Manson shouted.
“Means you’re full of it.” Jack stepped forward, raising his arms. “Get out of here. Leave.”
Manson looked to his right, then his left. The militiamen at his sides took one step forward, leveling AR-15s at Jack’s chest.
“My friend,” Paul said. “Stay out of this.”
Jack stared into the face of a militiaman. “He won’t shoot.”
The militiaman pointed his rifle skyward, fired a round, then leveled it back at Jack’s chest. Other militiamen took one step forward.
Rangers, gripping pistols, hands tense, glanced between faces behind dark, un-telling sunglasses.
A woman on the ground stirred.
A ranger flinched.
“Paul,” a voice shouted, from a vehicle among the stock trucks.
He turned.
“Let ’em go,” the voice said. “Orders. Let the cattle go. They said not to let this escalate further.”
“Who gave the orders?” Paul shouted back.
“Washington. Let ’em go.”
Paul gave Manson a hard stare, signaled the truck at the chute to pull forward, then gave a signal to rangers at the corral.
Gates swung open. Cattle burst through, fanning out, trailing away from the corral. They topped the hill and were gone.
Manson smiled. “Cowards.”
A militiaman stepped forward, his nose in Jack’s face. He grinned, and spat, “Bang.”
Chapter
6
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
