Fire on the Mountain

by Edward Abbey

  “There goes New Mexico,” the old man shouted at me from a few feet away. “Down the river!” He watched for only a moment, his face somber, then rode away. I stayed for a while, though old Blue stamped and yawed beneath me, in a hurry to get to the corral. Finally I let him have his way: we were both hungry.

  By the time I got the horses unsaddled and brushed and at their feed the sun was down. My legs felt hollow, my knees trembled like a baby’s, as I walked toward the ranch-house and the wonderful smell of supper. It was easy to forget the dead horse back in the hills, my pony Rascal rotting away in the soft twilight while the birds sang around him, and the red ants, the beetles and blowflies, attacked his poor stinking corpse.

  3

  “No!” Grandfather shouted. “Shot, I tell you! His jaw smashed. Didn’t kill him right away either—the poor brute must have lived for hours. Trying to get back here. They shot him, by God! With a hollow-point bullet, looked like. A hole big as my fist where the slug came out.” The old man slammed his fist on the kitchen table and the lamp jumped and the light and shadows swam crazily over the walls.

  Lee studied his cigarette. I worked on my letter home—I’d written one paragraph and didn’t know what else to say, without lying too much. Since there was nothing more I wanted to write I sketched a picture of myself on horseback riding across the White Sands with two buzzards circling above me and a black sun circling above the buzzards. I wasn’t much interested in what I was doing. I was listening closely to the old man’s anger and Lee Mackie’s careful silences.

  “Are they trying to scare me out of here?” Grandfather asked, chomping on his burnt-out cigar. “Are they fools enough to think they can scare me outa my ranch and my home?”

  Lee spoke carefully. “Don’t gallop off in all directions, John. You’re the one that’s talking foolish now. How do you know who shot the horse? Or why? Maybe it was an accident.”

  Some accident, I said to myself; we should’ve murdered those guys….

  “Too many accidents around here,” the old man roared. “I suppose it’s an accident when they drive trucks through my fences. I suppose it’s just an accident their skyrockets come down on my range and scare the cows so bad we still ain’t found them all. Poor old Eloy went all over the northwest sections today and couldn’t find them creatures nowhere.”

  “They sound like accidents to me,” Lee said. “Things like that have happened to other people around here. Besides, the military isn’t run by hoodlums. They don’t want enemies here—they want to make friends and influence people. Has DeSalius been here to see you yet?”

  Grandfather tilted the rum jug in its wickerwork basket and refilled his glass, adding ice. He refilled Lee’s glass and added ice. “DeSalius,” he grumbled. “Who’s DeSalius?”

  “Colonel Everett Stone DeSalius, Corps of Engineers. Handles real estate matters for the Defense Department.” Lee squeezed a little lime juice into his drink and dropped the rind into the glass.

  I became aware of the patter of wings against the windowpane. One thousand millers were trying to get in, hungry for the light.

  “This man DeSalius,” Lee went on, “why you’ll like him. You’ll like him, John. You’ll enjoy meeting him. Wears civvies and always carries a briefcase. Really a lawyer, not an engineer. Much less a soldier.”

  “I’ll stuff his briefcase down his throat if he comes meddling around here,” Grandfather said. “The Box V is not for sale. Yes sir, I’ll stuff it down his throat and pound sand after it.”

  “He’ll be around. You’ll like him. And by the way he’s holding a little secret meeting tonight in the county courthouse. You’re invited of course. He’s going to explain to Haggard and Reese and Vogelin and such die-hards why it’s their patriotic duty to sell their holdings for half what they’re worth.”

  “Vogelin won’t be there. I know about the meeting, they sent me a letter.” Grandfather removed the cigar from his mouth and took a stiff drink. “I ain’t going to be there.”

  “Be sensible, John.”

  “Sensible? Is that what you call sensible? Listen, I won’t give an inch to those—scum. I will not give them any kind of satisfaction a-tall, damn them.”

  “You ought to come.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I’m going. Do you want me to speak for you?”

  “Go ahead if you want to waste your time. Tell them what I tell you: The Box V is not for sale and never will be for sale. Why, my father built this—”

  “Built this house with his bare hands. Yeah, I know. And with the help of half a dozen Mexicans for wages of a dollar a day. Listen, John, you’re beating your head against a stone wall. You got any sense you better deal with these people while they’re in a friendly mood. If you make them condemn the land you might not get half of what they’re offering now.”

  “I don’t care about that. I don’t want their dirty Government money. All I want is for them to let me alone, to let me work my ranch in peace, to let me die here and pass it on to my heir.”

  “Your heir?”

  “My heir.”

  Lee hesitated. “What heir, John? Isabel’s in Phoenix, Marian’s in Albuquerque, Julie’s in Pittsburgh. All happily married, so far as I can judge, all with children. You know none of them would ever come back to this God-forsook baked-out over-grazed non-profit-making parcel of dust and cactus. You’re fooling yourself again. What heir?”

  Grandfather stared at the glass in his hand, scowling. “I’ll find an heir. You let me worry about that. And don’t call this ranch over-grazed. I don’t like that kind of talk.”

  “Of course you don’t. But it’s the truth.”

  Grandfather was silent for a moment. “It’s the dry spell,” he said at last. “The drouth. It’ll break pretty soon.”

  “This what you call a dry spell has lasted thirty years now.”

  “All the more reason to think it can’t last much longer.”

  Lee smiled, sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “Old horse, you remind me of a hound dog I had once. He sat down on some prickly pear one day and right off began to howl. But would he get up? He would not. He was too stubborn to move. He knew his rights.”

  The old man squinted at Lee. “Sometimes you make me wonder just whose side you’re on, Mackie.”

  Lee answered at once. “I’m on your side, John, and you know it. That’s why I’m trying to talk some sense into your head. I want to see you make the best of a sorry proposition. I don’t want you to get into a lot of trouble and maybe lose all you have for nothing.”

  “I’m not going to lose it. I’m going to keep it. Even if I have to fight for it all over again, like my father did back in the seventies. Now tell me: Whose side are you on?”

  “If you decide to fight I’ll fight for you. You don’t have to ask me that. But I hope you change your feeble old mind before we both end up in Leavenworth.”

  Grandfather smiled: his gold tooth gleamed in the lamplight. “That’s all I wanted to hear, Lee.”

  “You’ve heard it before.”

  The old man turned to me. “Billy, you better finish that letter and get to bed. We have work to do tomorrow.”

  “Yes sir.” I bent over my letter, licked the pen, and compelled myself to write a few more lines: The weather is hot. Somebody shot Rascal. This summer I’m riding Blue. … I felt Lee watching me, felt his friendly grin. There was a power in his steady level gaze that always strengthened me, that filled me, for a short while at least, with a shy, subtle but confident sense of happiness.

  “Let the kid stay up a little longer. He promised to teach me how to play chess tonight. Didn’t you, Billy?”

  “Yes sir,” I said.

  “Thought you said you were going to that meeting,” Grandfather said.

  “Yeah, I know.” Lee looked at his wristwatch: the silver band flashed on his brown forearm. “Well, I got half an hour to get there. You better come with me, John.”

  “I’ll come on Judgment Day.”
<
br />   “That’ll be any day now.”

  “Let it come. I’m ready.”

  Lee grinned, shrugged and pushed back his chair. Lazily he stood up and put on his hat. He stopped smiling and looked sternly at the old man. “Vogelin—you’re a jackass.”

  “You might be right.”

  “You’re heading straight for trouble—and heartbreak.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re being downright irresponsible.”

  “That’s a new one. Tell me about that.”

  “Next time.” Lee turned to me, smiling. “Goodnight, Billy. Next time we’ll get out your chess set. I won’t ask you to try to talk any sense into your grandfather because I know you’re just as stubborn and ignorant as he is.”

  “Yes sir,” I said.

  Colonel Everett Stone DeSalius appeared two days later, driving a gray government car with decals on the door that said United States Corps of Engineers. Grandfather, Eloy and I found him waiting for us when we came back from riding fence. Eloy and I took care of the horses. Grandfather went up to the house to meet our visitor, who was sitting on the porch steps. I hurried to join them, letting Eloy finish the work.

  Colonel DeSalius was wearing civilian clothes, as Lee had promised—a trim summer suit of gray dacron, straw hat with narrow brim, white shirt with a silver-blue neck-tie. He was a big man, heavier than Grandfather, with a broad chest like a bull’s and a powerful red neck. His blue eyes shone pleasantly, matching the necktie, and his complexion was bright and shiny: the man ate well. His smile, when he smiled, which was frequently, made you feel that this stranger was really an old friend of the family. I would have liked him except that he smiled too much.

  He stood up when he saw Grandfather approaching and walked to meet him, extending his right hand. Reluctantly Grandfather shook hands with him and then invited the colonel to have a chair on the verandah. They sat down. The old man offered DeSalius a cigar, which he accepted with obvious pleasure. Since the day was hot—all days were hot that summer—Cruzita brought out ice water.

  I arrived in time to hear the beginning of the conversation.

  “Well, sir,” the colonel said, “I suppose you know why I’m here.”

  “No,” the old man said. “No, I don’t.”

  The colonel opened his fat briefcase, drew out a paper and gave it to Grandfather. “Thought I’d deliver this to you personally, Mr. Vogelin. It’s a notice of Declaration of Taking, with an order of immediate entry from the U.S. District Court, Judge Fagergren presiding, attached. Don’t mind the harsh language, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Let me try to explain: the Secretary of Defense, acting under authority of the Act of 1888, has filed in the U.S. District Court at Albuquerque a Declaration of Taking which subjects your feesimple title to condemnation. I refer you to Volume Forty, U.S.C.A., Section two hundred and fifty. Now the Attorney General—”

  “U.S.C.A.? What’s that?”

  “United States Code, Annotated. This filing of the Declaration of Taking in turn authorizes the Attorney General of the United States to proceed at once—see Volume Forty again, U.S.C.A., Section two fifty-eight-A—to proceed at once, following the ex parte hearing, in taking possession of your property in behalf of the Defense Department—formerly the War Department—and opening it to immediate entry, because of the urgency of the matter involved: national security.”

  DeSalius paused and took a deep breath, smiling at the old man.

  The old man spoke, slowly and distinctly: “My ranch is not for sale.”

  “Yes.” DeSalius rustled his documents and puffed heartily on Grandfather’s cigar. “Yes sir. We understand your feelings in this case. The negotiators have reported your opposition to me already. It’s because you refused to sell or negotiate that we felt we had to proceed with the Declaration of Taking. For the sake of national security, sir, your land has been condemned. As you know, it’s needed for the expansion of the White Sands Missile Range.”

  Again the old man spoke, slowly and distinctly: “This ranch is not for sale. The Box V is not for sale.”

  Grandfather’s temper was slowly rising but no one would have noticed it but me. Familiar with the modes and degrees of his wrath, I recognized the anger in his somber face as he stared at the piece of paper in his hand.

  DeSalius seemed unconscious of the lion at his side. “Legally speaking, Mr. Vogelin, your property has already been sold. Along with the Declaration of Taking we have deposited, with the clerk of the District Court, a check payable to you in the amount of sixty-five thousand dollars, the estimated monetary value of your land and improvements.”

  “My ranch is not for sale.”

  “Yes. Yes sir.” The colonel smiled at me, since the old man appeared to be resistant to the smiles. “You may contest the amount of compensation, Mr. Vogelin. That is your privilege. And you may take the check without prejudice.”

  “Sixty-five thousand is too much,” the old man said grimly. “The place ain’t worth fifty thousand. And I’m not selling and I’m not moving out and I’m not starting a court fight for more money.”

  DeSalius smiled. If he felt any strain he wasn’t showing it yet. “Mr. Vogelin, legally speaking, the act of filing a Declaration of Taking pre-empts your property at the time of filing. You and I are now enjoying our ease on United States Government property.” The colonel paused to allow his statement to penetrate. He went on: “Now as I said, we’ve got a court order allowing the Air Force immediate possession and entry. However, the Court will allow you a reasonable length of time in which to move your movable property and resettle your livestock. Perhaps a month or so—not more—since they tell me the calving season is over.”

  “I’m not moving outa here till I’m dead. Maybe not then either.” As he spoke Grandfather stared hard at DeSalius and the look on his face would have made a wild bronc pause.

  DeSalius smiled pleasantly. “I know how you feel, sir. I understand your feelings perfectly. It’s always quite a shock to have your property pre-empted in this—”

  “This is not property,” the old man said. “This is my home. This ranch is my home and my life. Try to see if you can understand that, Colonel De—DeSalius.”

  “Why, yes sir, I think I understand. I mean, of course I understand.” For the first time DeSalius revealed a trace of uncertainty. “Yes, it must be—it is quite a, quite a shock to have your property—your home taken away from you. Although you’ve had plenty of time, over a year, to prepare yourself for this … eventuality. And you are being generously compensated, you’ve admitted that yourself. Incidentally, the Government will pay all the costs of transporting your livestock and other belongings.”

  The old man growled and crumpled the official document in his hand; he tossed the wad on the colonel’s lap. “You take that piece of paper, Colonel, and go away. I’m not going to co-operate.”

  DeSalius paused, drawing thoughtfully on his cigar. He drank some ice water. “Drink your ice water, Mr. Vogelin, it tastes pretty good. Good water you have here. Well water, I suppose.” Grandfather made no reply. “I’d heard you were a difficult customer, Mr. Vogelin, but I thought you would at least be willing to listen to reason.”

  “I ain’t heard any reasons yet.”

  “According to the report of our Inspection and Possession Committee, the entire missile range project may suffer a serious delay if we’re held up much longer by these real estate problems. We’ve been trying to negotiate with you, sir, for over a year. All but you have come to terms. Your neighbors Haggard and Reese agreed to a settlement last night, did you know that?”

  Grandfather scowled in disgust and looked out over the desert.

  “Mr. Vogelin,” DeSalius continued, “you alone and you only are holding up this project. And this project is an essential component of our national defense program. Now I understand how your emotions are involved in this place but you must understand that national security takes precedence over all other considerations. Every citizen
owes his first allegiance to the nation, and all property rights”—the colonel smacked his lips with pleasure as he rolled out the rhetorical artillery—”all property rights are derived from and depend upon the sovereignty of the State. I refer you to the law of nations, to Grotius, Blackstone, Marshall. …”

  “I’ve heard all that before. I have a friend who’s in real estate and politics too. Like you. He’s explained all this to me before.” Grandfather removed his glasses, began polishing the lenses with a faded bandana. As he worked on the glasses he squinted at the colonel with his fierce eyes. “Colonel, my mind is made up. It won’t do you any good to talk. This is my home. I’m not leaving. I’m never leaving. I was born here, I’m going to die here. I don’t care how much money you offer me, I don’t care how many court orders you throw at me, I am not leaving. And if you try to push me out—I’ll resist. I’ll fight.”

  The colonel sighed, flicked the ash off his cigar, and sighed again. Heavy sighs for a smiling man. At last, with a somewhat fainter smile, he said, “You should take your fight to the courts, Mr. Vogelin. If you want to fight go to court. This is a civilized country, not a jungle—try to have the condemnation act dismissed. You won’t get anywhere but you can always try it, it might relieve your emotions. And you can sue for higher compensation—as of now the Court might still have sympathy for your case. Certainly any grand jury will be ready to listen to you. But if you resist, as you say, threaten violence or anything like that, why—why you’ll get yourself into all sorts of extra difficulties, perhaps lose some of the compensation already awarded you, maybe worse. Think it over carefully, Mr. Vogelin. I must urge you to think it over carefully.”

  The old man said nothing. He put his glasses on and poured himself some more ice water, his hands tense but steady as rock.

  I filled my glass again. It was hot and dry and very difficult there, in the 100-degree shade of the ranch-house verandah.