Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  Fishing for a bigger catch, Bo cast his line a little further out. “Something to do with him working for Kaiser, I heard.”

  By Kaiser, Bo was referring to Preston Kaiser, a kid they’d gone to middle school with until he was shipped off to the New Mexico Military Institute over in Roswell. He’d gone on to Vanderbilt, like most of the Kaisers, but came back to Amarillo to work in the family business.

  There were more than a few Kaisers around the Panhandle, but Preston was the heir apparent of the wealthy clan. He had worked in their banking operations since graduation and had only taken over Mescalero Exploration after his father died five years prior. The family had an oil refinery in Borger and a feedlot in Hereford, but the real moneymaker was Kaiser Bank.

  “Can’t see how me and my brother are any of your concern.”

  Bo moved toward Garrett with a startling suddenness and stopped short within a couple of feet. He raised a massive arm, dropped a hand on Garrett’s shoulder, and wrapped his fingers around it like a vise. “Well, it ain’t my concern, exactly. I’m just saying Kaiser money makes the world go round is all.” Bo’s next words came out more threat than question. “And you can’t fault a man for wanting a piece of that, can you?”

  Garrett was sizing up his opponent, determining exactly where to ram his fist, but Bo barged past without warning, making little effort to sidestep him as he lumbered away.

  Moving from light to shadow beneath the skeleton framework, Bo vanished at the end of the footbridge. Left with the solitude he’d come seeking, Garrett no longer wanted it.

  His ghosts were back and he hadn’t even been home an hour.

  8

  Garrett settled into a booth in the Cattle Exchange restaurant at the far corner by the window, his back to the wall and far from the main entrance. He was already on edge after his run-in with Bo, and this place was a who’s who gathering spot for wheeler-dealer types around Canadian. Showing up here for lunch or dinner meant there was a good chance you’d see somebody you knew. One unexpected reunion was bad enough for the evening.

  Fortunately for Garrett, his beard and long hair provided good camouflage. Anyone who hadn’t seen him since his army days would mistake him for an oil field roughneck or feedlot cowhand, unworthy of a second glance.

  He pulled his hat brim low and scanned the crowd. It was right after five o’clock and the usual assortment of diners were trickling in and assembling themselves by profession around their customary tables. Oil field hands in coveralls, cowboys in boots and spurs, and farmers in brown Carhartt workwear were scattered about the restaurant, intermixed with bankers, attorneys, and local proprietors whose attire fell anywhere between business and business casual.

  Garrett had been tempted to suggest another restaurant, somewhere more private, but didn’t want to argue for a venue change against his brother the lawyer. That’d be a no-win fight. In the end, he was glad they’d settled on a place he’d been missing. Mounted trophy deer, Old West portraits, and big Texas flags adorned the walls. The restaurant was characteristic of the region in decor and clientele, hence the crowd in business suits.

  When oil was discovered back in 1955, many of the ranchers struggling to survive in the fickle and oftentimes brutal climate found themselves awash with cash. And those who didn’t piss it away on racehorses, vacation homes, and private jets figured out a way to make their money grow. There were more than a few in the area whose net worth was north of fifty million. Though like Garrett’s family, most eked out a living and that was that. Some had a lot. Some had a little. No different from anywhere else.

  Booms came and went but one thing never changed. There was plenty of petroleum under their feet. The Anadarko Basin is one of the deepest in the country, and no matter how much you drain it there always seems to be more. In fact, the largest gas well ever drilled in America was in what became known as the Buffalo Wallow oil field. It started producing in 1969 and still yields dividends to this day.

  Garrett drummed his fingers on the table, as his mind shifted from his family’s deteriorating ranch to Asadi, and the fact he’d left him alone with his dad. Butch would take good care of him, that wasn’t the issue. For all his faults, too numerous to count, the old man was as good a grandpa as it gets. Bridger had assured him of that on many occasions.

  But Garrett and Asadi hadn’t been separated since their journey began. For better or worse, he was the only constant in the boy’s life. He was half-tempted to call and check in when Bridger walked up to the booth and stared. “Damn, Bucky, I almost walked right past you.”

  Garrett didn’t even have to look up. Only two people in the world ever called him Bucky, and the other had been dead for over two decades. Having buck teeth at an early age had been the subject of fun for everyone but him. His mother had said it with affection, as more a term of endearment, but coming from Bridger it was a kick to the gut.

  Nevertheless, Garrett ignored it and slid out of the booth as Bridger threw out a hand. There was a time when his brother would have pulled him into a full bear hug, but too much time had passed. Bridger was still pissed, even if his Clint Eastwood smile didn’t show it. He followed up the trademark smirk with a skeptical glare.

  “They don’t have a barber out on those rigs or what?”

  First Bucky, and then a shot across the bow. If nothing else the name-calling and banter gave him a familiar feeling of home. He’d play along. For a while.

  “Well, they got ’em out there, Bridge, but I was holding out for more of a . . . stylist.”

  Garrett gave Bridger the onceover and determined he didn’t look any the worse for wear. The golden boy was still golden and looked every bit the part of a successful lawyer. Perfectly tailored suit. Designer tie. And Lucchese boots. He was the golden boy in both the literal and figurative sense.

  Bridger had inherited their dad’s blond hair and blue eyes, traits of Butch’s German and Scottish ancestors who’d migrated to the Panhandle after the Civil War. Unlike Bridger, who was six foot three and belonged on a Wheaties box, Garrett, like his mother, was smaller in stature, a shade under six foot, and ropier than the corn-fed kids around Canadian.

  Bridger chuckled as he slid into the booth. “A stylist, huh?” He gave a shake of the head. “I ought to style your ass good with some sheep sheers. How long’s it been since your last trip?”

  Things were a bit frosty, but his brother’s joke was a good start. Like their mother, Garrett preferred to breeze past any awkwardness. Or even better, avoid it altogether. Mena Kohl would have had Genghis Khan to supper, so long as he washed his hands. Bridger, on the other hand, had inherited Butch’s sharp temper and penchant for grudges. Letting bygones be bygones just wasn’t in their DNA. Of course, Garrett was one to talk.

  At any rate, he followed his big brother’s lead and slid into his seat. Pretending to ponder a question he already knew the answer to Garrett dragged out his response. “Three years, I think.” Another pause for effect. “Christmas, if memory serves.”

  “That’s right, it was Christmas,” Bridger confirmed. “You brought the girls those pretty scarves. Where were they from again?” The question had an almost disbelieving tone.

  “Indonesia.” Garrett hoped like hell he’d told the right lie to protect his DEA cover. It was getting harder and harder the more places he traveled.

  “That’s right,” Bridger said with a slow nod. “They still wear those things all the time. Make a big deal to all their friends about how exotic they are, and how they got them from their cool uncle, rambling around the world like some roughneck gypsy.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Garrett grabbed his menu and scanned the back. It was starting to look as if Bridger was going to let things go. And then he struck.

  “It wasn’t their fault, you know?”

  “What wasn’t?” For some reason Garrett felt the need to play dumb, maybe hoping his brother would buy the charade. But he never did.

  “What happened between you and me.”


  “I know that,” Garrett protested hotly. None of it for show this time.

  “Then why’d you write them out of your life, along with me, Cassidy, and everyone else around here.” Bridger cut his eyes outside the booth, clearly aware of his fiery timbre. He worked to lower his voice. “You want to be mad at me, fine. But the girls didn’t deserve to be abandoned by their favorite uncle. They worship the ground you walk on.”

  The words stung, and any blistering retort Garrett was formulating flew right out of his system. There was nothing he could say to refute that. And this wasn’t just another of Bridger’s Jedi mind tricks he used as a lawyer, it was the cold hard truth.

  “You’re right, Bridger.” Garrett took a deep breath. “You’re right. They didn’t deserve that and neither did Cassidy.”

  “You saying I did?”

  “I’m saying I still don’t agree with what you did.”

  “Working with Kaiser?”

  Bridger narrowed his focus on Garrett. “Look, I know you hate Mescalero, and I don’t blame you. And you have every reason to given what happened. But the rest of us who stayed here had to move on. You understand that, don’t you?” Garrett didn’t answer, so Bridger pressed on. “It’s the biggest oil and gas operator in the entire Panhandle. It provides jobs for people in six counties. Banks are full of Mescalero money, and so are the pockets of just about everyone sitting in this restaurant in some way or another.”

  “Including you,” Garrett noted.

  “Including me,” Bridger admitted.

  Given his brother’s seemingly humble admission, Garrett considered easing up on him. Considered it. He wanted to let it go but couldn’t. “Listen, Bridge, the fact that the Kaisers’ pockets are deep doesn’t justify what they did to our family.”

  Bridger looked around and leaned forward. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, agriculture in this part of the world doesn’t exactly keep the lights on like it used to.”

  He gestured toward a group of four cowboys guzzling frosty mugs of beer a few tables over. “Those guys get to keep their heritage because there’s about fifty pump jacks and a few new oil derricks sitting on the ranches where they work. That’s the truth. Oil runs this place, whether the price is high or low. It’s what keeps us going. Period.”

  “So?”

  Bridger’s volume dialed up in response to the single syllable. “So, what you said to me last time was out of line and I expect an apology.”

  Years ago, they were both a few beers in when Garrett told his brother that working for Mescalero was like pissing on their mother’s grave. The comment was as vulgar as it was hurtful, but it had felt good at the time. And it felt good because it struck a nerve. Made it hurt. They hadn’t spoken since.

  “You know how I feel about the Kaisers and you work with them anyhow.”

  “I work with Preston. He’s different from the old man.”

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, they say.”

  “They do say that,” Bridger conceded. “Which means they could say the same thing about us. You want to live in Butch Kohl’s shadow for the rest of your life?”

  It was time to relent, Garrett thought. He wasn’t conceding he was wrong about the Kaisers, only that his brother was right on a few points, particularly the one about his nieces. His thirst to punish Bridger had put innocent people in the cross fire. It was time to bury the hatchet.

  “Bridger, you know I don’t want that. And more than anything else I don’t want the twins caught in the middle of this.” Garrett swallowed hard before eating the crow. “And the comment I made to you about Mama was way out of line. I’m sorry for that.”

  Bridger shook it off, but whether his brother actually forgave him was still up in the air. Their mother taught them from early on that when one brother offers an apology, the other accepts. It had put the Band-Aid on more than a few knockdown drag outs and that’s all that mattered. But something was off with Bridger, and it wasn’t just their feud. Rarely serious at all, his brother had a nervous edge that was out of character.

  Garrett set the menu aside and stared Bridger in the eye. “Everything else okay, man?”

  Bridger looked surprised. “Yeah, why?”

  “Daddy mentioned you haven’t been yourself lately.”

  “Well, did he say who I’ve been?”

  Ah hell! Was he really going to play this game? If he had to pull it out of him like he had with Butch, it’d piss him off all over again. Garrett didn’t pay the lame joke any attention, just pressed ahead like he did with an evasive informant.

  “He just said maybe you were stressed about something. With oil prices down, I thought maybe money was a little tight or something?”

  Bridger shook it off. “Nah, things are good. Practice is flush. Still doing enough title opinions for Mescalero to keep me up to my eyeballs in work.”

  “Everybody’s health okay? The girls? Cassidy?” Garrett chuckled out, “You don’t have six months to live, do you?”

  Bridger didn’t laugh at the joke, which made Garrett think he was on to something. But he didn’t let on, hoping his brother would fess up on his own.

  “No, we’re all in good health. Thank God.” Bridger glanced around, seeming to make sure there was no one in earshot. “But . . . there’s been a few things got me pacing at night.”

  Garrett’s mind immediately went back to marital problems. “What kind of things? Something to do with Cassidy?”

  Bridger shook it off. “No, she’s fine. We’re fine.” A beat passed. “For now.”

  “What do you mean for now?”

  Bridger looked around again. “Got a problem with some cases I worked a while back.” He looked nervous and jumped a little when the waitress walked up to the table. After ordering their beers and steaks, they sat in uncomfortable silence as his brother waited for their server to not only leave but go back inside the kitchen.

  Bridger looked out the window and stared at nothing. “There’s been some weird stuff going on around here, that’s all.”

  “Well, what, Bridge? What kind of weird stuff are we talking about?”

  The waitress placed their beers on the table and scampered off. Bridger gulped down about half the beer in a swallow and answered with a single word. “Well, it’s drugs.”

  The confession made the hair on Garrett’s neck stand on end. He was intrigued for obvious reasons, but there was a part of him that suddenly felt like his cover was blown. That said, drugs in the Texas Panhandle were nothing new. They were as big a part of the energy business as the oil itself. His incident with Bo Clevenger was proof of that.

  “Yeah, well that’s the oil field. Rig hands take meth like kids drink Kool-Aid. It’s just how it is.”

  “I’m not talking about meth, Garrett. We’ve had that here for years. I’m talking other stuff. Like opiates.”

  Now that was surprising. Opiates were rampant everywhere but hadn’t been as rife in the oil field as stimulants. Rig workers and truck drivers were typically looking for something to keep them going. Work hard—play hard, and all that crap.

  Garrett hadn’t seen a big demand for drugs like heroin with those types. But with oil prices depressed, the money wasn’t flowing like it once had in all parts of the country. A lot of people had lost their jobs. Maybe they were looking for something to kill the pain.

  “Well, it seems kind of unusual, but tastes change, even in the drug world, I’m told.”

  “I’m not talking about what they’re using, Garrett. I’m talking about what they’re selling. Transporting across state lines.” Bridger looked frustrated, almost panicked. “And now they’re making threats.”

  9

  Asadi didn’t know what to do but was sure he didn’t want to stare out the window all day. He wanted to explore. The more he sat, the more he thought about his family, and what happened at the village. And the more he dwelled on it, the sadder and more homesick he became. He screwed the green top back on his soda bottle and wa
lked into the living room where Garrett’s father, Booch, sat dozing in front of the television.

  After standing there a few seconds and being ignored, Asadi plopped down on the sofa, which shot out a plume of dust from beneath the cushion. The old man pointed to the spot and spoke in a low gravelly voice.

  “Nobody ever sits there, so it’s a little . . .”

  Asadi didn’t comprehend a word but could tell he was embarrassed about the mess.

  Butch switched the channel to a news show and stared at the man on the screen with intense disgust. He let the words Doppler Dan drip from his mouth slowly, like venom, then added with a scornful tone, “This guy couldn’t predict a tornado if it flew up his cornhole.” A grunt and grin preceded his next line. “More like Doppler Dumbass.”

  Asadi wasn’t sure what Butch had said but laughed anyway. He knew ass was an American profanity. His older brother, Faraz, had taught him several. Although neither of them understood what the words meant, they laughed nonetheless and repeated them to each other while out in the garden, well beyond earshot of their parents.

  Butch snorted. “You like that one, huh?” There was a gleam in his eye. “Well . . . everyone hates a weatherman, I suppose. From here to Timbuktu, they don’t know nothin’. All they do is talk a bunch of trash.”

  The old man’s dramatic fussing made Asadi laugh even harder, a reaction that made Butch grin wide. “Hot dog, sonny, you must be as disgusted with these people as I am.” He slapped his thigh. “Well, if you hate this turd, wait until you see the rest.”

  The old man reclined farther into his chair, until his body was nearly as flat as the floor. He slapped his thigh a few more times and laughed. Part of Asadi felt guilty, as if it was a sin to be happy after what happened in the village. But the rest he was just glad to forget, even if only for a moment. He was near to sinking back into the sadness when Butch suddenly flung his legs forward and returned his flat chair to its upright position. He sat on the edge and turned to Asadi.