Читать книгу Sagebrush Sedition - Warren J. Stucki - Страница 15

The second step of the Grand Staircase, the Vermillion Cliffs, often over a thousand feet thick, is composed of three separate and distinct layers of primal Triassic rock.

Forming the bottom layer of this multi-tiered butte is the Chinle formation. Composed of Chinle shale and Shinarump conglomerate, it is 225 million years old and makes up the lighter strata near the base of the cliff.

The bulky red middle layer is composed of Wingate sandstone. Created approximately 200 million years ago, it was formed from huge prehistoric sand dunes that in time were buried by another layer and eventually ossified.

The top and capping layer is the darker Kayenta formation. Estimated to be 190 million years old, it is composed of siltstone spawned from an ancient lake during a more moderate climate and is characterized by its distinctive horizontal stratification.

In the whole scope of the Grand Staircase, the Vermillion Cliffs are the most prominent, the most easily viewed and make a spectacular backdrop for the city of Kanab.

Roper Rehnquist took a deep breath of fresh air as he looked around at the magnificent view. God, how he loved this way of life!

The pungent odor of burning calf hair, the popping sounds of a hot juniper fire heating a long-handled branding iron, the physical strain of wrestling a hundred and fifty-pound calf, the frantic bellowing of the animal being branded, the unique stench of the black tar unguent being slathered on the raw horn bed, the incomparable sight of lacy white clouds racing on a glacier blue sky, the musty fragrance of riding a horse through hip-high wet sagebrush, or just the very common sight of the rugged Utah hillsides flecked with moss green junipers now dressed with bluish round berries and the coup de grâce, the locker room aroma of dust and sweat, confirming an honest day’s work. These were the things Roper had missed during his years of academia.

Absentmindedly, he gazed south in the direction of his BLM allotment. There was nowhere on earth quite like it. Fifty Mile Mountain was essentially a flattop mesa stretching for fifty miles. The entire southern tip, twenty miles or so, was his Lake allotment and comprised his summer range. In the late fall, he drove his cows off the mountain onto Fifty Mile Bench then after a month or so grazing there, he trailed them down onto desert floor. Here they would spend the winter. This area, his Soda Springs allotment, was more arid, but much warmer. Between the two allotments, he had about one hundred and fifty square miles, about half of that on Fifty Mile Mountain.

Geographically and geophysically, it was a big and difficult operation. Historically, the BLM had not allowed any road construction upon Fifty Mile Mountain and only minimal building construction. After years of haggling, they had permitted one corral on each allotment. Taking advantage of that window of opportunity, he and his father had built corrals, but also a small cabin on each allotment. With no roads up onto Fifty Mile Mountain, constructing that cabin had proved to be something of an ordeal. Everything, all building materials including nails, 2x4s, cement, windows, caulking, stove, sink, pipes and all furnishings had to be packed up by horse over a steep narrow trail that snaked directly up and over the face of the Straight Cliffs.

The Soda Springs cabin had not been a problem. With a spur road leading right to it from the Hole-in-the-Rock Road, those same building materials had simply been trucked in. Subsequently, the Soda Springs cabin was a little bigger and a much more comfortable compared to the mountain cabin. Over the years, the system had worked well. Depending on the season and where the cows were grazing, they always had shelter and a dry place to sleep.

Spring and fall, cattle moving time, were always a challenge. Considering the narrowness and pitch of Cliff Trail, all Roper could drive off the mountain at any one time was a small herd of about thirty to forty head. In the fall, he would gather cows in the corral at Lake Pasture until he had approximately forty head, then he would push them off the Straight Cliff Trail to the Bench then after a month of grazing there on to Soda Springs. He repeated this cycle until he had all three-hundred and fifty cows off the mountain. In the spring, he simply reversed the direction and drove the cows back onto the Fifty. All in all, he averaged about eighty or ninety nights a year in those two cabins.

Of course the wild ones never came off. For over a hundred years, ever since his granddaddy had started grazing the Fifty, there had been feral or wild cows. Originally, the wild ones had probably separated from his grandfather’s herd, missed in the fall roundup due to the incredible ruggedness of the land. Now, however, they were basically a separate species. Any cowboy worth his salt could tell a wild cow at a glance. They were tall, rangy and weighed upwards of sixteen hundred pounds, sporting a full set of wicked horns like fine-honed curved sabers. Their eyes were wild and suspicious, and their attitude and posture were consistently confrontational. Without the assistance of man, they were born, reproduced and died. Darwin’s system of natural selection had made them a fierce and violent breed that had somehow had managed to survive severe freezing winters, crippling droughts, deadly predators such as mountain lions and man, and they did this all on an impossibly rugged rangeland where they had to have the dexterity of a mountain goat just to get around.

Mostly, they kept to themselves over on the remote western lip of the mesa, adjacent to the wild horse allotment. In the winter, they would duck off the mesa top, just under the rim where it was more protected from the freezing wind and blowing snow. In summer, they would invariably return to the top of the mesa. They kept their gene pool fresh by occasionally enticing one of Roper’s young heifers to join them. Also, those cows missed in the fall roundup would often end up joining the wild ones as a matter of survival. On her allotment, Ruby had managed to rope and brand a few wild ones, but she almost never got them off the Fifty to market. At first opportunity, they would break way and vanish back to the west side, often coaxing a young cow with them. There was no economic advantage to them at all, so they were tolerated because—well—because there was nothing else one could do.

Located just to the north and bordering his Lake allotment was Ruby’s Mudhole allotment. Her winter range ran off the western side of the Fifty Mile Mountain into the Woolsey Arch area, on the opposite side of the mesa from Roper’s. Even though Ruby had only one allotment, her total area was probably larger than Roper’s two allotments. But her lease did not have as good pastures and possessed fewer springs. As a consequence, Ruby was only permitted to graze one hundred and eighty head compared to Roper’s three hundred and fifty. As with Roper, the BLM had not allowed her roads and only one corral, and though she had been permitted a cabin, she had not yet constructed one and now with the new monument, undoubtedly the permit would be rescinded. In this area, ranching was a mammoth undertaking and almost an impossible task for one person. Roper had to admit he was amazed that Ruby had hung in, even after her husband had died. No doubt about it, the girl had some grit.

Yes, he did love this land. Even if he wasn’t pushing cattle, he enjoyed simply riding his horse up on the Fifty and gazing out at the scenery. He considered that entertainment and preferable to an afternoon at the movies or a ball game.

However, not the least of these agreeable afternoon activities was watching Ruby Nez go about her work. As the old timers would say, she was mighty easy on the eyes. Though she did her best to dress as a common wrangler, some things were impossible to disguise. The view from atop his dun, General Stepper, was indeed splendid. Roper didn’t mind one little bit taking a break and watching her go about her work.

As was her habit, Ruby always bound her raven black hair up with a red bandana, like the city gangs, though obviously she was not trying to imitate them. She then capped her head with a sweat-stained black felt Stetson. About her only concession to her well concealed, but ultimately insuppressible femininity, was a stunning Indian-crafted turquoise broach pinned to the right side of her hat band. Exposing a bit of black bra strap, her long-sleeved western shirt was ripped at the back, probably from ducking through strands of a barbwire fence. The oft-mended Levis were clean, wash-faded and pleasingly tight. Scuffed, dusty and worn thin at both the toes and heels, her fancy leather-tooled boots looked as if they wouldn’t last out the year. She looked just about as far away as you can get from a fashion model, Roper thought chuckling to himself, though she would look damn good on just about any runway. Ruby was one of those women who looked good not because of her clothes, but in spite of them.

A lot of women are pretty in a world where beauty can be bought in a supermarket or salon, or purchased at a plastic surgeon’s office for a price, but what impressed him about Ruby was her inner beauty, her physical strength, the way she managed her business, how she handled a horse or roped a calf. Though she had asked for his help, he couldn’t help but feel she could have handled today’s little operation fine by herself.

Here on the open range with no corrals or squeeze chutes, calves had to be individually roped and thrown to the ground with their right sides upturned. Not an easy task when you’re dealing with a six-month-old, hundred and fifty pound, frantic and bawling calf fighting you every step of the way. No question about it, a corral would have made life much easier, but even after repeated requests, the BLM had steadfastly refused him or Ruby any further corrals or buildings, hence the branding on the open range.

Once on the ground, a glowing hot branding iron was plucked from the fire and slapped on the calf’s side, searing a lazy N on the calf’s hide. Then, while he was still on the ground, a Barnes dehorner was paced over the horn bud and the handles were suddenly forced apart, thereby pinching off the nubbin. Instantly, a spurt of blood would gush from the severed central artery. Quickly, the cowboy would then smother a thick layer of black tar unguent on the raw horn bed and with luck this usually controlled the hemorrhage. If not, the calves bled until the muscle in the arterial wall spontaneously contracted and the vessel clotted. Very seldom, if ever, did a calf die from horn bleeding.

Lastly, while they had them roped, all males were gelded. Roper had watched the old cowboys do this with their teeth, taking only a minute or so, but not with six-month-old calves. He personally had never got the hang of using his own incisors though he wouldn’t admit that to the cynical old-timers. If the truth be told, he found the practice highly unsanitary and disgusting, preferring a sharp pocket knife instead.

Even though the testicles resided in separate compartments, if one made the incision in precisely the right place, over the midline scrotal septum, both could be removed through the single one-inch long incision. Leaving the spermatic chords untied and the wound open, always made Roper a bit nervous. But if you were not going to ligate the chords, then you damn well better not sew up the scrotum. Otherwise, the resulting hemorrhage with no accompanying drainage could make the scrotum swell to the size of a basketball in no time. In the past, Roper had seen that happen.

Though Roper worried about infection with an open draining scrotum, he wasn’t about to argue with the way cowboys had been doing things for hundreds of years. Not only had they been doing it, but doing it with very few complications. And on the positive side, the sutureless technique was considerably easier, faster and cheaper.

Like so many other things in his life, Roper continued to follow tradition in favor of new techniques or modern science, strange behavior for an educated man. Not that he was opposed to science or progress, but he preferred an unpretentious lifestyle, simply taking the time to enjoy a sunset or the companionship of a neighbor’s visit. Starting your day at 5:30 a.m. or 2:30 p.m., it was your choice as long as the work got done. To gaze at the majestic panorama of the jumbled, wind-carved canyonlands or the imposing solitary shaft of Chimney Rock or the strangely eroded toadstools called hoodoos and suddenly realize, this is my office.

This is the reason he had dropped out of school and moved back to Escalante though he knew the popular rumor circulating was that he couldn’t cut it. Maybe they were right though God knows he’d tried. Unfortunately, his academic passion, English history and literature, was not very marketable, even with a master’s degree. He had tried teaching, that was about all you could do with that particular degree, for two years as a graduate assistant at Southern Utah University. As home of the Utah Shakespearean Festival, SUU loved anything and everything English and they felt that his expertise in British history and literature would only add to the growing aura of authenticity of that Tony Award winning festival. But after a couple years, this Stratford-on-the-Desert seemed to lose some of its luster and seemed more than just a little incongruous, maybe even ridiculous. More and more, he longed for the life he knew as a kid.

His professors and colleagues had warned him that his ranching dreams were actually pipe dreams, nothing more than sandcastles precariously perched on the beach at high tide. As they pointed out, the family ranch was rapidly becoming extinct and nowadays cattle ranching was becoming almost as paradoxical as Shakespeare in the desert. Probably even more so and not half so likely to provide a livelihood, and certainly there was no associated benefit or retirement package. And now with Clinton creating this new monument—hell maybe they were right. Maybe he was a threatened species, just like the Desert Tortoise, the Mexican Spotted Owl or the Virgin River’s Woundfin Minnow, but there was one glaring difference, he had no Endangered Species Act to protect him. More and more, he was beginning to feel most Americans were okay with letting his kind disappear. After all that era had been abundantly preserved in celluloid for the western movie channel and that was enough. Roper sighed and leaned on the saddle horn.

“Doug!” Ruby yelled. “I could use a little help.”

Roper waved in acknowledgment then spurred General Stepper toward Ruby. She was kneeling on a bawling white-faced calf, but couldn’t quite reach the branding iron. Reining in General Stepper, Roper jumped down and snatched the hot iron.

“From the amount of work you’ve done, I can tell you right now, you haven’t earned much of that picnic lunch.” Ruby grinned as she watched Roper apply the fiery iron. Instantly, the scintillating heat waves rose accompanied by the pungent odor of burning hair and the frantic bellowing of the young bull. He lunged against the ropes but with a knee on his chest, Ruby held him fast.

“What can I say,” Roper shrugged with a grin, jumping back as Ruby released the calf. “Good help is hard to find.”

“I saw another one head into that clump of cedars,” Ruby said, pointing to her right.

“Me and Moses’ll go flush him out,” Roper said, his blue eyes following her gesture.

Effortlessly, he remounted General Stepper then clicked his tongue for his dog to join them. Moses, a spotted brown Catahoula Leopard hound from Louisiana, immediately took the lead, nose close to the ground, hunting for the smell of the calf.

For some years now, Roper had been using Catahoula Leopard hounds to help with the round up. They literally took the place of another wrangler and in some ways were better. They could sniff out cows in thickets so dense that normally Roper would ride right on by. Also, if asked, they would hold a cow or even a small herd at bay, confining them for hours while Roper went on to hunt for more cows. In a very real way, during roundup the dogs also provided the extra corral that he so desperately needed and had been denied.

Within minutes, Moses had located the calf, pushing it out of the dense undergrowth where Roper could throw a rope on him. It snapped taut and Stepper back-stepped, dragging the bellowing calf to Ruby. She quickly branded, castrated and dehorned him, all in less than ten minutes.

“Well, that about does it, thank God.” Ruby crossed herself in the traditional Catholic way, then slapped the dust from her Levis. “Let’s head up to the rim where we’ve got a view and some shade, then I guess I’ll have me some lunch.”

“Fine by me,” Roper agreed. “I’m starved.”

“Didn’t hear me invite you.” Ruby grinned.

“I’ll tag along just in case you change your mind,” Roper chuckled.

“Suit yourself,” Ruby smiled, dark eyes flashing, “but I don’t feed slackers.”

“It’s almost four,” Roper said, consulting his watch. “Always thought lunches were supposed to be at noon. What kind of chicken outfit is this?”

“Quit your whining,” Ruby said. “Lunch or dinner, what does it matter? From the amount of help you’ve been, you’ll be lucky to get any.”

Mounting, they worked their way over to the rim of Fifty Mile Mountain. Pausing briefly at an overlook, they soaked in the view. Immediately beneath them was the sheer gray face of the Straight Cliffs. Further below, the desert valley spread out like flood waters, flowing to the north and south, though not so much toward the east. That direction was blocked by a maze of red domes and ribboned walls that constituted the lower Escalante canyons and were actually part of the Glen Canyon National Recreation Area. To the far north was the town of Escalante and to the far south was the tumbled landscape of red Navajo sandstone that made up the basin of Lake Powell. Through this narrow arid valley snaked a serpentine gravel road, connecting Escalante with the Hole-in-the-Rock and subsequently to Lake Powell.

Ruby pulled a small ground tarp from her saddlebags, spreading it over the thick layer of pinion and juniper needles. While she retrieved the steak sandwiches and cold drinks, Roper stretched his wiry frame out on the tarp, resting his back against a downed pinion log. He couldn’t imagine anything better, a picnic with Ruby Nez. Life was good.

“You want a beer or Coke?” Ruby asked, holding up both.

“Coke,” Roper said, taking the can and popping the tab. He took a long swallow, then settled back on the canvas. “Ah, that hits the spot.”

“You don’t drink beer?”

“Nah, it’s against the Word of Wisdom.”

“And caffeine’s not?” Ruby asked, gesturing toward the Coke.

“Well,” Roper stammered. “I guess it’s a matter of degree.”

“So alcohol is a bigger sin than caffeine,” Ruby said, as she finished unpacking the lunch and arranging it on the tarp.

“Something like that.”

“Makes no sense to me,” Ruby said bluntly, offering Roper a roast beef sandwich. “But then again, your religion never has.”

“And Catholicism does?”

“Well, as least there’s a direct line to St. Peter,” Ruby replied.

“Doesn’t matter that the line ran through miles of corruption, debauchery, plunder, murder and child molestation?”

“And Mormonism doesn’t have any skeletons? Tell me about Mountain Meadows.”

“That is a subject for a different time,” Roper said. “How do you suppose the pioneers ever got their wagons through Hole-in-the-Rock?” Roper asked, changing the subject and gazing south at the barely visible bulwark of Navajo sandstone where the early Mormon pioneers had literally carved a wagon trail through solid rock.

“Hell, Doug, I don’t know, that’s why they call it Hole-in-the-Rock,” Ruby answered sharply as she opened a beer. “I suppose, they just took a concrete saw and ripped a hole in the canyon wall, then parted the Colorado like the prophet Moses and walked across.”

“Your sarcasm is duly noted, “ Roper said, “but it still amazes me. They did all that back in eighteen seventy-nine.”

“They wouldn’t have had to do it at all if they would have just followed Father Escalante’s route,” Ruby said, then she broke out into a grin, “I’m just giving you a bad time. It was an amazing feat.”

“I guess it’s the history in me,” Roper said then fell silent, munching on the sandwich, “but that sort of thing has always fascinated me.”

“Why’d you really come back, Doug?” Ruby asked after a moment of silence. “You know what they’re a sayin’, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know,” Roper replied and took another bite. “I didn’t get caught cheating on my doctorate and I didn’t wash out. I got good grades and I was a fair teacher. Believe it or not, I just didn’t like it—not like I do this,” he said gesturing at the panorama before them.

“They say you were almost done.”

“Depends on what you mean by done. Finished my masters and was about halfway through my doctorate.” Roper stopped for a sip of Coke. “One hundred and ten hours a week between teaching and working on the thesis. Never seeing blue sky or breathing fresh air finally got to me. Then one day I had an epiphany.”

“Like Joseph Smith?” Ruby said with a smile.

“Will you let me finish?”

She nodded.

“I finally decided, this is not for me. I’m not going to prepare one more lecture for unappreciative students, or write another superfluous paragraph on the Battle of Culloden and the futile Jacobite Rebellion.”

“Is that what your thesis was about?”

“Yes. Of course, it’s all been written about many times before, that’s why I titled it, A New Perspective, on the Battle of Culloden, not that there was anything wrong with the old perspective. One day, I just realized that in the grand scheme of things, what I was doing didn’t make a whole lot of difference. Did the world really need a new perspective on something that had happened over two hundred and fifty years ago? So I finished the semester, put the thesis in cold storage and came home.”

“Your dad hadn’t sold the ranch yet?”

“By then, he’d had a couple of offers, none very good. He was trying to hang on till he could sell at a fair price. Didn’t want to just give it away.”

“So’d you buy it from him?”

“I tried to, but he wouldn’t hear of it. The compromise was I would take care of him and all his medical expenses,” Roper said. “Ironically, he died three months later—prostate cancer. Never did get his money’s worth for the place.”

“I’m sorry, Doug,” Ruby said softly. “You two were close?”

“He taught me everything—taught me to love all this,” Roper whispered, a catch in his voice. “I guess he’s the real reason I’m not a college professor.”

“You may have been a good teacher,” Ruby said, “but I’m glad you came back.”

They ate in silence for another moment then Roper continued, “you never told me that you used to date Angus Macdonald.”

“You never asked,” Ruby replied. “Does it matter?”

“No, not really. What happened?”

“Nothing, really,” Ruby answered and looked away, straightening the tarp. “It was never anything serious, at least not on my part.”

“You still seeing him?”

“No!” Ruby snapped. “It just didn’t seem right. There was a big cultural issue and of course, the age difference.”

“Is he what had you so upset last night?

“No—no,” Ruby stammered, turning a bit red. “I’m sorry about that, Doug.”

“Not a problem for me. I just wish there was more I could do.”

“Well,” Ruby replied, taking a sip of beer, then changing the subject. “How many of my calves you think we missed?”

“I don’t know, maybe three or four. Would’ve had less if I was a better roper,” Roper replied, rubbing the stump of his missing finger.

“Been meaning to ask, what happened to your finger?”

“Nothing,” Roper said, finishing the Coke and setting the bottle aside. “When I was twelve or so, I was calf roping at the little buckaroos rodeo. Caught my calf all right, but when I whipped the rope around the saddle horn, got my finger caught up in it. The horse then put on the brakes and the rope snapped taut with a hundred and fifty-pound calf hurling to a stop on the other end. Well, my finger just popped off—like an assassin using a piano wire.”

“That’s why they call you Roper?”

“Yeah,” he said, fingering the stump. “I guess, it’s what you might call a sarcastic nickname.”

“Kids can be cruel.”

“Well anyway, it stuck; it’s not so bad.”

Ruby sighed and stood up. “Well, we can’t get ‘em all, country’s too damn rough.”

“They may be a little bit wild, but they’ll still be here when we come back in the spring.”

“Any we leave now will join the wild ones.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Roper said. “I got fifty head or more of the wild ones that hang out in those canyons over by Indian Gardens, you know, on the west side of the mesa.”

“You ever try roundin’ them up?”

“Next to impossible, herding cats is easier.”

“I’ve got thirty or forty,” Ruby stated, “big ones, mean ones. Can’t get ‘em off either, Lord knows I’ve tried. They’re no damn good the way they are. Eat my grass. Been thinking about selling hunting permits.”

“Like a deer hunt?”

“This would be a lot harder than hunting deer,” Ruby said, shaking her head for emphasis, “straight up and down terrain and a hell-uv-a-lot more dangerous. When cornered, those wild bulls’ll charge. Gore you or your horse. The only danger in deer hunting is some California greenhorn might shoot you or the possibility of getting lost.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I’m hurting, Doug,” Ruby insisted, “and if I lose this allotment, I’m going to have to find some creative ways to make money.”

“You’ll be back here next fall,” Roper contended, “mark my words.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Ruby said doubtfully, “but I honestly think they’ll try and drive us out—if they can.”

“They can’t. Remember the proclamation said there would be grazing.”

“Forget the damn proclamation. Proclamations can be amended. They do it all the time.”

“Well, at least we’ll have some input. Committee work starts on Monday. We’re doing some preliminary leg work.”

“Oh,” Ruby said, failing to mask the displeasure in her voice. “I almost forgot.”

“Somebody’s got to work within the system.”

“Well, put in a good word for me,” Ruby said sarcastically. “Unlike you, if they ask me to remove my cattle from my allotment, I’ll have no where to go, ‘cept broke.”

“Even though I have two allotments, they’re both inside the monument. My perch is just as shaky as yours.”

Ruby started to say something then changed her mind. Instead she began gathering the paper trash and empty cans.

“Hello, the camp!” Someone yelled from off to the left, on the other side of a thick stand of junipers. “Is that you Roper?”

“Yeah!” Roper hollered back. “Who’s there? Skinner?”

“Yeah,” Skinner Jacobson called back as his palomino gelding patiently worked around the thicket and through the waist high sagebrush. “Howdy, Rubles,” he grinned. “You’re looking might pretty as usual.”

“Skinner,” Ruby said, then nodding at the gelding she added, “nice horse.”

“Best I can tell, there ain’t no holes in her,” Skinner agreed.

“You want a beer?” Ruby asked.

“Sure pretty lady.” Skinner dismounted, grinned then stripped forward both ends of his mustache to a perfect point. “Unless’n you got somethin’ harder?”

“Nope,” Ruby answered, taking his reins and securing his horse. “It’ll have to be beer.”

“What you doing up here?” Roper asked, getting up to shake Skinner’s hand. Lately, every time Roper saw Skinner he was amazed at how much he looked like the legendary General George Custer.

“Same as you. You seen any of my strays?”

“Nope,” Roper said. “Don’t usually get yours this far south. I often get a few of Ruby’s ‘cause we border, but I’ll be moving my cattle to my Tank Springs pasture. If I see any of yours, I’ll let you know.”

“A little early, ain’t it?” Skinner asked, accepting the beer from Ruby. “Did that new Manager ask you to move?”

“No—there’s not much feed left,” Roper replied, shaking his head. “No point in grazing down to the roots, the grass won’t come back.”

“Trying to stay on their good side, huh?” Skinner said, then took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No, not particularly,” Roper continued, “but if we show them we’re responsible range managers, maybe they’ll pretty much leave us alone.”

“Don’t count on it, college boy,” Skinner said.

“Well,” Roper said undeterred, “you’ve got to admit it’s a pretty bad drought. Haven’t had more’n five inches all year.”

“That’s why they call this here place a desert,” Skinner said, “it’s supposed to be dry. But if’n I’d know’d the feed would go this fast, I would’ve raised more hay.”

“Yeah,” Ruby sighed, “but takes water for that too.”

“Guess that leaves only one choice, take ‘em to the auction in Salina and give ‘em away,” Skinner complained, shaking his shaggy blond head.

“Good luck, cause that’s what you’ll be doing,” Ruby said. “With the price of beef now, you might as well just shoot ‘em.”

“With this drought, everyone’s been selling,” Roper said. “That drives the prices down.”

“No shit, Cowboy,” Skinner said, sneering. “Nothin’ like stating the obvious.”

“Also, beef’s not selling like it used to,” Ruby added.

“This here no red meat craze has nearly blow’d me away, “ Skinner said. “People’s acting like if’n they eat red meat today, they’s goin’ have a stroke or heart attack by tomorrow. It’s all so much bullshit.”

“Well, I’m open to suggestions,” Roper said, everting his palms in a show of frustration. “What’ll we do?”

“The only other option as far as I can tell,” Ruby replied, “is bankruptcy.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Roper said. “If we work with them, they will work with us. Nobody wants to ban ranching.”

“Yeah, and Kim Basinger wants me real bad,” Skinner replied.

“You got any better ideas?” Ruby asked.

“I’ve been talking to some of the other guys,” Skinner said, lowering his voice and quickly looking around. “And they think we need to organize. Otherwise, they’ll pick us off one by one. You know, divide and conquer.”

“We are organized,” Roper said. “It’s called the Garfield/Kane Cattleman’s Association.”

“Nah, we was thinkin’ of somethin’ more discrete, more covert.” Skinner stood up and looked Roper in the eye. “Somethin’ whose actions are not so easily traced.”

Roper evenly met Skinner’s glance. “I flat don’t like secret organizations.”

“That so?” Skinner sneered. “What about that Mormon Church of yours? Talk about secret organizations.”

“What are you talking about?” Roper asked, gritting his teeth.

“All right, that temple over there in St. George. Tell me what goes on in there.”

“I can’t discuss that.”

“My point, ‘zactly,” Skinner grinned, again reshaping his moustache. “I’d think you’d be sore by now.”

“Sore?” Roper asked, winkling his forehead.

“From all that pole fence sittin’. People say to me, that Roper ain’t got no balls, but I tell ‘em, yeah, he’s got balls all right, just sore ones from being sit on.”

Roper glared at Skinner for a moment and took a threatening step in his direction.

“Come on, you token cowboy” Skinner taunted, raising his fists. “I’ve waited for this a long time.”

Instinctively, Roper also hoisted both fists, the left one looking a bit asymmetric with the index knuckle and finger gone.

“Consider this payback,” Skinner snarled.

“Payback?”

“Payback for that bottomland your father stole from me,” Skinner hissed, his face taut and his fists ready.

“I wouldn’t exactly call outbidding, stealing,” Roper replied, taking another step forward.

Swinging wildly, Skinner’s right fist clipped Roper’s chin. Roper staggered backward, but regained his balance. He then hooked with his left and as Skinner was ducking from that punch, he quickly jabbed with his right hand, solidly connecting with the side of Skinner’s face.

Instantly, Ruby wedged between them. “This is not the time,” she said firmly as she shoved them apart. “We’ve got real problems ahead and we don’t need all this testosterone bullshit.”

“This ain’t over yet,” Skinner said, pointing a finger at Roper, “not by a long shot.

“I’m not looking for a fight,” Roper said. “Let’s just forget it.”

Skinner glared at Roper for a few seconds then turned to Ruby. “How about you, Rubles? You interested in our little group?”

Hesitating, Ruby gnawed at her lower lip. Alternately, she glanced at Skinner then at Roper, then back at Skinner again. Throwing up her hands, she walked toward her buckskin. Turning back she muttered, “maybe, I don’t know. I’ve got to know more about it.”

“Well, we’re havin’ a meetin’ at Bucky Eakins cabin tomorrow night at eight. You ought’a come, Rubles.” Skinner crushed his empty beer can with his boot heel. “In fact, I could pick you up and we could go together.”

“I don’t know about that, Skinner.”

“I’ll throw in a sit-down restaurant dinner at the Prospector’s Inn.”

“You know I don’t have time for no sit-down dinners,” Ruby replied gruffly. “But if I’m out in that area anyway, I might drop in. See what it’s all about.”

“I can’t save myself for you forever, Rubles.” Skinner flashed a full-toothed grin. “Not with all the other ladies after me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s been tough on you,” Ruby said, dead-panning.

“What about you, college boy?” Without warning, Skinner hurled the crushed beer can at Roper, bouncing it squarely off his chest. “Wouldn’t hurt you none to hear both sides.”

“Believe you me, I know both sides,” Roper said, picking up the beer can and pitching it in Ruby’s trash bag. “And there’s got to be a better way.”

“Like advisory committees?” Skinner snarled.

“Yeah, that for one.”

“Well, you best be careful out there,” Skinner warned, eyes narrowing. “You have no idea what you’re getting in to.”