The Dinosaur Hunter Read Free Page A

they kept being fine. The sun blazed away all day, too, and by noon, the gumbo had turned hard again and everything was back to normal, if such a thing existed on the Square C.
    After I got the tractor fixed, I started working on the case of the errant bull. I’d decided to take what we called the big truck, an ancient Ford, for my foray into the badlands to chase it down. Heavier than Bob, the big truck would provide extra traction in case there were still some wet spots out there. Before I got too far checking the Ford’s fan belts, oil levels, and such, I heard somebody drive into the turnaround. When I stuck my head around the barn, I saw a pickup I didn’t recognize. It had probably started out white that morning but the backsplash of red dog and gumbo from Ranchers Road had turned it mostly pinkish-gray. The young fellow who got out of it was wearing cargo pants, a multi-pocketed shirt, and hiking boots, all of which pegged him for a hunter, had it been hunting season. He was also wearing a hat I admired, one of those Indiana Jones-like fedoras with a hat band that had tiger stripes on it. I took right away that this was likely an interesting fellow.
    â€œHowdy!” I called to him, real cowboy-like.
    When he turned toward me, I saw he was handsome in a catalog model kind of way, blue eyes that were so blue they were kind of startling, with sandy hair peeking from under his hat. “Is this the Square C Ranch?” he asked.
    My response was typical Fillmore County spare. “Yep.”
    An expression of relief crossed his face. “I’ve been driving up and down this road all morning looking for you,” he said.
    â€œWell,” I said, “you’re here.”
    That’s when I saw Jeanette, still in her barn coat, coming out of the house. A glance at her face and the way she was walking told me she was not happy. She opened the yard gate and the young man doffed his hat to her, revealing a pony tail tied with a red rubber band. Jeanette stepped up to him and got right to the point. “The answer is no,” she said. Before our visitor could reply, she added, “You want to pick up fossils on my ranch and I don’t have time to mess with you.”
    Now, how she knew why that fellow was there, I don’t know. Maybe it was instinctive. Anyway, he dug into one of his shirt pockets and produced a folded paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Jeanette. “You’re Mrs. Coulter, right? I’ve been trying to call you for a week but the phone just rang and rang.”
    I could have told him the reason for that. We didn’t have an answering machine and most of the time during daylight hours everybody was outside working. In the evening, Jeanette sometimes simply chose not to answer the phone. It was just her way.
    She reluctantly took the paper, looked it over, and said, “I remember this. Ray’s homework from about six months ago. How’d you get it?” When I eased in closer to hear everything, Jeanette gave me a warning look, then filled me in. “For English class, Ray wrote a paper about some fossils his father found.”
    â€œHe included some photographs, too,” our visitor said.
    Jeanette provided him with the Fillmore County stare, a look that would freeze a man on fire. “I know my son. He wouldn’t send this to anyone without my permission. I’ll ask you again. How did you get it?”
    â€œSomeone e-mailed it to me, an address I didn’t recognize. I e-mailed back but got no answer. When I called you and couldn’t get through, I decided to come visit. Mrs. Coulter, I’m Dr. Norman Pickford. I’m a paleontologist. The bones described in your son’s paper may be very important. That’s why I came all the way from Argentina to see them.”
    Jeanette absorbed this information. “What were you doing in Argentina?”
    â€œHunting for dinosaurs. It’s what I do.”
    In an attempt