South California Purples

by Baron R. Birtcher

  “They perceived me as a threat to their authority, and their ability to run roughshod over the others who have come here to support you. They will use all of you for their own purposes, and they have the capacity and potential to bring a great deal of suffering to everybody here. They were about to plant a bowie knife between my ribs.”

  “So you are here to shut me up.”

  “No, ma’am, I truly am not. I am sympathetic to your cause. But this situation could turn ugly.”

  “Like Wounded Knee?”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  “I think Russell Means has got his hands full, Mr. Dawson.”

  “I wish you’d consider a different method, is all I’m trying to tell you,” I said. “You’ve already got a news crew parked outside. Once this hits the airwaves, you’re going to lose control.”

  “Let me ask you something,” she said. “Is the murder of hundreds of feral horses okay with you?”

  “I’ve already spoken to Melissa Vernon at the bureau. The BLM claims to be offering them for adoption.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it. The Wild Horse Act, that’s bullshit, too. They’ll call it ‘adoption,’ or they’ll call it an ‘auction,’ but either way it ends the same. Private contractors bid on the animals and sell them off to meat-packing plants. There’s not a thing the BLM can do to stop it either. They’re complicit in it, for chrissakes.”

  “I’m not here to tell you that you’re wrong,” I said. “I’m here to encourage you to disperse this crowd. If you don’t, it’s going to get bigger. And if that happens, it’s going to get dangerous. For everybody, for the whole county. I’m sure you can see the potential for that.”

  “It’s already dangerous to the whole damn county,” she said, the whites of her eyes shot through with red and shining wet with rage. “You can give this message to Melissa Vernon at the bureau for me: When they stop, I’ll stop. Until then, I intend to exercise my First Amendment right to say and do whatever the hell I damn well please.”

  AFTER DINNER that night, I sat on the porch swing in the cool evening air and smoked a cigarette in the light of a single candle Jesse had placed on the table inside a frosted glass hurricane cover.

  I did not discuss my meeting with Teresa Pineu, though I knew that Jesse was worried by my silence. I do not take solace in talking about things that trouble me. I find no comfort in sharing my pain. Instead, I hold out in gray silence and hope that solutions will present themselves so that when I finally do speak of them, they will have an ending and not mere ellipsis.

  I listened to the distant vibration of frogs as they croaked along the creek bed and the sound of night birds in the tall timber, and crushed my spent cigarette in the ashtray when I heard the screen door open.

  Jesse stepped outside and sat beside me on the swing bench with a container of chocolate chip ice cream and a spoon. I thought about my father, and watching him braid a lariat out of horsehair on this very same spot. He had come from a time that required little justification for action, and had shown me how nature encouraged the strong to live while the weak were allowed to die. This was not modern thinking, and those lines did not seem to be cut quite as straight these days.

  “My grandfather once told me that before he moved out here, he worked for an old man named Patch who owned a slaughterhouse back in Kansas,” I said. “He told me the man killed the cattle for their hides and tallow, but he’d throw the meat to the hogs.”

  “I wish I could take memories like that one right out of your skull,” Jesse said.

  “He told me they’d do almost 200 head a day like that.”

  She slid the spoon into the ice cream container and placed them on the floor. She leaned her head against my shoulder and stared out to the darkness.

  “I’ve been trying to keep my disappointments to myself, but it hasn’t been doing too much good,” I told her.

  “I’m sorry for what I said to you before,” she said. “You’re not out of your mind.”

  I kissed her on the forehead and we sat together in the silence until the candle on the table began to smoke, guttering in its own melted wax. I stood and gave the pedestal a quarter turn, righted the wick, and blew it out. And then we went to bed.

  PART TWO:

  SHOTGUN MESSENGER

  CHAPTER SIX

  I AWOKE FROM a restless and dream-littered sleep feeling like someone had hammered a half-dozen Capewell nails into my forehead.

  I eased myself out of bed and dressed as quietly as I could, careful not to disturb the soft rhythm of Jesse’s breath. I parted the curtains on the bedroom window and peered outside into the ink-black stillness of predawn, then let them fall back into place before I padded out of the room in stocking feet and closed the door gently behind me.

  Wyatt came out of his bed and watched as I took a jar of instant coffee from the pantry, scooped a couple spoonfuls into a mug, and pushed my feet into my boots. He sat quietly beside me while I scratched his head and waited for the teapot on the burner to come to a boil. The only sounds in the house came from the flutter of blue flame on the stove, the ticking of the mantel clock, and the echo of voices inside my head that followed me out of my dreams.

  A few minutes later I dumped the remains of bitter coffee into the sink, buttoned myself into a sheepskin coat, slipped on a pair of gloves, and went out into the cold morning with Wyatt close behind me at my heels.

  I slid between the wood-fence railings and crouched low to hunt the shadows of the horses inside the corral, their clouds of breath like frozen smoke against the sky. I located my favorite stock horse, a young bay Morgan named Drambuie that I just called Boo. I allowed him to see the halter and lead that dangled from my hand, and he snorted and blew in anticipation. Wyatt paced outside the gate, wagging expectantly while I slipped the halter into place, buckled the crown behind Boo’s ears, and led him up the hill toward the tack room.

  The air around me smelled of horseflesh and freshly churned soil and the sweet alluvial scent of the creek bed, and I saw a light flicker on in the bunkhouse. A trace of silver smoke rose from the chimney, and I stepped into the stirrups, settled myself into the cantle, and gigged the bay forward with Wyatt close on my flank.

  THE HOLLOW call of an owl cascaded from somewhere inside the tall timber, and the foliage was alive with the whistling of crickets as I dismounted and tied the horse off to a hitch post near the gate at the family plot. I drew a rag from the back pocket of my jeans, and wiped dust and dried mud off the stones that marked the resting places for two generations of Dawsons. I sat on my haunches beside my father’s headstone and listened for answers, idly watching a single sodium light blink from the top of a radio tower that was perched on the ridge at the far end of the valley, a distant and solitary candle. I sat there for nearly an hour, until the outline of the mountain came into focus against the pale blue backdrop of sunrise. I found myself visiting more frequently these days, in search of the wisdom I had so often dismissed as a younger man, and I knew that my forebears would find some irony in that.

  Boo pawed the soil as I remounted and turned him toward the summit of the hill. Every now and then from here, when the wind blew just right, I could hear the muffled drone of the interstate miles away, or the growl of an eighteen-wheeler downshifting in preparation for its climb along the grade. I could not see the highway, buried deep between the folds of the canyon, but I could hear it very faintly. And it sounded as alien and unwelcome to me as had the thundering hoofbeats of the Mongol hordes when they swept across the steppes in the conquest of Qara Khitai.

  THE FULL flush of morning had broken across the open range and grassland by the time I reached the trailhead to the path that would lead me back to the ranch. I was about halfway down the slope when I spotted a lone rider walking his horse in my direction. I recognized the blue roan gelding as one of mine, and knew the rider must be Dub Naylor.

  Wyatt continued to work the open field, looking for something to do while Dub brought his
horse up beside me and reined him to a stop.

  “Morning, boss,” he said.

  A wide smile accentuated the creases in his sun-weathered skin, and he reached into the pocket of his shirt and withdrew a container of snuff.

  “Dub,” I said. “What brings you out here all by yourself?”

  The cowboy had earned a reputation as a world-class single-handed talker, so I was not entirely surprised that my foreman had sent him out alone. My other men seemed to treat it as a form of punishment to spend a whole day in the saddle with him. Nevertheless, Dub Naylor was one of the best itinerant cowhands who ever unkinked a rope.

  “Old Caleb sent me up to the North Camp to drag back the strays,” he said, then packed a pinch of snuff into the hollow of his bottom lip. He sealed the lid back on the can and slipped it back into his pocket.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you take Wyatt up there with you? He’s restless for a little work.”

  I didn’t think the dog would mind the chatter. I whistled to Wyatt and motioned for him to follow Dub, and clucked my horse forward before a conversation could take hold.

  “You’d better jump some gully, Dub. You got a ways to go.”

  Dub rode off in the direction I had just come from and I heard him singing to himself as he disappeared into the trees, with Wyatt close behind.

  “I swear, Boo,” I said to my horse as I leaned forward and patted him on the neck. “I think that man might just up and die if it ever got too quiet.”

  IN THE twenty-four hours that had passed since my previous visit to Teresa Pineu, the campsite had bloated to at least three times its former size, and had sprawled onto the neighboring fallow farmland. In addition to the documentary filmmakers and the single local news crew from before, the networks had sent backup: two news trucks, emblazoned on their sides with call letters and logos—one had come from Salem, the other all the way down from Portland. If the atmosphere had been merely disorganized before, it was approaching anarchic now.

  I’d parked my truck in a dry ditch at the side of the road, some distance up from the entrance to Teresa’s property. Cars, pickups, and camper vans of every description and state of repair lined the roadway and had only left room for access on foot.

  When I finally passed between her gateposts and stepped across the cattle guard, I spotted Teresa Pineu standing at the center of a ring of journalists, speaking into microphones affixed to shiny chrome booms while the cameras recorded it all. She was making broad sweeping gestures in the direction of the BLM land on the other side of her fence as she spoke, though I only caught the tail end of her statement.

  “Here’s a little history lesson: The Bureau of Land Management was originally established to survey land so that it could be sold off to private citizens for subsequent settlement, to parcel out the land grants that had been promised to war veterans and to homesteaders who were willing to risk everything they had in the unsettled territories.

  “The bureau has since changed its mission, and now controls huge tracts of land that exceed 50 percent of this entire state; more than 60 percent of Idaho; and over 70 percent of Nevada. And that’s only the beginning.”

  I pressed my way gently through the crowd that surrounded the makeshift news conference and stood at the edge of the congregation. Their collective presence formed a pungent cloud that smelled of unwashed bodies, tobacco, patchouli oil, and marijuana smoke.

  “All I am asking is this,” Teresa said. “What the hell gives them the right to round up wild animals that have been roaming these mountains for generations, and sell them off for commercial slaughter? Did you give them that power?”

  Teresa Pineu had done a masterful job of riling her audience, and while she did not have the temerity to reveal the smile I was sure she held at bay, the upward tilt of her chin and the tight line of her lips betrayed the satisfaction she felt when the assembly shouted their answer in unison.

  “No!”

  “Did I give them that power?” she appended.

  “No!”

  “Thank you,” she said and took a moment to give each camera lens a usable shot of her face. “That’s all I have at this time.”

  The news people shouted questions at her as she walked slowly back to her trailer, but she ignored them. I started to follow her, but someone took hold of my arm.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff.”

  It was one of the documentary boys I had seen before, and he had his camera lens pointed six inches from my face.

  “Please step back,” I said. “And I’m not the sheriff.”

  “That’s not what we’ve been told,” he persisted.

  His face was a mask of earnestness and youthful ardor that struck me as admirable, naive, and misguided all at once. He couldn’t have been twenty-two or –three, and wore an uncombed mop of blond hair that fell past his ears, wide sideburns that grew to his jawline, and a necklace fashioned from brown beads that circled his neck like a garrote.

  “I am the temporary undersheriff for the southern portion of Meriwether County, and I would appreciate it if you would step away from me and allow me to do my job.”

  “Are you here to arrest Teresa Pineu?”

  “I don’t have any interest in arresting anybody at the moment. Except maybe you, if you don’t let go of my arm.”

  On horseback, I still felt like a young and able hand. But here on the ground I felt like I carried the weight of every single year I’d tallied, and the phantom pain of every fall I’d landed from the back of an unbroken colt or the kicks I’d absorbed hog-tying calves. Still I had to reluctantly admit that Lloyd Skadden had been right about two things: this present situation was rapidly approaching the threshold of outright chaos; and my enforcement of the law, together with the cynical view of the world that accompanied it, was proving to be very much like riding a bike.

  The young filmmaker turned loose of me, but kept the camera pressed into my space.

  “Can I just get a statement from you?”

  “I don’t give statements,” I said. “Make an appointment with Sheriff Skadden up in Lewiston.”

  “But—”

  “I’m finished here.” I heard the incessant hum of the camera’s motors pushing film stock even as I walked away.

  Teresa Pineu was seated on an L-shaped sofa tucked into the corner of her living room, arms outstretched along the back and looking very pleased with herself. An open bottle of Hires Root Beer was sweating beads of condensation onto a paper napkin on the table in front of her while a vent from a roof-mounted swamp cooler blew a stream of tepid air into the room.

  “Close the door behind you, please, Mr. Dawson,” she said. “It’s getting hot out there.”

  “You’re going to need to do something about water and sanitation for all of these people,” I said.

  “Care for a root beer?”

  She went to the refrigerator and popped the cap off a bottle without waiting for an answer, and handed it to me.

  “I have a water well,” she said. “And some of the kids that the army trained to kill people dug a slit trench in the field across the way.”

  “I did not just hear you say that,” I said. “But between you and me, that is not your property to designate as a latrine.”

  She crossed the room, returned to her place on the sofa, and crossed her legs. “The truth is, I don’t know if I can get these folks to leave even if I wanted to.”

  “You can see what’s happening here. It’s already getting out of hand. If those kids trespass on federal land, it’ll bring the authorities down on you with both boots.”

  She hunched her shoulders and cast her eyes out the window.

  “They brought this down upon themselves,” she said. “I’m only shedding light on the issue.”

  “Being the first to speak out about something does not automatically grant you the moral high ground.”

  She turned her eyes on me, and her cheeks darkened with anger.

  “I forgot for a moment that
you’re one of them.” She placed special emphasis on the last word. “You lease grazing land from the BLM. You stand to benefit from the things that they do.”

  “That does not make me complicit in their actions, Ms. Pineu. Nor does it imply that I agree with their treatment of native horses.”

  “Let them arrest me.”

  I took a swallow from the bottle and set it on the counter. Dust motes swirled in agitated currents where the air vent vibrated near the windowsill.

  “You’re an honorable woman, Ms. Pineu, but if you don’t put an end to this, it could blow up in your face and undermine your entire cause. The residents of this county won’t be tolerant forever. They’re sympathetic to you now, but that could turn with the occurrence of one ugly incident, and your credibility will go up in smoke. I don’t want to see that happen.”

  She studied my face, then cast her eyes to the floor.

  “You know I’m not wrong,” she said.

  I tried to shift the subject.

  “I didn’t see the Charlatans out there,” I said.

  “Those guys come and go. Maybe they left for good. Who knows?”

  I wanted to believe that at least some small sliver of good fortune had shone down, but I did not hold much stock in a dependence on luck. I kept that small hope to myself.

  “Please think about what I’ve told you,” I said. “Before this reaches critical mass.”

  I closed the door softly behind me and stepped out into the afternoon sun.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CALEB WHEELER WAVED me over to the sorting pen as soon as I stepped out of the truck. He was horseback and I couldn’t help but notice the well-worn stock of a lever-action carbine tucked inside a leather saddle scabbard that hung beside his leg.

  “Problem?” I asked.

  “Could be,” he said. His eyes moved past me and squinted into the sun. “Looks like Dub Naylor’s gone missing. Your dog showed up alone about half an hour ago. He was drifting about a dozen heifers in all by himself.”