Free Land of Wolves by Craig Johnson

look like?”
    “Like a wolf.”
    His head dropped a bit in disappointment in me. “Can you be a little more specific?”
    “What do you care?”
    “I want to know if I know it.”
    “What, you’re on a first-name basis with all the wolves in Wyoming and Montana?”
    “A few.”
    He waited, and I summoned up the image of the wolf, which was surprisingly easy. “Big.” I glanced down at the snoring monster wrapped around the base of my barstool. “Bigger than him.”
    “Amazing, few things in this epoch are.”
    “Dark, but with a mask sort of over the eyes, along the nose, and to the sides of the muzzle that had a lot of gray. Dark-colored overall with really light eyes almost a caramel color.” Ishrugged. “He also had a four-thousand-dollar transmitting collar on him, and his official title is 777M.”
    He looked slightly surprised. “Chuck Coon told you that?”
    “No, a woman by the name of Keasik Cheechoo who works for the wolf conservancy did. She’s, let me see if I can get this right . . . Cree-Assiniboine/Young Dogs, Piapot First Nation.”
    “Keasik—Cree for ‘sky blue.’ So, she’s Canadian.”
    “I guess, but she says you broke her uncle’s arm one time arm wrestling over in Spokane.”
    He shook his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
    “Well, if I had as many cases of aggravated assault as you . . .”
    He ignored me. “So, male.”
    “Keasik Cheechoo is female.”
    “The wolf, 777M. The M stands for male.”
    “Oh.”
    “How old?”
    “I have no idea, but I’d say old. Probably kicked off from his pack by some young buck.” He smiled. “What?”
    “You are feeling some empathy for this aged wolf?”
    “I hadn’t thought about it; maybe so.”
    “I would not want to meet the younger wolf that could run off something bigger than Dog.” He studied the surface of the bar between us, reached behind, and took a sip of the tonic water and lemon juice he sometimes kept on the bar back. “It might be someone I know, or perhaps someone you know.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Sometimes people’s spirits come back, and some of their favorites are bears, buffalo, and wolves.”
    “Werebears and werebuffaloes?”
    “Not exactly.”
    Folding the tab down, I finally took a sip of my Rainier. “Uh, huh . . .”
    “In my culture, animals are celebrated as beautiful, mysterious, powerful, dangerous, and benevolent. There was a period, before we lost the ability to listen, when the animals took pity on us, protected and taught us to the point where they became human in times of great need.”
    “Henry . . .”
    He held out a hand. “Hear me out. Back in the day, my people wore the skins and furs of these animals, choosing the animals that appealed to them. Say a person were to choose a wolf, or more important, the wolf were to choose this person and the person becomes the wolf without changing their physical form. He or she dreamed of wolves, developed wolf skills and power, acted like a wolf, immersed themselves in wolf lore, talked with wolves, hunted with wolves, was taught by wolves, protected by wolves, painted himself or herself as a wolf, and wore wolf omotome in his or her medicine bundle.” He reached into his shirt and pulled out the small, beaded pouch he always wore around his neck. “This is where the border between two species is broken, and spiritually the wolf and the human become one.”
    “Well, I hope it isn’t anybody we know, because when the DNA testing gets back from the lab in Laramie, this wolf is as good as gone.”
    He nodded, dropped his head, and, as the dark hair closed around his face, took another sip of his faux drink. “You said the wolf is older.”
    “Well, he looked older, but I didn’t get a chance to see his ID.”
    He returned the glass to the flat surface behind him and crossed his arms again. “How long ago was it you met Virgil White Buffalo on the mountain?”
    I sat there just looking at him.
    His