Читать книгу Killing Godiva's Horse - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 11

Erika stepped onto slick rock and stopped. “I’ll take this one. You go that direction. Back over there,” she said, pointing for Jack. “Claire, we’ll catch up. That, or meet you at the truck.”

Prescott looked at the depressions in the rock, brimming with water, some several feet wide and deep. She nodded and started up hill. “Please do. I’ll try to get shots of the horses.”

Jack shook his head and continued after Prescott. “Not gonna worry about it.”

“Get back here, Jack Chastain.”

Jack stopped, and studied where she pointed. “There’s nothing over there.”

Erika waited for Prescott to disappear beyond the rise. “I know, but she doesn’t. She does not need to know what rangers have no qualms about doing.” She loosened her laces and kicked off her boots.

“What are you talking about?”

“Strip,” she ordered. She unbuttoned her uniform shirt.

He laughed. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. That’s what you think rangers do?” He let his face turn serious. “And, qualms? I’ve got qualms.”

“It’s a hundred and five degrees. Your ass is covered in cow shit. There’s water, and this is a beautiful place. Sometimes it’s just the right thing to do.”

“Not taking a bath.”

“You are.” She pulled off her shirt and tossed it in a solution hole. She turned around. “Any green on my bra?”

“What do you think?”

She undid the clasp. “Strip. I’ve seen you before.” She tossed the bra into the solution hole. “Use that one for clothes.” She pointed at a larger tank. “That one’s mine. You’ve got your choice of the others.”

“It’s as if you plan these things. How do I let you talk me into this?” He started on his shirt buttons. “Why are you here? After the last time, I was sure you’d be fired, demoted, or locked in a broom closet.” He slipped off his shirt and dropped it in the water. “Why you? Why here?”

Her smile grew, bringing a sparkle to grey, predatory eyes.

“Surely the new regional director knows what happened here. She has to know you were involved. With everything. Her predecessor, his dealings with Mike Middleton. Almost giving away part of the park. How did she let you out of Denver?”

Erika slipped a rubber band off her wrist and pulled her hair into a pony tail. “How is my ol’ buddy, Mike Middleton?”

“I don’t know. Frankly, at this point, I’m more worried about the other guy, Harper Teague. The man with Montana connections.”

“Montana? You don’t say?”

“I do say. He was not what he presented himself to be. What do you know about him?”

“He wasn’t a face I remember from Montana, but I thought we were talking about the regional director.” Erika unbuttoned her green uniform jeans, and let them drop to the ground. She stepped out of the legs, jerked the belt from the loops, and tossed the pants in the tank. “The new RD didn’t trust me at first. In time she realized Nick was responsible for his own actions. Made his own bed. Me? I’m a peon, doing my job. I’m also adaptable. I’m creative. I know how to become indispensable.” She spun around, her backside toward him. “Any green?”

“Kinda goes with the blue, don’t you think?”

She gave a dismissive shake of her head, stripped off her undies, and tossed them in the tank.

He turned away.

“C’mon Jack, if you’re not looking, how can I tell you not to?”

He unbuttoned his river shorts and dropped them to the ground.

“You are skinnier than last time. Somehow looks good on you. You know . . . that weathered, withered, wildernessy guy kind of way.” She laughed. “You can look. I’m in the water.”

“Shouldn’t you wash your uniform first?”

“Go ahead.” She lay back against the rim and closed her eyes. “I don’t do laundry.”

He shook his head. “If it’ll get us out of here faster . . .” He knelt over the tank. Pulling out her pants, he worked the soiled spot. “This is stupid. Why suck up to her? This was her fault.”

“Shut up and keep washing.”

“What the hell can Prescott do for you? What are you hoping to get from this?”

Erika opened her eyes. “Jack, it’s you that needs to be sucking up.”

He stood and laid her clothes on a sun drenched rock. “I’m not concerned about her, or horses. Science will prevail.”

“It’s not that, Jack. She doesn’t like you. She’s in an important position. Staff for the Senate Interior Committee. Anything you have that needs to go through committee is gonna be touched by her. Kiss of death, if she doesn’t buy what you’re saying. And right now, she doesn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because of what happened in Montana. Maybe your association with the senator, who knows?”

“You’re kidding. He was the only politician I ever trusted.”

“She knows that. Shortly after that, whatever game she was playing came back to bite her. She was history. She’ll hold it against you . . . unless you learn to suck up to her.”

“Why?” He worked at a spot on his shorts. “Why should I?”

“To make her forget how well you got along with Senator Tisdale.”

“Didn’t help much.”

“No, it didn’t. You and the proposed park, both, political piñatas. Hit from every direction. Prescott could make that happen again. A good time for her, at your expense.”

He sat and fell back against the rock. “Why’s she interested in what’s happening here in New Mexico?”

“Horses, stupid, and if you don’t appease her, she’ll remember that little screw-up of yours at the hearing in Missoula.”

“It wasn’t a screw up, and it didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“It affected your credibility. You defended a grad student, who didn’t have the decency to show up for a hearing.”

“Defended him because that was my job.”

“It made you look stupid.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. You just get stupid seeing someone being attacked. All sorts of things can be directed at you—call you a bum, attack your lineage, whatever. Never fazes you visibly. But attack someone else, like that grad student . . . What did we call him?”

“Kid. He was a local. The Kid was his nickname in high school.”

“Yeah, right, The Kid. Someone attacks The Kid, you go stupid.”

“They didn’t understand his research. Locked onto rumors. Misunderstood its purpose.”

“What’s to misunderstand? He went after fracking. He came up empty.”

“He did not go after fracking. He was simply doing a survey of water sources. His methods would not’ve told him anything about fracking. No idea where that rumor started.”

“That was the word on the streets, and people wanted to know, because they were scared. They wanted answers, and all they got was industry rhetoric. Then they heard about The Kid’s research, that he was focused on fracking, and then he wasn’t. You tried to defend him, but you should’ve left him hanging out to dry.”

“Couldn’t do that.” Jack paused. “We had methane we couldn’t explain, but The Kid’s methods would not’ve allowed us to point fingers at fracking. Then, later, our data were changed. Inside job.”

“All I know is . . . you looked like an idiot. A man with a hidden agenda.”

“What does any of that have to do with Prescott?”

“If she questions your credibility, she’ll accept what any bozo has to say. You’ve got to get on her good side. Politic her a little.” She closed her eyes. “Now finish my clothes. We can’t stay here all day.”

“They’re done, and wet,” he said, tossing his shirt on the rock.

“Good. I could use a little excitement. I can’t seem to muster any watching you.”

He ignored her. “I will not play politics.”

“Such a Boy Scout,” she said, her eyes still closed. “But you did politic Senator Tisdale.” A corner of her mouth turned up. “You did, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You had briefings. Just you and the senator. Some kind of connection. You put all your eggs in that basket. I think you politicked the hell out of him.”

“I gave him a few briefings. One with The Kid.”

Her eyes popped open. “Remember that hearing? I can still see the look you shot Tisdale’s direction, afterwards, like you’d failed him.” She laughed. “And frankly, in the burning ruins of that hearing, you’re lucky he didn’t . . .”

“Stop,” Jack shouted, cutting her off. “No more.” He tossed his shorts on a rock, and settled into a tank. He closed his eyes.

“You’re thinking about getting whacked.”

“What?”

“Whacked. That’s what you’re thinking.” She stood, water up to her knees. “I can see it on your face.” She stepped out of the tank. “You don’t even see me, do you?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” She found a spot in the shade. “Here I am, as if alone, naked as a jaybird, enjoying the scenery. Like the shadows on that butte . . . which are really beautiful, by the way.”

He heard her words, and let their meaning escape him.

How had that hearing gone to hell? The Kid. Why didn’t he show? When his data would have cleared everything up. And The Kid’s phone call that morning, saying he’d found something new. Something he’d share at the hearing. What happened?

“Stop thinking about that,” Erika muttered. “Think about schmoozing Claire Prescott.”

A shudder shot through him, recalling his testimony. Approved and polished by Interior. All of it, fodder for one particular congressman. Every word, prey to a pat response. Bureaucratic double talk.

Other testimony seemed loaded. As if tested, played out, and known to work on the psyche of anyone who heard it.

Members of the public, long supportive, grew confused.

Facts withered on the vine. Truth died.

People had worked so hard. People who loved the place so much. Who fought so hard to preserve it. How disappointed they were. And the senator, listening in the galley. The look on his face.

“Jack!” Erika shouted. “We’ve got to go.”

“That congressman at the hearing. The one from Indiana. It was as if he knew more about The Kid’s research than I did. Almost. He knew just enough to turn it into something it wasn’t. Lies. And the family of that sick little girl . . . who died. What they were put through. When in reality, The Kid’s research had nothing to do with her. How that started, I do not know.”

“It started. You failed to control it.” Erika picked up her uniform and began to dress. “This is a beautiful place, if it wasn’t so damned hot.”

Jack watched her without seeing.

“We don’t have all day. It’s later than you think.”

He nodded.

“See you back at the truck.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “Tell Kelly—you know, your girlfriend, my dear old friend—remember to tell her we used separate tanks.”

—·—

Jack trudged uphill, Erika ahead in his sights, Claire Prescott already at the pickup, leaning against a fender.

Erika arrived, then Jack, their uniforms already dry. Without words, they climbed in.

Erika pulled the pickup around and headed back the way they came.

“Could you drop me at my vehicle?” Jack asked.

“Where?”

“River takeout.”

Erika nodded.

“Does that take us by any more range?” Claire asked.

“It does.”

“Good. We can talk. I have more questions. First, really, why do you government biologists oppose wild horses on the range?”

“Not native. Virtually no natural predators. Have to be managed. If not, populations explode, causing lots of damage.”

“That’s not what I’m hearing from scientists who work on these issues more than you do.”

“Who would that be?”

“Well, ones working for Wild Horse and Burro Babes. Their briefing statements dispute the assertion they’re exotic. In the evolutionary record, they arose here. This is where horses came into being.”

“True, but they died off. Assemblages of plants and animals changed. When the Spanish brought them back to the continent, it was to a different ecosystem. Sounds like their scientists are more likely advocates than scientists.”

“Of course you’d say that. I was told you would. I’ve had a few calls from the director of the Babes. She’s got more confidence in their guy, than they do in the scientists advising BLM. BLM’s policy sucks. Same for yours in the Park Service.”

“I might say the same about theirs,” Jack said, then felt a knock in the knee from Erika.

“What Jack’s trying to say is, this issue’s not as simple as the Babes put it. It’s complex. We’re willing to help you understand our position, and we’re willing to listen, to see if there’s anything we need to reassess in terms of our own policy.”

“Good,” Claire said.

“I don’t think I was trying to say that,” Jack said. “Turn here.” He pointed at an approaching road.

Erika slowed and made the turn. The road aimed at a slot between hills.

“What were you trying to say, then, Mr. Chastain?”

He sighed. “Never mind. Talk to Erika.”

“I won’t let you off the hook that easily.”

“How long will you be here?”

“I leave tomorrow.”

They cleared the rise. Vehicles came into view. Some parked near the river—the river user’s take out. Some parked on the other side of the road, near a BLM enclosure. A corral, filled with cattle. Riders on horseback. Some inside the enclosure. Some outside. Tractor trucks with stock trailers. One backed to a loading chute. Other trucks in line. People. Some in uniform. Others not. Movement, only from cattle. No movement from people, even the riders.

“What’s going on?” Jack muttered, studying the crowd.

Outside the corral, a black-haired man in BLM uniform—Paul Yazzi—stood facing a circle of people. And something else. Video cameras, on the edge of the crowd, pointed at Paul. And, more troubling, men with rifles. Pointed at Paul and others. And men, between the corral and the road, blocking departure. Inside the crowd, a circle of women, on the ground, sitting, facing the government rangers.

“Turn here,” Jack ordered.

Erika steered onto the side road, then slowed as reality seemed to settle in. “We better stay out of this.” She stopped the pickup, short of the ring of cameras.

“Let me out,” Jack said, scooting toward Claire Prescott.

She opened the door and climbed out.

Jack exited and worked his way around, past the first row of cameras. He stopped.

Among the crowd stood a woman with a video camera, shouting at the BLM men and women, seeming to record as she spoke. Between her and Paul—and two other rangers, firearms drawn—stood a ring of men carrying rifles. Not just rifles, assault rifles. AR-15s and other semiautomatic weapons. They wore desert camo, no two the same. Dark sunglasses covered eyes on icy faces. One man, not in camo, stood in a face-off with Paul. In jeans, a white western shirt, and straw cowboy hat, he looked to be in control.

Jack worked his way around to see the man’s face. Is this Moony Manson?

“Move,” the man shouted. “I’m not letting you take my cows.”

Paul, brow furrowed, held his stare.

Jack slipped to the side.

“I’m gonna give you one last chance. Get out of my way.”

Paul stood motionless.

“Why are you taking his cows?” the camerawoman shouted. “They’re his cows.”

Paul glanced at the woman, then back at Manson.

Jack studied the woman. Camo. Hair pulled back. Not likely a reporter.

“Don’t you have answers?” the woman shouted. “You don’t, do you? Admit it, you’re stomping on his rights. You’re stealing his property. Admit it.”

Paul made no effort to speak.

Behind them, real reporters watched, their cameramen filming and exchanging glances, keeping track of the militiamen, as if wondering if they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Move, damn it!” Manson shouted. “I’m not telling you again.”

A ranger shifted nervously on his feet.

Militiamen snapped toward him.

Paul’s eyes followed their movement.

“You have no goddamned business stomping on my rights,” Manson grumbled, stepping toward Paul. Militiamen inched forward.

“Stop!” Jack shouted, kicking up dust as he moved past the outer ring of people. He raised his arms. “Get back. These men are federal officers. You’re breaking the law.”

“The Indian guy said that already,” the woman shouted. “Who are you? Why is Park Service here?”

“Doesn’t matter who I am. You are obstructing federal officers.”

She laughed. “Not in our book. You have no right to be here. This is Manson’s land. They’re stomping on his rights. Government overreach.”

“Hell they are,” Jack shouted, glaring at Manson. “You’re on public land. Everyone’s land. You’re not paying your grazing fees. Haven’t in years. And there’s a drought going on.”

“There is no drought,” Manson said. “Not anymore. Rained today. God’s message. He’s on my side.”

“Yeah, right,” Jack said. “Because of range conditions, people almost died in a flashflood.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m not gonna listen to government lies. Fabrications to kick me off my land. Land I’ve got more claim to than you do.”

“Bull. And the Hopi say Paul’s people are newcomers.” Jack glanced at Paul, and flashed a grin.

Paul looked his way and back.

“What does that mean?” Manson shouted.

“Means you’re full of it.” Jack stepped forward, raising his arms. “Get out of here. Leave.”

Manson looked to his right, then his left. The militiamen at his sides took one step forward, leveling AR-15s at Jack’s chest.

“My friend,” Paul said. “Stay out of this.”

Jack stared into the face of a militiaman. “He won’t shoot.”

The militiaman pointed his rifle skyward, fired a round, then leveled it back at Jack’s chest. Other militiamen took one step forward.

Rangers, gripping pistols, hands tense, glanced between faces behind dark, un-telling sunglasses.

A woman on the ground stirred.

A ranger flinched.

“Paul,” a voice shouted, from a vehicle among the stock trucks.

He turned.

“Let ’em go,” the voice said. “Orders. Let the cattle go. They said not to let this escalate further.”

“Who gave the orders?” Paul shouted back.

“Washington. Let ’em go.”

Paul gave Manson a hard stare, signaled the truck at the chute to pull forward, then gave a signal to rangers at the corral.

Gates swung open. Cattle burst through, fanning out, trailing away from the corral. They topped the hill and were gone.

Manson smiled. “Cowards.”

A militiaman stepped forward, his nose in Jack’s face. He grinned, and spat, “Bang.”