the floor. He quickly plunged to his hands and knees and collected the scattered papers, hoping they were back in order, more or less. Gently placing the pile on the desk, he twisted and shoved it back and forth into the exact position that he remembered.
He reached for the group of cancelled checks and pulled one out. In one hand he held the check and in the other he picked up the Scout permission slip. He rushed to the window and mashed both pieces of paper against the glass pane, then arranged the check’s signature line under the blank line of the permission slip. With a ballpoint pen clutched between his thumb and forefinger and his teeth clamping down on his tongue, he carefully began to trace.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Bantz Montgomery entered Greta McFarland’s office, accompanied by Dr. Matthew Wallace from the forensics lab in Oregon.
“Come on in,” McFarland ordered.
She’d never looked so bedraggled, Montgomery thought, and he knew why. Word had come in that afternoon about the death of a hiker on the Fawn Pass trail. On the day before, the office received the call from Oregon that Dr. Wallace would be flying in on a government charter with the lab results that McFarland had demanded.
Jack Corey stood in the office by a Yellowstone map on the wall while apparently briefing McFarland. The greetings with Dr. Wallace were quick, then coffee was offered to the special guest but politely refused. The office air hung thick with solemn business as Wallace and Montgomery took their seats and McFarland asked Corey to carry on.
“It was a Grizzly attack,” Corey said confidently, pointing to the map. “The hiker’s body was located here, not far off the Fawn Pass trail.”
“What makes you think a bear did it?” McFarland asked.
“I sent out a team.” He nodded toward Montgomery. “Bantz led it.”
McFarland squeezed her forehead as Corey spoke. The park superintendent always depended on her to be the go-to person for the media. She’d be the one to take care of the report of a death on a backcountry trail and she needed to do it that weekend. An exhausting turn of events for everyone, but especially for anyone in her position.
“They found fresh scat and tracks where the attack occurred,” Corey continued. “Unmistakable Grizzly signs. The body was dragged away and covered with dirt and branches. Typical.”