Читать книгу Killing Godiva's Horse - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 13

Jack walked up the road toward the river takeout.

The government pickup sat parked off the road, Erika in the driver’s seat. Through the windshield he saw Claire Prescott, wide eyed, watching the humanity at the corrals.

Jack veered toward the driver side window.

Erika scowled. “That was stupid.”

“You didn’t have to wait,” Jack muttered. “My ride’s over there.”

“I said, that was stupid. What’s with you?”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Even if it’s stupid?”

“No one ever said I was smart.”

—·—

It all replayed through his mind as he drove. Paul. Moony Manson. Militiamen with guns.

Yes. It was stupid. Erika was right.

Call the superintendent, let him know. Don’t use the radio. Use the phone.

He reached for the glove box and pulled out the cell phone he’d stashed before dawn. Pulling up Joe Morgan’s office number, he pushed call. It rang without answer, rolling over to voice mail. Try his cell. He called, listened to the ring, then the recording of Joe’s gently commanding voice, saying to leave a message.

“Joe, this is Jack Chastain. Need to tell you about something. Sorry. Involves BLM, a rancher, and trespass cattle. Call when you can.” He tossed the phone on the passenger seat.

Turning off the gravel road onto the highway, Jack checked his watch.

Coalition meeting starts in twenty minutes. No time to get home.

On the outskirts of town, he drove past scattered houses. Most of them simple, square, adobe. Some newer. Some ornate. All with pastel hues. Some with gardens behind low walls, accessed through adobe passageways with timber gates.

On the edge of Las Piedras, he turned onto Calle Vicente, drove past the plaza and the more recent nineteenth century storefronts lining the streets around it. The centuries old adobe church sat at one corner. The bell in the tower began to ring, and Jack checked his watch. Seven. Late, but not by much.

In the plaza, a young Hispano troubadour played for a small crowd enjoying the summer evening. Passing Elena’s Cantina, the parking appeared full. Carne asada sounded good, but time did not permit. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.

He turned left off the square, took the next right, and entered the grounds of the Inn of the Canyons, parking near the porte-cochere. He ambled in, feeling the dull buzz of the fade of adrenaline, and a lack of focus from the events refusing to stay at the back of his mind.

Erika’s right. But they threatened Paul.

He stopped, looked across the lobby, and shook off the confusion.

The day’s listing of meeting rooms showed the Piedras Coloradas National Monument Coalition to be meeting in the Coronado Room. He headed down the hall, and stopped at the door.

Inside, a room of people, facing off across a conference table.

“We cannot go backwards,” said Dave Van Buren, one of the environmentalists on the coalition.

“This drought has made some things abundantly clear,” said Ginger Perrette, still in her chore clothes. “We need assurances. We need water. We have to have it. Cattle need water.”

“But we’ve got to protect the river and the range. Especially now. Wildlife are as affected by drought as cows. If cows destroy the river, what’s left?”

Ginger turned to Kip Culberson.

Culberson sipped from a glass of water, looking his usual self, the graying statesman of the West. Sturdy build. Western-cut sport coat. Old pair of jeans. Mustache, the same gray as his temples. He frowned and cleared his throat, considering his words.

“Jack, come in,” said Karen Hatcher, the director of the Trust for the Southwest, and Kip’s counterpart from the environmental community. She waved him in. “We weren’t sure you’d make it.” A strand of blonde hair lay matted to her forehead. She looked fresh off a hike. “What’s wrong?” She eyed him closely. “You’re pale.”

“Tired.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Jack moved around the table to an open seat, nodding first at Helen Waite, the county commissioner, then the hotel proprietor, Mack Latham, representing the chamber of commerce, then Thomas, his friend and the representative from the pueblo, then Daniel Romero, another rancher. “Sorry I’m late. Having some sort of trouble?”

“Ranchers are talking like all bets are off,” Dave said. “The drought’s bringing out their true colors. Cows are more important that protecting the river.” He glared across the table.

“I didn’t say that,” Ginger responded. “I was saying . . .” She turned back to Kip.

Again he cleared his throat.

“Hold it,” Jack said. He took in a breath, and turned to Ginger. “I do not want you having to defend yourself.” He turned to Kip. “And not you either.” He looked across the table. “Karen, I would ask you. Do you mind?”

She gave him a twisted smile. “Uh, sure.” She turned to Van Buren and looked him in the eye. “Dave, you’re jumping the gun, being unfair. Ginger’s a steward of the land. She’s proven that. Well before now, she and her husband took their cattle off the range, put ’em on pasture in Colorado and Nebraska. They put their money where their mouth is. It’ll cost them dearly. They’ll be lucky if they squeak by. The drought has her thinking about their future and she wonders if they can make it. Short-term. Long-term. Everything about their operation. Their BLM allotment is important to that operation. All she’s saying is, work with her, help her make sure the path we’re on doesn’t cripple her and other ranchers.” She looked at Ginger. “Is that fair?”

“Yes. Very fair.”

Dave shifted nervously in his seat. “All I’m saying is . . .”

“Stop,” Jack said. “Turnabout’s fair play. I won’t let you defend yourself either. Kip, would you please?”

Kip nodded and cleared this throat. “I believe Dave’s saying we can’t lose sight of the things we value. We all value the land, the river, water, our connection to all of it. Times like these are hard, but we still value those things. We want to come up with practical measures, but we can’t throw the baby out with the bath water. It’s tough all over. Other critters are suffering, too. We want to come through this. Ginger, if you can help protect those things, he’ll work to help ranchers in their plight.” He turned to Dave. “That fair?”

“Yes, diplomatic. Something I’m not good at.” He looked across the table. “Sorry.”

“Times are hard,” Ginger said.

Faces turned to Jack.

“Do we need to discuss this further?” He looked around the room. No response. “Good. Anyone else coming?” he asked, taking attention off Van Buren and Perrette.

“Might just be us tonight,” Kip responded. “People are busy. They’ve read the report. I’ve gotten comments, but otherwise, they think it’s ready to go.”

“Same for enviros,” Hatcher said. “Everyone feels good. They trust us to know what to do next.”

“I’d like to talk about that.” Jack stood and poured a glass of water. “Been thinking. I worry about going to Congress. Who knows what we might end up with.”

Kip laughed.

“No, I’m serious. Maybe we should scale back on what the coalition initially asks the agencies to do. Do what we can, without additional authorizations. Wait till we get a Congress that’s less political.”

“I’m sorry, son,” Kip said, laying large, weathered hands on the table, “but Congress is always gonna be political. Time won’t change that.”

“Yeah, but this Congress turns everything into a fight. A political statement.”

“Yes, but we have to think about holding the coalition together,” Hatcher said. “Think about the discussion we just had. If we don’t seek new authorities, we lose the ranchers. If we don’t protect the river, we lose the enviros. If we lose either group, if the battles start over, the business people freak out.” She looked across the table at Mack Latham. “Right?”

Latham gave a nervous tug at his button-down collar. “Business people don’t like uncertainty.”

“I know, it’s just . . . .” Jack paused, looking at eyes around the table.

“What’s wrong?” Culberson asked.

“Old ghosts. Nothing more than that.”

“Let me worry about Congress. Karen and I can take that. In fact, I know just where we can start. Senator Baca.”

Hatcher’s eyes lit up. “Think so?”

“I do. He’s busy, but I think he’ll have an interest in making it happen. He’s respected. His staff can corner counterparts from the House, get bills coming through both chambers.”

Karen turned to Jack. “Ever work with Baca?”

“Only his staff, but I’ve worked with politicos I trusted and it didn’t help. We still got caught up in political games. Crucified. When the horse trading stopped, nothing was left.”

“Relax,” Kip said. “But we need to keep moving. If we don’t, we risk impatience, and falling apart.”

“I agree,” Hatcher said, tapping her dimpled chin. “I’ve spoken with national enviros and reps from stockman’s associations. I’m told this needs to happen now. The closer to the election, the greater the chance someone will politicize it. Then, it might be hard to support us.”

“That’s what I’m hearing,” Kip said. He turned to Jack. “What’s it gonna take to wrap this up? Can we finish this week?”

Jack sighed. “Got comments, let me have ’em. I’ll finish in the next day or two.”

“Very good,” Kip said. He sat back, locking his fingers behind his head of salt and pepper hair. “I’ll make a few calls, make plans for Karen and I to pay a visit to Baca’s field office in Santa Fe.”

—·—

Jack turned off the highway, onto the road to his cabin.

Rounding the bend, he saw a woman sitting on his porch. A beautiful woman, dark hair pulled back, brown Hispano eyes, piercing even from the end of the drive. She wore a cotton skirt and sleeveless blouse. Kelly Culberson stood as he brought his Jeep to a stop. He sat watching her, thinking how much easier hard times had become since encountering her at Caveras Creek three years before.

He got out.

“How was the meeting? How was the river? How’s Paul?”

“That’s more questions than I can answer in my condition. My lunch washed away in a flood.”

“Flood. Very funny.”

He stooped, kissed her, then slipped past and unlocked the door. “Do I look like I’m joking?” Going straight to the kitchen, he picked an apple from a bowl on the counter. He came back and sat, bit off a chunk, chewed and swallowed. “Need calories.” He took another bite, then picked up the remote, turned on the television, and flipped through the channels.

“You relax. I’ll cook. Were you serious . . . I mean . . . about a flood?”

“Flashflood, one of the creeks. And relaxing might not be possible.” He settled on a channel and scooted to the front of the chair.

“What’s going on?” She eyed the television.

On the screen, an unmistakable background—the broken canyon and plateau country of northern New Mexico.

“I was afraid of this.”

“What?”

The scene cut to a studio and trio of commentators, then to an on-scene reporter. The reporter ended his update as the network cut away to a clip of an angry rancher, ranting about his refusal to recognize the authority of the feds. Armed militiamen stood on either side of the rancher, on guard, as he preached into a microphone. The camera zoomed in on a militiaman in camo, stoic as he faced a crowd. He held an AR-15 across his chest, a finger resting on the trigger guard.

“I heard about this,” Kelly said. “Heated up while you were on the river.” She gasped.

On screen, Jack Chastain stood with Paul Yazzi, confronted by reporters, their bevy of microphones in Jack’s face. “Because he hasn’t paid his fees. He’s overgrazing. We’re in a drought and he’s got five hundred cows on the range, plus calves. No other ranchers are doing that. Why? Because they’re taking care of their cows, and they know what it means to be stewards of the land.”

Jack flipped to another channel. Same scene. Himself in the middle of his rant. “. . . he’s got five hundred cows on the range, plus calves.”

Jack cringed and clicked over to a third news channel, same scene. The network cut away to a panel of commentators. “Right there,” said a paunchy man with light-colored hair, stopping the video. “This has nothing to do with a drought. They had rain today. This is all a fabrication by the government to go after this guy. He’s a hero for standing up to the malarkey.”

“Excuse me, Barnes,” a host said, bringing attention back to himself. “I need to cut away for a moment. We have Congressman Brent Hoff at his office in Washington. Good evening, Congressman. Good of you to join us. What do you think of all this?”

The studio scene dissolved away to an office setting. One man, crisp gray suit and blond wavy hair, neatly combed. After salutations, the smile left his face.

“I agree with the last comment. This man may be a hero for standing against the odds. One man, against the tyranny. Classic example of government overreach, and he’s willing to take them on.”

“Congressman, are there merits to what’s being said by the government?”

“I doubt it. An investigation is warranted, but from what I can tell, it looks like a case of bureaucrats overstepping their authority, not being accountable to anyone. A classic situation where mid-level bureaucrats, not elected by or accountable to anyone, are trying to rewrite the laws. I encourage Moony Manson to fight.”

“Am I hearing you correctly? Fight, you say?”

“Absolutely.”

“I know that face,” Jack said, eyeing the screen.

“The congressman? You should’ve. He’s everywhere. If they’re talking politics, he’s there.”

“I don’t pay attention to talking heads, but I’ve encountered that guy.”

“Jack, that’s Brent Hoff. Odds on favorite for the presidential nomination.”

He gave her a double take, then turned back to the television. “I remember that expression. Hallway in the federal building, Missoula, four years ago.”

“You’ve dealt with Brent Hoff?”

“A couple of dealings. First in the hall, then at a hearing a day later.” He paused, to catch the words of a commentator. Contrivance. “His aide tracked me down, said he wanted a briefing. Right then. I didn’t have time. People were waiting. Public meeting. Next day, at the hearing, he knew almost as much about our research as I did. I don’t know how. But, he lied his ass off. I defended the work of a young scientist but the congressman ripped me to shreds.”

“Today, I thought you were on the river,” Kelly muttered. “Monitoring, of some kind.”

“I was. . . . about this.”

“Manson grazes BLM land. Why were reporters talking to you?”

“Because, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Manson and his wanna be soldiers . . . they attacked Paul.” Jack slammed a hand onto the armrest, then sucked in a long, slow breath. “I may’ve screwed things up for the coalition.”

“People know what Manson’s about. He’s a separate issue.”

“He’s not.”

“Why would this have anything to do with the coalition?”

“Because, we need legislation. We have projects we can’t do without it. Water projects. River protection. Without legislation, we can’t hold the coalition together. We go to war with ourselves.”

“But that doesn’t have anything to do with Moony Manson.” Kelly said. “People here know him. They know he’s a deadbeat.”

“But grazing on public land, on part of the national monument. I’m less concerned about people here than I am about Congress.”

“Then work with Congress.”

Jack pointed at the television. “You saw that. The congressman told Manson to fight. He called for an investigation. He won’t exactly pave the way to giving the coalition the legislation it needs.”

“Other members of Congress . . . they can help.”

“Kelly, it’s Congress. They play games. They play politics. Look what happened in Montana. Even with the local senator by our side, people like Hoff got involved. Everything went off the rails.”

“I thought Montana happened because a Park Service higher up messed with a research report.”

Jack sighed. “Nail in the coffin. Things were going south before that. Maybe my fault. I had no idea this congressman was powerful. Maybe I should’ve given him what he wanted.”

“Stop thinking like that. That’s the past.”

“Now it’s the future. The road to protecting what this community values . . . the road to implementing recommendations of the coalition . . . goes through Congress.” He sighed, and ran his fingers through sweat-matted hair. “Maybe, if I stay out of the way, your father and Karen Hatcher can work their magic, carry things forward.”

The house phone rang.

Jack snatched it up. “Hello.”

“Jack, this is Joe Morgan.”

“Hold it, Joe.” He cupped the mouthpiece. “The superintendent.” He waited as Kelly turned down the television, then took a deep breath and composed himself. “Sorry. Get my message?”

“Yes, and several others,” Joe said, his voice deep and solemn. “Some from on high. I’ll make this short. You and I have been summoned. To Washington.”