Out of Range by C. J. Box

bear was strong in the grove, hanging like smoke about three feet above the ground. It was dusk. Joe wished they had entered the aspen at least a half hour before, when there was more light. He promised himself that if they didn’t find the bear within ten minutes he would call to Trey and they would pull out and wait for morning.
    Even though Trey had been twenty yards away when they entered the aspen, Joe couldn’t see or hear him now in the dense trees.
    Joe noticed a nuance in the smell of the bear—the metallic odor of blood. He walked slowly, breathed deeply and as quietly as possible. He didn’t want the sound of his own exertion to fill his ears and make him miss something.
    He felt it before he saw it, and spun to his left, his boot heel digging into the soft black ground beneath the fallen leaves.
    The grizzly sat on his haunches, looking at him from ten feet away. Joe saw the silvertipped brown fur, some of it matted with black blood, saw the bear’s chest heave painfully as he breathed. Joe stared into the eyes of the bear, and the bear didn’t blink. The bear’s eyes were black and hard, without malice.
    Joe raised the shotgun and thumbed off the safety. He put the front bead of the muzzle on 304’s chest, right on his heart. And he didn’t fire.
    Even when the bear falsecharged and popped his teeth together in warning, Joe didn’t pull the trigger.
    But Trey Crump did, the explosion sounding like the whole aspen grove went up. 304 flinched as if stung by a bee, and roared, his mouth fully open so Joe could see the inchlong teeth and pink tongue. Trey fired again and the bear toppled forward, dead before he hit the ground.
    As they rode toward their vehicles in the dark, dragging the carcass of the grizzly behind them, Trey asked, “Why didn’t you shoot, Joe?”
    Joe didn’t want to answer, and didn’t.
    Because he was looking me straight in the eye, that’s why. Because I found out I can’t kill a bear when he is looking me straight in the eye.
    That night, they ate big steaks and drank beer after beer at a guest lodge in the foothills of the mountains. Oldtimers at the bar had heard the story and sent over rounds of drinks for the game wardens. They, like Trey, admired old 304. But the bear had to go. A fed bear was a dead bear.
    Joe left Trey at the bar and found a pay phone outside. It was cold as he shoved quarters in, and he could see his breath as he said, “Hello, darling,” to Marybeth.
    “Where are you?” she asked. Even colder.
    He leaned back and looked at the sign out near the highway. “Someplace called the T Bar.”
    “In Jackson?”
    “No,” he said. “By Cody.”
    “Cody. Joe, why are you there? Why aren’t you in Jackson? Why didn’t you call like you said you would?”
    Joe said, “Didn’t you get the second message from dispatch?”
    “What message?”
    He told her the whole story, but he could tell by her tone she was still furious with him. As he told her how scared he had been when he walked up on the grizzly, she said, “Sheridan has been an absolute beast. I can’t even talk to that girl anymore.”
    Joe paused. “Marybeth, are you listening?”
    “For three days I’ve been worried about you. Do you know what that’s like?”
    “No,” Joe said, looking out at the highway. “I guess I don’t.”
    He didn’t know if he was angry, guiltstricken, or both.
    “I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” he said, and hung up the phone.
    Trey was watching him as he reclaimed his stool at the bar. “Everything okay?”
    “Marybeth didn’t get the second dispatch message. She didn’t know where I’ve been.”
    “Uhoh.” Trey shook his head. “I wonder if my missus got it?”
    “You better call her,” Joe said.
    “So I can look as miserable as you?” Trey said. “I think I’ll have another beer.”
    The next morning, as he crossed the Shoshone River out of Cody, Joe felt ashamed of himself. He had not slept well in his motel room, despite a few too