Читать книгу Killing Godiva's Horse - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 8

The river rolled and rumbled, red and soupy, the current shoving debris. Gusts bit their faces, the air thick with the smell of dirt.

Water inched up the rock.

Jack turned, looking for options, saw none, and caught sight of the raft, river bags and pieces of kayak floating into a wide reach of the river, settling into an eddy on river-right. Maynard, eyes wide, stared, everything passing him by.

“River’s getting higher,” Jack muttered, fighting the urge to run with nowhere to go. He cleared his throat. “When’s payday?”

“Huh?” Lizzy forced her eyes from the torrents. “Why?”

He knelt. “Let me see that.” He reached for her leg and wiped the blood from her thigh. He ran a finger along the wound. Not deep. Good.

She grimaced. “What about payday?” she shouted, fighting the roar of the river.

“Your dress has seen better days.” He ripped a strip of fabric from along the hem.

Shivering, she gathered shreds of cloth. “Stop.”

He tore off another strip. “Hold still.”

“Hey, it’s all I’ve got on.”

He squeezed out the water and began wrapping her leg. “Imagine that.”

“Keep going, you won’t need to. Don’t you have something else to think about?”

He glanced at the river. “Yes, I do, but can’t do a thing about it.” He knotted the bandage. “I’m done. That’ll protect the wound, help stop the bleeding. If the river keeps rising, it might not matter . . . but if it doesn’t kill us, we’ll need a first aid kit. Need to clean and put something on that. So . . . why a dress?”

She took her eyes off the river and glared. “Now why is that any of your damned business?”

“It’s not.” Jack eyed the surge lapping the rock, only feet below, sloshing through cottonwood branches. “Sorry.”

Lizzy sighed. “Simple. Comfort. It’s cool in the heat.” She gave a rub to her thigh. “We’re gonna die.” She let out a sad little laugh. “All I’ve been thinking about lately . . . a big purchase I want to make . . . seems rather petty when facing the prospect of dying.”

“We might make it to shore.”

“You don’t sound confident, and the water keeps rising, getting worse.” Eyes on the river, her shoulders dropped. “If we’re swept to our deaths, Jack Chastain, what are you going to regret? . . . If that’s possible . . . regretting something when you’re dead.”

“Pain, for those who’ll miss me.”

She nodded.

“And . . . the work I didn’t finish. This time, I thought . . .”

She gave him another glance. “This time?”

“You don’t want to know about the other . . . but this time, I hoped to protect folks . . . from those who play games with their lives, confuse ’em, make ’em go to war with each other.”

She cocked her head. “I just realized why I’ve heard your name. You’re the guy . . . that made people listen to each other.”

Jack shrugged. “I’m not sure that’s what . . .”

She cut him off. “No, you’re the guy.” She crossed her arms and glared at the river. “That settles it. We’re not dying here. Not today. You have unfinished business.”

Jack sighed.

They watched in silence. Minutes passed. The river crept higher, splashing their feet. Jack scooted back, taking the last inches. Cottonwood limbs scraped toward them. They teetered at the tip of the rock. Then, water seemed to recede.

Uncertain, they watched. A few minutes more and Lizzy raised a hand. She pointed at the waterline. “Told ya. We’re not dying today. Not to some fluke storm.”

He exhaled, then felt her studying him.

She brushed a red, sun-lit curl behind an ear. The wind blew it free. “I owe you.”

“You don’t.”

“I do, and I’m sorry, I was a jerk back there. I thought you were hitting on me.”

Jack stared into the distance. “I’m taken.”

“Obviously. I’m half naked, you’re worried about a little flood.” She laughed. “I didn’t notice before . . . you have nice blue eyes, even if you are taken. Your sunglasses . . .”

“Lost ’em.”

“Then I owe you twice.”

“You don’t. Comes with the job.”

“No, I owe you. Big time. Maybe you don’t keep track of favors, but the world does. I want karma on my side, my debts paid.”

“Then buy me a beer. After you buy a new dress.”

Piece at a time, sticks, brush, and—last—the uprooted cottonwood, dislodged from the jam and floated downstream.

A kayaker appeared, paddling through riffles at a bend in the river. They watched Paul Yazzi navigate the edge of red, muddy strands marking midstream. The river straightened, and he paddled nearer to shore.

Upstream, on the opposite bank, a band of people appeared, picking their way through boulders along the fringe of debris-draped willow at river’s edge.

They moved quickly, likely having seen the first raft eddied out on their side of the river. A man in white T-shirt, probably Stew, reached the eddy, dove in, and returned with the rope. Forming a line, they pulled the raft to shore, then began their efforts to upright it.

Yazzi approached. He pulled into a rocky shallow, and steadied himself with his paddle. “Any sign of the other man?”

Jack pointed. “He’s okay.”

Paul glanced that way, then back. “I cannot get anyone on the radio. Dead spot. For now, we are on our own.” He paused. “You okay? Where’s your kayak?”

“In pieces. We’re okay. We can wait for the raft.”

Paul beached and walked upstream, lugging his kayak, following the river’s edge.

“Stew’s got his oars,” Lizzy muttered. “Pins and clips held. Hope I’ve got mine.” She chuckled self-consciously. “This is gonna be embarrassing when the clients see me.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I know, but those guys.” She nodded upstream. “Old frat bros. Together, first time in years, behaving like they’re back in college. Unbearable. Now . . . look at me.” She flipped a strip of cloth.

“Everything’s fine. Act normal. You’re a river god.”

“Does that speech usually end with, you’re a ranger?”

He let out a chuckle. “Maybe.”

She laughed. “River god . . .” She lay back and relaxed. “Everything’s fine. Normal.” A sparkle came to her deep, green eyes. Then she closed them. “I might see a bump in tips. Might even pay for a new dress.”

—·—

The two rafts sat in an eddy, tied to a cottonwood. Assessments were made of damage and losses. A few river bags missing. Might be found downstream. One of Lizzy’s oars, gone. Her spares, still lashed to the tube. Seemingly oblivious to the rips in her dress, she sorted through gear, found her river bag—still tied under the frame—and slipped into shorts and a T-shirt. She proceeded to reassemble her oars and began the process of repacking.

Jack and Paul turned to assess their own losses.

One kayak destroyed. PVC quadrat for assessing plant cover, gone, probably no chance of finding it. Jack’s lunch and change of clothes, gone. Data logger and radio, found, and—most important —dry, both in a dry bag that had been lashed to a strut on the kayak, and found floating in the eddy.

“Not bad,” Jack muttered, eyeing the gear. He ran a hand over his face.

“You okay?” Paul asked. “You look shaken.”

“Shaken? I’m okay. You?”

“Frustrated.” Paul looked upstream. “That drainage. Those veg plots. They were important. The ones I needed most.”

“We’ve been out since sunrise, hauling ass down river. Why the urgency?”

“Because of what happens today. Agency chiefs . . . I’m not sure they have the political will, but if they do . . .”

“Are you serious? Regarding veg plots?”

“No, not plots. A permittee. This reach of river runs along Moony Manson’s allotment.”

“Manson?”

“Rancher. He hasn’t paid grazing fees in years. His cattle are in trespass.”

“So because of the drought . . .?”

Paul shook his head. “More complicated. Wild horses. From Colorado, searching for food. Horse advocates want them left alone, no matter how much they beat up the range.”

“They can cause lots of damage.”

“Yes. And when we act, we will get politics. Ugly politics.”

“Horse lovers or Manson?”

“Action on horses is difficult if we do not deal with Manson. I told the chief we need to impound his cattle. I want veg plots mon-itored before, not after.” He sighed. “I needed those plots.”

“We could hike back from on top.”

“That would take more time than I’ve got,” Yazzi muttered. “I need to finish today. There are two more sets of plots on his range. I’ll figure something out and do them alone.”

“Why?”

“Because, you have to go down with the rafts.”

“These guys have another overnight. I have to be in town tonight for the meeting.”

“You rest. Blow off the meeting.”

“I’ll help on the first plots, hike out from there, get picked up at the road.”

“Why would you do that, and what do we do for a quadrat?”

“Cut some willow. Lay ’em out. If we’re off a few inches, so what. We want percent cover. We can assess that with all the precision we need.”

Paul nodded. “Why bust your butt to get to the meeting? You said the report’s mostly done.”

“Mostly.” Jack sighed. “Because, it’s unfinished business.”

—·—

The raft approached the sand bar.

“Sure it’s safe?” Jack shouted, watching Paul on the shore, his kayak already stowed.

“The creek is dry,” Paul shouted back.

The raft bumped the sand and Jack jumped from the tube. He waved his goodbyes and turned up-creek, following Paul, carrying only a radio and a water bottle borrowed from Lizzy McClaren. Paul moved out quickly, his pack on, carrying a handful of willow branches.

A half mile in, they climbed out of the drainage. Paul consulted the GPS on the data-logger, then led across open range. After another quarter mile he stopped. “The pin should be here,” Paul said, head down, searching the ground. He kicked, then dug with his fingers. “Found it.” He dusted around the pin, and slipped a tape measure over the head. He consulted his notebook. “Eight meters north.” He walked the tape out and stopped. He looked down.

Jack stopped beside him. Dirt. Ground devoid of grass. Not devoid of hoof prints. “This won’t take long. Won’t even need the quadrat. Not for this one.”

Paul nodded, jaw clenched. He punched on the data logger. “One hundred percent dirt.” He looked up. “Next plot, sixteen meters.” He walked upslope. “Here.”

“Same. Dirt,” Jack said.

Paul nodded.

“No wonder the creek flashed. Nothing to hold the rain.”

Paul read off the next location, and moved to the next plot. “No grass.”

“But three percent cover,” Jack said, laying the willow sprigs on the ground. “Snakeweed, on the line.”

Paul moved on. On the next, sagebrush. Only a small percentage of cover.

When done, Paul dropped the data logger into his pack. “Big difference.”

“Didn’t need me on these.”

“No, but it helped on the others.” He set a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You will be okay?”

Jack keyed his radio, and listened for the hit on the repeater. It popped. “I’ll be okay. You?”

“The last plots are also on range Manson uses. If like these, I will easily get to the takeout on schedule. If going according to plan, trespass cattle are being rounded up now.”

“So the data aren’t really a factor?”

“No, his cattle are in trespass, a policy matter. But I want the data. It is best we have it.”

Jack nodded.

“We should have acted years ago. The state office would not sign off, until now.” He pointed. “Because of that.”

Jack turned. On a distant knoll, horses picked at what looked to be more dirt than browse. He squinted, counting. Six, maybe seven, maybe more beyond the rise. Some gray, some sorrel, some white. Even at a distance, he thought he saw ribs. “Bad shape.”

“Like the range. But, horse advocates are ready to take us to court.”

“Must have a good bloodline. Skinny, but otherwise might be nice horses.”

“An old rancher in Colorado put his stud out with the mustangs. He’d push ’em into a box canyon, take the best colts for himself. Old man died a few years back.”

“And now they’re here.”

“Caught in the drought. Moved south searching for food.” Paul threw on his pack.

“Before you go, let me look at your map,” Jack said. “What’ll happen with Manson’s cattle?”

Paul turned, giving him access to his pack. “Auction. Five hundred cows with calves. Proceeds to pay fees and fines. It won’t cover it.”

Jack unzipped a pocket and pulled out the topo. “What’s the schedule for the horses?”

“Later in the week. Then off to adoption.”

Jack opened the map and slid a finger across the contours, studying terrain, then roads. A range road meandered across the desert, veering through a saddle between a mesa and a smaller knoll, and ended at a graveled county road. He looked up and scanned the horizon. Mesa—there, to the west. The knoll—south of it. He refolded the map and stuffed it back in the pocket. “Careful on the river, Paul.”

“You, too, my friend. Sorry I won’t make it to the meeting tonight.”

“Got it covered.”

Paul took off for the drainage.

Jack turned, put his eye on the distant mesa, and set out walking toward it. At the top of a rise, he keyed his radio. “Dispatch, this is Chastain.”

“Dispatch, go ahead Jack.”

“Molly, I’m gonna need a ride. Anyone who could pick me up on the BLM part of the monument? Back side of Spanish Skirts Mesa?”

“Standby.” The repeater clicked off.

Jack dropped his arm and continued walking.

“Chastain, this is Dispatch.”

He raised the radio. “Go ahead.”

“Luiz Archuleta’s on the plateau. If I can reach him, he could circle back to your location. Could be two hours. Three at the most.”

“Might be tight but that’ll work. I’ve got a meeting tonight in town.”

“Copy. I’ll see if I can find another option. By the way, the superintendent’s looking for you. He couldn’t raise you on the radio.”

“About what?”

“Questions. Your friend from the regional office is here.”

“What friend?”

“Erika Jones. She’s here with a congressional aide.”

Jack stopped. He took a breath, and raised his eyes to the sky. Friend? Yeah, right. “Tell Joe, I’m in a good location to talk. Got plenty of time. Otherwise, I’ll call from Luiz’s phone.”

“Copy.”

Why the hell is Erika here? He stepped around sagebrush and reset his direction. Let Joe Morgan worry about her.

Late summer, skies blue, light cumulus on the horizon. Hundred degrees in the shade. Hell of a day for a hike. He glanced west. Dust devils danced across the desert. He looked north. None. In places, the dirt looked red. Dark from rain. He reset his eyes on the mesa. Gonna be a bitch of a hike.

“Chastain, this is Dispatch.”

“Go ahead Molly.”

“Change of plans. Jones and the congressional aide will pick you up. Be aware that it was not you they wanted to see. In fact, . . . how do I put this . . . it was you they hoped to avoid. Apparently, the superintendent insisted you’re the best person to answer their questions.”

Why is she telling me this? “I copy. I’ll be at the pickup location in about an hour.”

“Copy.”

“Tell ’em to bring water. And something to eat.”