said he would get, most likely about the National Monument and how it would affect the local tourism economy.
Damn. Why couldn’t Joe find someone else to cover that meeting? He had other people to turn to.
At least this meeting would not be contentious.
— • —
On Wednesday morning, in dress uniform, Jack drove into town. The uniform felt a bit much for Las Piedras, but Joe Morgan would have expected it.
He found a place to park the government pickup, and entered the Inn of the Canyons by way of the porte-cochere, a stucco and timber some such designed to take on the flavor of the Southwest. Its elements of grandeur, combined perhaps to attract the wealthy and well heeled, seemed strangely out of place.
The sign in the lobby said the Chamber was meeting in the Cañon Room. Jack walked past the registration desk, the concierge, and the lounge, and hung a right at the hall leading to the meeting rooms.
He stopped at the door and looked inside. Sunlight reflected down the length of a conference table. Chairs were set around it, three to a side, and one each at the heads of the table. There was ample space between them, and more chairs against the walls.
He was not sure just whom he expected, but the attendees somehow put him on edge. In addition to Mack Latham, standing just inside the door, Jack recognized a couple of county commissioners, Wayne Enslow, and a few people he’d seen around town. Others looked like ranchers. It was not a large group, maybe a dozen.
Latham saw him at the door. “Come on in Jack,” he said. He extended an arm and shook hands.
Somehow this did not look like a Chamber of Commerce meeting. Jack remembered something he had heard about the innkeeper, about him needing to improve his bottom line. This market was not proving to be as lucrative as investors had hoped. But surely this meeting wouldn’t be about that.
“You’ve met Wayne Enslow?” Latham asked.
Enslow turned to him.
“Hello, Mr. Enslow,” Jack said. “I sent you that proclamation.”
“Yes, I got it,” Enslow said. He turned away.
Latham walked him past Enslow. “How about Tom Herrera and Helen Waite, our county commissioners?”
“Yes, we’ve met,” Jack said to Herrera. He shook his hand.
He looked surprised. “We have?”
Obviously Herrera wasn’t one to remember the little people. “Only once,” Jack said. He turned and shook hands with Waite. “I was with Joe Morgan.”
“Oh, yes,” Herrera said, as if he remembered.
“How about a cup of coffee, Jack,” Latham asked.
“That would be good.” He followed, giving the county commissioners one last nod. Were they always at Chamber of Commerce meetings?
Latham led him to the service table along the back wall, stopping beside a man drawing coffee from the silver coffee urn. The man’s well-made, Western cut sport coat gave him the appearance of an elected official or a comfortable stockman. The latter was such a rare thing to see these days. Must be a politician. Tall and solid, maybe in his sixties, hair gray and well groomed, there was something about him.
The man finished preparing his coffee and spun around. He looked Jack in the eye. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. The expression on his face was cordial, but not warm.
“I don’t believe we have. I’m Jack Chastain.”
“Kip Culberson,” the man said. He shifted his cup to the other hand, and offered his right.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Jack said, as he shook hands with the man. It was a firm handshake. He was certain he had heard the name before.
“I’m sorry Kip,” Latham interjected. “I assumed you two knew each other.”
“We do now,” Culberson said. He moved past, and around to the other side of the table.
Kip Culberson. “How do I know that name?” Jack whispered to Latham.
“Rancher. Former state senator. Still involved in politics. Long family ties to the area.”
“Thanks.” Jack watched Culberson take a chair against the wall. More of what he knew of the man began to come to him. Culberson’s ranch abutted the park, sandwiched between the park and part of the new national monument. He was someone the agency was extremely careful about. Culberson knew how to get what he wanted. So, why would he be at a chamber of commerce meeting?
Latham led him back to the head of the table. Jack took the seat to his left.
“Welcome to The Inn of the Canyons,” Latham said, bringing the meeting to order. “Jack Chastain of the Park Service has joined us. I think we all know each other here.” He looked around the table. “Anyone need an introduction?”
No one asked. Jack saw faces he did not know, but he saw no point in asking for names.
“Jack, a lot is up in the air with the new National Monument. We wanted to have this little meeting--this discussion--with the Park Service, to pass on some things,” Latham said. His words were so deliberate, they sounded rehearsed. “We want the agency to know some imperatives in managing the monument...if it is to be a good neighbor to the community.”
Imperatives? Jack felt his heart pick up pace.
Latham continued. “Piedras Coloradas National Park has been here since early in the past century. But the National Monument is all very new, and frankly, the way the past president went about creating it has the potential to affect major plans for the people of this community.” He looked around the table. “Is that a fair characterization?”
That was the only opening needed by Helen Waite, the county commissioner. “We are offended by the federal government creating this National Monument,” she said angrily. She thumped a bony finger on the table. “We haven’t been involved in the least. We had no chance to participate in anything. We weren’t involved in deciding which lands would be in it, where the boundaries would be located, how it would be managed, anything. If I had my way I would have Congress cancel it.”
“Revoke it,” Herrera said.
“Whatever. The Park Service can work with us, or if they won’t, we’ll go straight to Congress. And by working with us, I mean working with us to complete the Canyon de Oro project. As planned.”
Wayne Enslow nodded at Waite.
“What do you have to say, Mr. Chastain?” Waite asked.
Jack looked around the table and back to Waite. “I’m sorry Madam Commissioner, but I’m not sure this is the proper forum for that kind of discussion.”
“There is no proper forum for these kinds of discussions,” boomed a voice from against the back wall.
All eyes turned in the direction of the voice. It was Kip Culberson.
