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.
