Chapter 19

Two Voices "found" four carpets for them: one more "cargo" carpet and 3 "bathmats". This time the women went, the men stayed home.

If you want highly observant people, use women. Just mention to a woman that you found an article in a Sporting Magazine that claims "Women can't see game animals" and no deer or elk will be missed as long as she's in the truck.

Gossip, read, play with the baby, check the map, she can do all these things and... "there's a muley buck just under the ridge third chokecherry left of of the tallest pine on the ridge. It's a 10 pointer."

"Yeah, right."

"Stop the truck and get out the binocs if you don't believe me. Betcha $10.00."

"Bet!"

"What, you still can't see it? Hold on a second."

HONK HONK HONK.

"Well shit" as you haul out the wallet and fork over. That damn deer was so buried in the chokecherries that the only part visible was an inch of antler tip. But she saw it, half a mile away and uphill. As you drive away, you both mutter, "can't see game, my ass," you with a frown of consternation and her with a vindictive grin.

Got a problem with burglars? Let just one of them bad guys get close to her baby and you're calling the morgue for a pick up. Gentler sex my ass. Timid? not MY wife.

We were living in northern Wyoming, when the sheriff came out to the house to check on another gun shot report in the middle of the night. The first thing he did was blip the siren at the gate so she'd know he was there. The second thing he did was call out, "Jo, it's the Sheriff, can I come up to the house?" The third thing he did was ignore the blood trail from halfway up the walk: the body was on the porch and that's all he cared about. Fourth, he asked, politely, he noticed Jo had her right hand behind her skirt. "How many rounds, Jo."

"Two." The Smith was on the freezer, open, with four live rounds and two hulls. "Sheriff, this one came armed, pretty little AK." she pointed with her left hand to the rifle by the freezer. "I'd admire to have it when the inquest is over."

"Shit! Sorry, Jo. Warning Shot?"

"Yup." as her left hand pointed to a hole in the porch ceiling.

The sheriff took a Sharpie, a red one, out of his pocket and drew a circle around the hole. There were several holes just like it, all with red circles.

"Which shot came first, Jo?"

"You're getting a little personal, sheriff."

"Looks pretty cut and dried to me, Jo. Warning shot, two rounds fired, torn blouse, yup. Self Defense. We have your ballistics on file?"

"Every gun in the house, the barn, the coal shed, the hired hand house and the chicken coop, sheriff. You get 'em first."

"How many does this make?"

"Don't know, I lost track. You'd think they'd stop coming way out here, it just ain't safe."

"Bye Jo. The morgue is on the way. I can see the wrecker is picking up the car."

"Sheriff, it could be worse. The Game and Fish have to deal with the poachers. Stop out again, sheriff."

"I hope not, Jo. It's a long trip and these patrol cars use a lot of gas."

"I can drag 'em out to the dead calf ditch, coyotes will take care of the problem. You won't even have to bury 'em."

"Thoughtful of you, Jo. It's better to have the neighbors call anyway, there might be someone waiting at home."