Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“The winter was long, so the predators are tracking the herds lower than usual,” Davis said. “We have two distinct wolf packs moving through that corridor right now. One of them has eight collar tracking signals active, and they have been crossing your county road twice a week.”
“How close do they get to the cabins?” I asked.
“Close enough if they find a reason,” Davis said. He leaned his forearms on the counter, his uniform shirt crisp and dry. “They are moving along the seasonal wildlife paths. If you have got garbage out, or any kind of grease from a grill, they will find it inside of twenty-four hours.”
I kept my hands in my pockets, my fingers touching the heavy roll of bills I had taken from Edwin the day before. “What about raw meat?”
Davis stopped tapping his pencil. He looked at me for a long three seconds, his face showing the exhaustion of a ranger who had spent too many seasons dealing with people who treated the wilderness like a zoo.
