“I’ve never shot a gun before, man,” Dan says.

“Really?” Griff rubs his scruffy blonde beard. “Shit. You really are a city boy. Well, if we don’t find a proper deer today, you can let off a round.”

“That’d be dope.”

“But if I find a deer and you help me harvest it, I’ll give you some steaks.”

“Also sounds dope.”

Griff’s Jeep navigates the washed-out road. He keeps the wheel loose in his hand, feeling the nuances of dirt and rock.

         Dan looks out at the country. Sagebrush. Hills and gullies extend to either jagged granite peaks or the high desert prairie. Sparse, despite such vastness. Empty, full of possibility. Dan gets the same feeling he felt a few months prior on his drive from D.C. to the West. Space is something to be known, to explore. A feeling of freedom the claustrophobia of a city didn’t offer.

“You know the first Yellowstone wolf was killed right up that gully?”

“Here?”

“Right up there.” Griff points at a cut in the hillside. “You moved here for wolves and you didn’t know that?”

“I didn’t move up here for wolves. I just think they’re cool animals. I read too much Jack London as a kid, I guess.”

“Jack London,” Griff laughs. “Dude, was a fat drunk who wrote about Alaska from his California home. But, yeah right up there. Chad McKittrick. Guess he saw the wolf while he and buddy were trying to free his truck from some mud that he crashed into. His buddy told him he better not shoot it. ‘It could be someone’s dog,’ his buddy said.”

“McKittrick laughed and said, ‘A fucking wolf. I want it.’ He took a pull of whiskey, set his sights, and bam! When they got up to it they saw the US Wildlife collar beeping on its neck, so they cut that shit off and threw it in the creek. They strung up the wolf in those cottonwoods down there, then beheaded and skinned it. I guess the collar set off a distress signal because it wasn’t tracking any movement and that brought an investigation from the feds. He was bragging about it at the Saloon for nearly a week before they arrested him.”

“Jesus. He’s in jail, right?”

“No. He lives out by my old boss. Dude’s a psycho, man. Rode his horse into the Saloon one Fourth and demanded the whole bar get a free round for the sake of freedom. Some say it’s from when he got kicked by a horse when he was young, but my older sister said he was always better at finishing a beer than a sentence.”

“So, he got away scot-free?”

“He did some jail time. Like three months. Tried to represent himself. Nobody bought his defense, but he did get a law named after him. The McKittrick Law. If you claim you thought it was a different type of animal you were trying to kill, you can’t be prosecuted.”

“Ridiculous.”

Griff reaches into his back seat and throws a beer on Dan’s lap. “Pretty wild. Funny if you ask me. There’s no right or wrong out here sometimes. You’ll like this though, that wolf had a mate hiding in the hills. The game warden found her and a litter during the investigation, and to em’ back to the park. That dead wolf’s bloodline is one of the Park’s strongest.” 

“Life and death, I suppose.” 

“Something like that. This spot I’m taking you to, it’s near my dad’s old property. Dad always saw a bunch of wolves, but never had the balls to pull the trigger.”

“Balls? I hope you’re referring to testicles as a source of arrogance rather than courage.”

“Most people don’t like wolves around here. Ain’t easy being a cattle rancher or hunting elk with wolves putting pressure on everything. You wouldn’t like if something fucked with your way of life.”

“You think it’s easy living as a wolf? Pulling down an 800-pound elk with nothing but your teeth? Shot at for just trying to survive?”

“Shit, some say wolves have more freedoms granted to them by the feds in your hometown than most humans do at this point.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Absurd, funny, or true, it’s something to think about.”

Griff shifts into a lower gear and keeps the tires moving through thick mud. Above the road, a spine of palisades etches across the mountains’ front. Stone towers, sharp and dramatic, above sagebrush and pine forests. The road drops from the foothills and into the high desert valley. Lines of crops break up sagebrush and dirt. A meandering streak of blue divides the valley.

“That’s a fork of the Yellowstone. My grandpa and dad owned about a hundred acres down there. We had cattle and sheep. A humble spot. They made due of the land but never did much past breaking even. Dad tried to parcel off the land once my grandfather died. He was done hustling for nothing. Thought they’d make more money by selling little bits at a time. He made us just enough to move into town and help him start a new blue-collar career.” Griff shakes his head and throws his empty beer into the back and grabs two more. “Gotta hydrate if you’re gonna haul out a deer with me.”

Dan chugs his beer and cracks a new one. “What’d he do?”

“Building big ole cabins for rich folk moving in from California, Boston, Texas. All fucking over. Did it until it broke his back. And now I’m breaking my back hauling kegs of shit yuppie beer around for the newest generation of rich out of towners.”

“I get it. We transplants suck, but what do you got against an IPA, man?”

“Nothing. Aside from the headaches they give me in the morning. And the fact they call themselves transplants.” 

The road dries out in the valley and skirts along the south reaching mountains. Griff shifts again and gets the jeep going with a fishtail. “There’s a pass over those mountains that leads to Yellowstone. Wildest country you’ll find south of Canada and Alaska.” Griff’s head swivels.

“Look at that shit!” Beer in hand, he points out his driver’s side window. 

Pronghorns pace the car, less than thirty yards off. Bounding sage, the herd navigates the prairie.

“We must be going 45. They don’t even look like they’re trying.”

The pronghorns veer down a coulee. Off beyond the hunt. Griff slows the car as they near a bluff. “There’s some muleys out there in the sage.” He stops the car, rolls his window down, lights a cigarette, points his rifle out of the window, looks through his scope. “This isn’t technically legal. I should probably tell you that.”

“Any bucks out there?”

“No. They’re too far anyways. I couldn’t shoot one from the car if I wanted to. And the wind isn’t right to sneak up anyways.”

Griff drives towards the canyon mouth. He angles the car and parks it with a front tire propped on a big boulder and the other suspended. He lights another cigarette. “Time to get western with it.” The door slams and Dan sees Griff standing with a hatchet and a new six-pack in his hands.

“A hatchet? Is that how you plan to skin this deer?”

“It’s a tomahawk, bud. And no, got my grandfather’s knife for that. It’s just as sharp as the day he gave it to me. ‘Sharper than my dick after five Viagra,’ is what he said. I hope that dirty old man is drinking beer in heaven and flirting with his favorite barmaid.”

They walk towards the canyon and meet a barbed-wire fence. Griff uses his tomahawk to push the wire down and gracefully throws one leg and then the other over.

“Is this kosher?” Dan asks.

“Ah shit, city boy.” He pulls a bottle from the six-pack and uses his tomahawk to pry the cap off. “I usually say break one law at a time, but don’t you worry your little head. I’ve been hunting up here since I was a kid. These people are never here.”

They reach a gate. Griff hands the beer to Dan, unlatches the chain, then nods Dan on. Dan slinks through and Griff follows.

“Told you it wasn’t a big deal. Open a couple more.”

Dan struggles with the tomahawk but finds leverage, popping the bottle cap, and hands the beer to Griff. The next beer opens easier and Dan smiles. “You’re a goddamned American hero,” Dan says and raises his beer. “Tomahawks and brews.”

Griff chuckles and raises his bottle. “Told you that thing is handy. Keep an eye on the ground for tracks.”

Dan laughs. They walk south up a shoulder, loose rock kicks from their feet. Griff laughs. “We’re on a game trail. We look like total dumbasses trying to navigate it. And what we’re out here hunting? They do this shit every single day to eat. You eat clean grocery store meat, shipped to your stomach and delivered from your asshole to your toilet of a conscience..”

“I get it. I’m here for a reason, Griff.”

They reach the canyon’s mouth. A creek runs through it. Narrow and dramatic. Traversing fallen trees and boulders. White, bubbling, but falling clear into pools and clear paths.

Griff wanders the creek’s edge. “There’s a clearing across the creek. It’s perfect for grazing.” He steps in. The water runs around his shins. 

Dan jumps across exposed rocks. The last stone turns and he slips into the creek. His momentum fumbles him forward, splashing through water before he catches himself.

Griff looks back and laughs. “Give me another beer.” He throws his empty in his pack, then sticks his hand out. Try to keep pace, Dan chugs his beer. Then opens the last two beers with the tomahawk. “To the big bad West,” Dan says and slams his bottle against Griff’s. The glass clink echoes through the canyon.

Griff screams, “We’re everywhere!”        

Rocks slide toward them. Dan covers his head. Griff laughs and looks up a narrow gap between palisades. A dozen bighorn sheep move across shelves of rock. Escaping the boys’ nonsense.

“God damn. Those bastards are moving right into Durand’s hiding spot,” Griff says.

Dan unfurls from the excitement. “What are you talking about now?”

“Earl Durand. Bud. No one told you about him either?

“Griff, man. I’ve been here for like eight months. Hunting with you is popping one big cherry, so you tell me.”

“Earl Durand?! Shit. I guess no one knows about him anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah. I will. But let’s climb up there.” Griff scrambles up the hillside until he meets the slope of loose rock.

Dan follows, his left hand clutching his last beer, and right hand holding the tomahawk.

Griff takes a sip of beer and looks through his rifle scope. “To be honest, this may not be the spot. It looks like it could be.”

“What spot?

“I haven’t been up this shelf. I’ve always wondered. But it never looked climbable, but Ithink the way those rams went, that might be what he did.”

“Did what?”

“Earl Durand. He was one of my grandfather’s friends. He’s a legend.”        

Griff climbs to a limestone ledge and sits on it. Dan slides and stumbles across the rock to meet him. The ledge barely affords space.

“You trying to take advantage of me up here?” Dan asks.

“You wish. Give me another beer.”

“We’re out, bud.”

“Shit,” Griff reaches into his own bag and pulls out a flask. “I gotta tell you this story.”

Dan slugs his foamed-up beer. “Jesus, bud. I thought you flunked out of high school. You sure you didn’t major in history at Montana State? Or you just good at making shit up over a cigarette and a beer?”

“Man, I grew up here. My grandpa grew up here. My dad too. They told me all about this shit while at the dinner table. Shit, my grandpa was up here looking for Durand.”

“Okay, so tell me who this Durand was.”

“Durand, bud. The last badass. John Wayne made a movie about him, bud. Brad Pitt should’ve made one too, but instead, he made A River Runs Through It. But while Maclean was fishing up on the Blackfoot, Durand was living hard down here.” Griff lights a cigarette and begins.

“So, Durand. Dude was built like an NFL linebacker. Like 6’3”, 250lbs. He was in high school when my grandpa was in middle school. But my grandpa knew him well from town. He said Durand always had a book when he wasn’t working on his dad’s farm. A nice guy. But in like 1933, Durand and some homies went hunting south of here and killed four elk out of season. Someone called them in, so cops were waiting when they got back to town. They tried to book it past em, but the sheriffs held em a gunpoint. Durand leaped off the truck and ran into the woods. Two days later, a rancher reported that someone killed one of his cows and sliced a prime cut of Angus right off it.”

“This happened right here?”

“No, man. Not yet. This is still a few canyons south of here. Like thirty miles. But they find him nearby. After they lock him up, homeboy escapes by knocking out the deputy when he delivered his morning milk. He takes that deputy hostage, steals the sheriff’s vehicle, and drives home. Word gets out and two Marshalls show up at his house. He blasts both. Kills ‘em. A few nights later, he shows up at a close friend’s house before daybreak. They make him breakfast in the dark and drive him to this canyon.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, man! Those close friends gave him a few hours before calling the authorities.

Then National Guard and all the cops of Wyoming and Montana were on the move. A full civilian posse too. They find him way up in some palisades. Something like this spot. The National Guard just unloaded howitzers on it. Anyways, my grandpa joins the cause, mostly out of intrigue. But he’s there when two older dudes take it in their own hands to flush Durand out. Durand tells ‘em to give up before killing them both. So now, four dead.”

“But no one would go up to pull the bodies out. They were so freaked out about getting blasted too. Come nightfall, Durand makes his way from his spot, steals both guns and a badge from his victims, then follows the posse back to their basecamp. Then waits by the road for two days until a car drives by. He flashes the badge and tells him he’s helping with the manhunt and needs a ride. Dude has them drive him to get more ammo, then to his parent’s house for a proper goodbye. He pays for their gas and has them drive him into the country, where he sticks them up and tells them to find a ride back to civilization. Get this, before he drives off, he asks the guys about the car’s insurance. He was concerned about whether it had theft coverage and felt better when he learned it did. He mobs back to Powell and holds up the bank. Gets a ton of cash. Everyone is still looking for him up in the mountains. Should be scot-free, right? But dude goes nuts. Shoots up the bank for like ten minutes. That sets the entire town on further edge and nearly a hundred people show up with guns, ready to take back the peace.”

“This is a John Wayne movie? How haven’t I heard of it?”

“Because it sucked. But listen, Durand walks out with three people bound as a human shield. The townsfolk can't help but fire and after one of the three hostages falls, a seventeen-year-old kid who was just filling up on gas across the street takes Durand down. Enough to make the bastard crawl back into the bank and off himself. My grandfather was in the same class as the kid that finally got one past Durand. How wild is that? And we might be sitting right on his perch.”

“What did your grandpa think about the whole ordeal?”

“You just heard it. I mean he was there with the posse, but he never said much, except that he was surprised Durand did it. Always said it shouldn’t have been such a big deal. On both accounts. Durand shouldn’t have gone on a rampage, but shouldn’t have gotten locked up for killing a few elk. Like maybe you pull his hunting permit for a time. I don’t know, my grandpa was conflicted. He knew the dude while they were growing up, respected him. Durand had done more badass shit in the mountains than anyone my grandpa had ever known. He also terrorized their town. Most people didn’t leave their houses for those eleven days he was running around.

Media fucked up that part up too. He became ‘The Tarzan of the Tetons.’ A hero of freedom, just trying to feed his poor town with the elk he harvested for them. It wasn’t that simple in my grandpa’s eyes. He’s always been pretty salty about the Teton thing. You know they’re about eighty miles southwest of here.”

Dan laughs. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think it’s an awesome story. I’m glad I wasn’t there with Durand. Hunting elk with him or hunting him.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know, man. Different times. My grandpa said the same thing. Like, he could’ve been out there hunting with him. He was young and impressionable. Durand was already a legend in his eyes. But you know what’s also badass about this perch?”

“Tell me, Professor.”

“See that Heart Mountain out there, towards Powell? It was a Japanese Internment camp. It’s also where a lieutenant was supposed to intercept Chief Joseph and his tribe while they were on the run.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that’s what the pass is named after.”

“Oh yeah, he led hundreds of women and children down something like we are on, but a thousand feet higher, with horses, and he evaded the US Army. Apparently, that lieutenant didn’t think they’d make it out of the canyon and bailed out to a better way out of the mountains. They made it out of the canyon and weren’t caught until they were forty miles from the Canadian border.”

“That, I didn’t know.”

“They say the West is empty and open. A place of opportunity. But people have been out here living a certain way for thousands of years. You city boys gotta learn about this country, especially if you think it’s gonna be yours.”

“I don’t think shit is mine. I’m just happy to explore.”

“I don’t think Durand was any different. He just didn’t like to be told what to do. Nor what is right or isn’t.”

“You think he was right then?”

“I think this is some wild country and it deserves people who are willing live with its wild.”

“Yeah, but what does that mean to you?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think men should be chased around by the feds for trying to live their lives. But I think that statement might be more accurate regarding the Nez Perce and Chief Joseph trying to run to their freedom. Or to the Japanese Americans that were thrown in an internment camp. I think there’s always more nuance to something when you’re up close and looking at it. Freedom’s a strange thing and it’s something that needs to be considered quite often out here. But I do know I like eating venison that I killed.”

“Yeah, I just want to know where my meat came from.”

“I wouldn’t have brought you out here if I didn’t think you at least gave a bit of damn about understanding this land and its ways. But I won’t lie, I didn’t sight my scope before we left and it looks extra blurry after all of this drinking.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t think we’re gonna kill anything today.”

“Really?”

“Yes really. All we’ve really seen is the bottom of a few beer bottles. No need to look formuch else.”

“Well you still okay if I let off that round?”

Griff turns and smiles. “You really want a taste of the West, huh? Wanna be a gunslinger?” Griff hands the rifle over. “Keep it steady, and I’ll help you take the safety off.”

Dan shoulders the rifle and aims down the canyon at a lone pine growing through the rocks. “I’m ready.”

Griff flips off the safety. “Fire away, outlaw.”

Dan pulls the trigger, his eyes flinching with the recoil. The blast echoes up the canyon and then back into the open country.

 “Did I hit anything?”

“Absolutely not. But you gotta start somewhere.”

(originally published as the Big Snowy Prize 2022 Winner in The Montana Quarterly)