by Robert Greer
Nineteen
I finished up in the machine shop and was busy crisscrossing one of our bull pastures on an ATV, tagging lingering toxic weeds with orange marker dye so Spoon could come back and spray them later, when I caught sight of what looked like smoke rising in the distance. Fire, flood, and livestock disease are the three things no rancher ever wants to encounter, so I made a beeline for the smoke, losing my hat, my marker dye, and a set of socket wrenches in a chase that had me headed straight to Four Corners.
Ten minutes later, with my ribs throbbing from the jarring they’d taken as a result of my full-throttle crossing of the rough, rocky terrain, I found myself listening to the rumble of diesel engines and staring at exhaust smoke. My first thought as I pulled to a stop and watched the smoke rise was that Spoon had brought a backhoe down to Four Corners to dig up some boulders and move them to a nearby dry wash that had a tendency to erode from the mountain snow runoff each spring. When I rose from my seat and glanced over a rise to look down on Four Corners, I saw what Spoon had been so concerned about that morning. Half a dozen pieces of heavy equipment stared back up at me. The earth-moving armada was assembled in a semicircle on Willard Johnson’s property, about thirty yards north of our fence line, spewing the smoke I’d seen. The Acota Energy logo was stenciled on the door or hood of every piece of machinery.
I didn’t see the one-ton pickup that my dad and Spoon had retrofitted the previous winter with a flat bed and a new Dodge hemi engine until I started down the hill toward the Four Corners survey pin. The pickup was parked a few feet from our fence. My dad was standing in front of the truck with one arm extended due west toward a stand of nearby aspen. Spoon stood motionless on the flatbed looking toward where my dad was pointing. As I accelerated toward them, I wondered how long they had been there.
I was twenty yards downwind from the flatbed when I remembered that my dad and Spoon had retrofitted the truck with two other things: a carpet-lined aluminum tool tote and a headache rack. During the fall and hunting season, the tote was used to store rifles and shotguns.
My dad lowered his arm and looked my way when I pulled the ATV to a stop a few feet from the flatbed. Motioning for me to stay seated, he called across the fence to a large, bearded man in coveralls and a small, balding man standing at his side, “I’m gonna ask you one last time how you brought that equipment of yours in here before I ask Mr. Witherspoon up there on the flatbed to remedy the situation.”
The bearded man, who I could now see was chomping on a cigar, said, “We moved it from the backside of this here property it’s sittin’ on, and like I told you, we’re just testing it out.”
Dad shook his head in protest. “Then where in hell did all the heavy-equipment tire tracks and the diesel-fuel spill that runs pretty much all the way down to our seep over there come from?” His tone, one I’d heard plenty of times when I’d been the subject of his interrogation, was searing.
“Can’t say as I know,” the man in coveralls said, sucking on his cigar and blowing out a puff of smoke before turning to grin broadly at his associate, who erupted in laughter. As they both laughed, I realized there were two men seated in the cab of a smoke-spewing road grader that was about fifteen paces away, taking in the show.
My dad’s determined gaze moved from the two men on the ground slowly up to the men in the grader, then back to Spoon. Nodding at Spoon, he said, “I’m thinking these gents from Acota need to learn to start tellin’ the truth. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Witherspoon?”
“Yes, sir,” said Spoon, sounding like what I suspected gunner’s mate Arcus Witherspoon’s response to his gunnery chief would have been. Sober faced, Spoon stepped over to the flatbed’s tote-all, pulled back the lid, and extracted a .30-’06. Wide eyed and with my mouth agape, I watched him sight the rifle in on one of the idling road grader’s front tires and pull the trigger. The punctured tire hissed as the air oozed out of it. When Spoon quickly took out two more tires, the two men inside the cab crouched to the floor while the startled man in coveralls and his balding friend raced for the cover of a stand of nearby scrub oak.
As quickly as it had begun, the shooting stopped, and Spoon, his expression unchanged, placed the .30-’06 back in the tote-all. Offering my dad a two-fingered salute, he said, “Think we’re done.”
“Now, get the hell outta here, all of you,” my dad yelled across the fence. “And take whatever beefed-up lies you’re gonna tell Koffman—or whoever the hell pays your wages—with you.”
Suddenly looking as if he’d forgotten to say something important, as the two men in the road grader rose from their hiding places on the floor and jumped from the cab and all four men raced for a nearby pickup, he yelled, “Don’t any of you sons of bitches ever cross my land again without my permission. You hear me?”
By then all four men were in the pickup and the truck’s engine roared to a start. The rear tires kicked up a spray of dirt and gravel as the truck made a tight circle and sped away across a sagebrush flat before heading up a grade that led back to Willard Johnson’s headquarters.
I took in the still-deadly serious looks on the faces of my dad and Spoon. It was easy to see that there’d been no enjoyment for either of them in what they’d just done. In fact, from the way Spoon slowly eased himself off the flatbed and my dad shook his head as he waved me toward him, I knew they had concurred on how to handle things at Four Corners long before they’d arrived.
Uncertain what tone to take as I approached the flatbed and watched my dad and Spoon stare up at the sun as if it might offer them redemption, I said, “Looks like we’ve got ’em on the run.”
My dad remained silent, never altering his parade-rest stance. It was Spoon who finally spoke up. “For now, TJ—for now.”
Somber and silent, we headed for home.
By suppertime everyone in the Willow Creek valley knew what had happened at Four Corners that noon, largely because Sheriff Woodson, after an investigative trip to the site of the incident, had made a point of stopping by every ranch in the valley to inform the owners that the infuriated and lawsuit-minded Ed Koffman was threatening to sue every valley rancher for conspiratory life-threatening activities and threatening as well to have Woodson removed from his job, claiming that the sheriff’s laissez-faire attitude encouraged vigilantism.
The sheriff stopped by our ranch last for an interrogation that lasted an hour and ended by telling us that if he had to deal with any more armed confrontations in our valley, he’d make certain someone spent time in jail. He grilled Spoon and my dad about the Four Corners incident for most of that time, suggesting all the while that their account of what had happened didn’t jibe with those of the people from Acota. Fortunately, Ricky Peterson was there to remind the sheriff that what had happened at Four Corners could be corroborated by a third party, someone other than Spoon, my dad, or an Acota employee: me. When the sheriff pointed his interrogation my way, I reminded him, following Ricky’s advice, that no party on either side had been injured and that the only damages incurred had been to property.
When the sheriff steered his questioning in the direction of possible assault-with-a-deadly-weapon charges against Spoon, I informed him that our property, which had been trespassed upon and contaminated by a fuel spill, had suffered a far more serious environmental transgression than damage to a few road-grader tires. Skeptical that I was offering him an opinion that was more Ricky’s than my own, the sheriff drove out to Four Corners for the second time that day a little before sunset to complete his investigation, insisting that we all stay at the house until he returned. He returned an hour and a half later in darkness, Polaroid camera and color photos in hand. The dozen photos he’d taken showed the scores of tire tracks that Acota’s heavy equipment had left on our land, the telltale thirty-yard-long fuel spill leading down to our gas seep, and the road grader’s three flat tires.
Thumbing through the color prints with everyone gathered in the living room, the sheriff turned to me. “I’m gonna ask you a
gain, TJ: did you see Spoon level a rifle at anyone?”
“No,” I said emphatically.
He handed me several of the photos. “And the tire tracks and the fuel spill in the photographs were there when you arrived on the scene?”
“Yes.”
“Quit pressing the boy, Cain. How the hell do you think those tracks could’ve gotten there without Acota crossing us? This is idiotic,” my dad bellowed, resisting my mom’s attempt to rein him in by tugging at his shirtsleeve.
“I’m not talking to you, Bill,” Woodson said, turning his attention to Spoon. “And Mr. Witherspoon…,” he began, sounding as if he was again going to light into Spoon.
“You don’t have to respond to any questions here,” Ricky said, inching forward in his chair toward Spoon.
“Don’t matter,” Spoon said confidently. “I didn’t shoot nobody.”
“Maybe you didn’t,” said Woodson. “But then again, you are a convicted felon, and you were out there at Four Corners firing a rifle with people in the possible line of fire.”
Spoon glanced at Ricky for guidance.
“And the inference here is just what, Sheriff?” Ricky asked.
“My inference, counselor, is that I’ve now had two instances in the space of a month where Spoon’s pulled a weapon on someone. That’s real troublesome to me. Parole violation troublesome.”
“I can assure you that Mr. Witherspoon met his parole obligations a long time ago, Sheriff.”
“So you say. But just to be on the safe side, I’m thinkin’ I should run the issue by the folks back in Ohio one more time.” The sheriff flashed us all a smile that as much as said, Maybe this time I’ll get the answer I want. “Wouldn’t want to end up coddling a parole violator,” he added before turning his attention back to Spoon.
“In the meantime, Mr. Witherspoon, I’ve got a directive for you. Don’t even think about ever brandishing another weapon in these parts. If you need to kill a rattlesnake, use a shovel. You see a grizzly bear, take off in the opposite direction. You get a taste for wild game, think of the Golden Arches. You got me?”
Spoon nodded, never diverting his eyes from the sheriff’s.
The sheriff glanced at my dad. “We’re two for two down at Four Corners, Bill. The third time’s a charm, so there best not be one.” He rose, looked at my mom, and said, “Marva, I’ll be lookin’ at you to help these men of yours keep a lid on it.”
“I’ll do what I can, Harvey, but there’s no love lost between me and Acota either.” Ricky flashed my mom a look that said, Marva, you’ve said enough, but the look came too late. She was already wound up. “There’s one thing you can make certain of, Harvey. If Acota comes back out here trespassing, I’ll make sure the shots I fire won’t be at their tires.”
“Women aren’t immune to jail time, Marva.”
“Doesn’t worry me in the least,” my mom said, rising to escort the sheriff to the door.
At the doorway the sheriff stopped and turned back to face the rest of us. “Sure hope you take my message to heart, gentlemen.” Grabbing his hat from the peg he’d tossed it onto earlier and with a smile for my mom, he left.
My mom watched him walk down the driveway to his car before turning back to us. “You heard the sheriff,” she said. “It’s best behavior for the lot of you. As for me, I’m loading up my 12-gauge and keeping it handy.” There wasn’t one hint of jocularity in her voice.
Twenty
I should have guessed that something was wrong when a week after Sheriff Woodson’s visit, and on the heels of an early fall six-inch snow, I overheard Mom tell Dad, as she cleared the breakfast dishes and I prepared to leave, that Spoon hadn’t shown up for a meeting he’d scheduled with Harriet Rankin at the Hardin library the previous evening. Harriet, she said, had called that morning, concerned that something might have happened to Spoon—or, even worse, that he might have simply taken off.
Convinced that Spoon wouldn’t leave us twisting in the wind to work the ranch and battle Acota by ourselves, I was relieved when Spoon showed up in the machine shop shortly after breakfast, where my dad and I were busy greasing the shipping scales that my grandfather had set in place fifty years earlier. Looking annoyed, he announced, “They’re crossin’ you again, Bill, I’m sure of it. Had a feelin’ about it mosta last night and all this mornin’.”
My dad peered up from where he was lying flat on his back, squeezed beneath the scale’s gear housing. Grease gun in hand and looking worn out, he said, “Maybe we should just let ’em.”
“You sure?” Spoon asked. His breath curled out in the cold, still air as if to punctuate the question. “I’m thinkin’ Acota’s out there bent on establishin’ a right-of-way. I’ve had Harriet studyin’ the subject. Gettin’ a right-of-way established for mineral extraction would be pretty simple for them, accordin’ to her, especially since you’ve let Willard use that dried-up-creekbed access of yours leadin’ down to Four Corners for years. When you look at Acota’s alternative to crossin’ you to get at what they’re after, which would be to come around the backside of Willard’s and then across federal lands, I’m bettin’ their strategy is to jump in bed with the feds and get a shared creekbed easement across you. They could claim that the two-mile trek around Willard’s perimeter would cause enough ecological and endangered-species habitat damage to adjacent federal lands to warrant a shortcut. One you been sharin’ with Willard all along. All they’d need would be a sympathetic judge, a county commissioner lookin’ to feather his nest or put a bulge in his wallet, or some environmental wacko BLM suck-up to buy in, and bingo, you’re done.”
“I’ve heard the same argument already from Ricky,” my dad said, setting aside his grease gun and wiping a half-dollar-sized dollop of grease off his right arm with a shop rag. “He says it would take Acota years to prove longtime joint usage of that creekbed access and even longer to establish potential damage to federal lands. His take is that Acota would end up wasting one hell of a lot of precious time and money.”
Spoon shook his head. “Not accordin’ to Harriet. Her and Edith Carthard over at the county clerk’s office claim that what Acota’s really lookin’ to establish is one of them environmentally friendly protect-the-bunny-rabbit prece-dents. One that’ll move things along a lot faster. Twelve, fourteen months, maybe even less, accordin’ to Edith, who says she’s seen ’em do it before. I’m thinkin’ that if they cross the right palms, they might be able to get it done.”
Surprised by Spoon’s pronouncement, my dad took a deep breath and frowned. “Mind tellin’ me where Edith got her law degree?” He was tired of fighting, and it showed. Tired of spearheading defunct coalitions and listening to prognostications. Tired of being the dreamy-eyed idealist looking to hang on to a world where things never changed. Tugging at the glove on his left hand, he said, “For the moment, let’s just let it lie. No need chargin’ up Bunker Hill on a hunch. I’ll talk to Ricky this evenin’ and get some advice.” He sounded like someone determined to convince himself of something he didn’t believe.
“Okay,” Spoon said, clearly disappointed.
I had the sense that Spoon was wondering where the man who’d so defiantly stood up to Acota a week earlier had gone, and I couldn’t explain my dad’s reluctance to follow up on Spoon’s latest premonition, especially after their earlier Four Corner’s stand together, other than to assume he’d simply run out of gas.
As he stood, supporting himself by the edge of the scales, Dad looked at me. His next words were almost apologetic. “Sometimes it is more important to negotiate your way out of a situation than to fight your way into one.” Brushing himself off, he glanced back at the scales. “I’d say we’ve got this old girl in good workin’ order. Wanna step up on her and check things out for me, TJ?”
I nodded, took a couple of steps over to the scale, and climbed aboard.
“No digital readouts needed here,” Dad said, proudly watching the scale’s vintage glassed-in weights-and-measures needle move past 17
0, then 180, and stop. “One eighty-two, right on the noggin,” he said.
“Fightin’ weight,” I said with a smile, aware that the extra five pounds I was carrying was all coat and coveralls.
Returning the smile, he said, “Yeah, fightin’ weight for sure,” before turning and slowly walking away.
He was gone for about thirty minutes, leaving Spoon and me alone in the machine shop to catalog, rearrange, and shelve a jumbled assortment of fan belts, air filters, hoses, and several cases of oil he’d laid in for equipment maintenance jobs over the winter. Spoon shelved things as I jotted inventory numbers on a sheet of paper that my mom would later use to enter our parts and maintenance inventory into a master log book. We’d begun the inventory system at my mom’s insistence several years earlier, after my dad, certain that he had a part for the half-track we used to deliver hay to stranded livestock during snowstorms, realized in the midst of a roaring blizzard that the part wasn’t there. Luckily, all we lost during that blizzard was a bull and two calves, but ever since I’d had the feeling that my mom knew where every bolt and screw on the ranch happened to be.
When I glanced through the shop’s only window at a thermometer tacked to the outside window frame, I noticed that the temperature had dropped from the forty-two degrees it had been when we’d started working to thirty-four. Glancing at Spoon, I asked, “Think it’s
gonna snow?”
“Absolutely. I can just about feel the wind and wet flakes in my face.”
“Bad?”
“Bad enough, but it’ll be spotty. Easy enough to predict ’cause I’m only feelin’ the cold in my face, fingers, and toes.” Spoon placed a box of oil filters on a shelf and, looking puzzled, turned to face me. “Whatta you think’s got your pa in such a hunker-down mood?”
