reporter ended his update as the network cut away to a clip of an angry rancher, ranting about his refusal to recognize the authority of the feds. Armed militiamen stood on either side of the rancher, on guard, as he preached into a microphone. The camera zoomed in on a militiaman in camo, stoic as he faced a crowd. He held an AR-15 across his chest, a finger resting on the trigger guard.
“I heard about this,” Kelly said. “Heated up while you were on the river.” She gasped.
On screen, Jack Chastain stood with Paul Yazzi, confronted by reporters, their bevy of microphones in Jack’s face. “Because he hasn’t paid his fees. He’s overgrazing. We’re in a drought and he’s got five hundred cows on the range, plus calves. No other ranchers are doing that. Why? Because they’re taking care of their cows, and they know what it means to be stewards of the land.”
Jack flipped to another channel. Same scene. Himself in the middle of his rant. “. . . he’s got five hundred cows on the range, plus calves.”
Jack cringed and clicked over to a third news channel, same scene. The network cut away to a panel of commentators. “Right there,” said a paunchy man with light-colored hair, stopping the video. “This has nothing to do with a drought. They had rain today. This is all a fabrication by the government to go after this guy. He’s a hero for standing up to the malarkey.”
“Excuse me, Barnes,” a host said, bringing attention back to himself. “I need to cut away for a moment. We have Congressman Brent Hoff at his office in Washington. Good evening, Congressman. Good of you to join us. What do you think of all this?”
The studio scene dissolved away to an office setting. One man, crisp gray suit and blond wavy hair, neatly combed. After salutations, the smile left his face.
“I agree with the last comment. This man may be a hero for standing against the odds. One man, against the tyranny. Classic example of government overreach, and he’s willing to take them on.”
“Congressman, are there merits to what’s being said by the government?”
“I doubt it. An investigation is warranted, but from what I can tell, it looks like a case of bureaucrats overstepping their authority, not being accountable to anyone. A classic situation where mid-level bureaucrats, not elected by or accountable to anyone, are trying to rewrite the laws. I encourage Moony Manson to fight.”
“Am I hearing you correctly? Fight, you say?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know that face,” Jack said, eyeing the screen.
“The congressman? You should’ve. He’s everywhere. If they’re talking politics, he’s there.”
“I don’t pay attention to talking heads, but I’ve encountered that guy.”
“Jack, that’s Brent Hoff. Odds on favorite for the presidential nomination.”
He gave her a double take, then turned back to the television. “I remember that expression. Hallway in the federal building, Missoula, four years ago.”
“You’ve dealt with Brent Hoff?”
“A couple of dealings. First in the hall, then at a hearing a day later.” He paused, to catch the words of a commentator. Contrivance. “His aide tracked me down, said he wanted a briefing. Right then. I didn’t have time. People were waiting. Public meeting. Next day, at the hearing, he knew almost as much about our research as I did. I don’t know how. But, he lied his ass off. I defended the work of a young scientist but the congressman ripped me to shreds.”
“Today, I thought you were on the river,” Kelly muttered. “Monitoring, of some kind.”
“I was. . . . about this.”
“Manson grazes BLM land. Why were reporters talking to you?”
“Because, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Manson and his wanna be soldiers . . . they attacked Paul.” Jack slammed a hand onto the armrest, then sucked in a long, slow breath. “I may’ve screwed things up for the coalition.”
“People know what Manson’s about. He’s a separate issue.”
“He’s not.”
“Why would this have anything to do with the coalition?”
“Because, we need legislation. We have projects we can’t do without it. Water projects. River protection. Without legislation, we can’t hold the coalition together. We go to war with ourselves.”
“But that doesn’t have anything to do with Moony Manson.” Kelly said. “People here know him. They know he’s a deadbeat.”
“But grazing on public land, on part of the national monument. I’m less concerned about people here than I am about Congress.”
“Then work with Congress.”
Jack pointed at the television. “You saw that. The congressman told Manson to fight. He called for an investigation. He won’t exactly pave the way to giving the coalition the legislation it needs.”
“Other members of Congress . . . they can help.”
“Kelly, it’s Congress. They play games. They play politics. Look what happened in Montana. Even with the local senator by our side, people like Hoff got involved. Everything went off the rails.”
“I thought Montana happened because a Park Service higher up messed with a research report.”
Jack sighed. “Nail in the coffin. Things were going south before that. Maybe my fault. I had no idea this congressman was powerful. Maybe I should’ve given him what he wanted.”
“Stop thinking like that. That’s the past.”
“Now it’s the future. The road to protecting what this community values . . . the road to implementing recommendations of the coalition . . . goes through Congress.” He sighed, and ran his fingers through sweat-matted hair. “Maybe, if I stay out of the way, your father and Karen Hatcher can work their magic, carry things forward.”
The house phone rang.
Jack snatched it up. “Hello.”
“Jack, this is Joe Morgan.”
“Hold it, Joe.” He cupped the mouthpiece. “The superintendent.” He waited as Kelly turned down the television, then took a deep breath and composed himself. “Sorry. Get my message?”
“Yes, and several others,” Joe said, his voice deep and solemn. “Some from on high. I’ll make this short. You and I have been summoned. To Washington.”
Chapter
7
Joe Morgan pushed the button for the floor. The elevator jolted, then moved smoothly. Jack watched the lights ascend, then stop. The door opened.
Third floor, Main Interior
