Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
The air inside was cold enough that my breath misted when I spoke, the cooling units humming a low, steady vibration through the concrete floor. The butcher, a thick-shouldered man named Carl who wore a white apron stained with dark red patches, was scraping a wooden cutting block with a steel brush.
“Arthur,” he said, nodding. “You need some steaks?”
“I need twenty pounds of raw beef scraps,” I said. “The stuff you trim off the carcasses that you usually throw in the tallow bin. Organ meat too, if you have it.”
Carl stopped scraping the block. He wiped his hands on his apron and looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he sized up the request.
“I have got plenty of trim,” he said. “Most of it is fat and tendon, but there is some liver and heart mixed in from the morning slaughter. What are you using it for?”
“I am baiting a camera line,” I said.
