Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
He didn’t ask any more questions. People in Park County didn’t press you if you kept your explanations short, especially when it came to what you did on your own acreage. He went into the back cooler, the heavy insulated door groaning on its hinges, and returned five minutes later carrying a large mound of red and white flesh on a sheet of butcher paper.
He set it on the scale. The needle swung to twenty-two pounds.
“That will be forty-five dollars,” Carl said. “I can grind it for you if you want.”
“Leave it whole,” I said. “It needs to last a few days in the brush.”
I pulled out another fifty-dollar bill from my pocket. “Wrap it tight, Carl. I have got a drive ahead of me.”
He tore off a long sheet of heavy white paper and wrapped the meat into a neat, rectangular package. He secured it with thick brown paper tape, but already a small circle of red moisture was starting to seep through the corner of the paper, dampening the white fibers.
