“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.
Paul looked his way and back.
“What does that mean?” 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