by Ben Rehder
“Or here’s another good example: the beaver. Five hundred years ago, before the Europeans came over, there were maybe three hundred million beavers in North America. Place was crawling with them, from Mexico all the way up to Alaska. But then one of the English kings ruled that only beaver fur could be used to make hats. So beaver fur became big business, and it almost wiped ’em out. Fewer beavers meant fewer beaver dams, and that had a horrible impact on the natural habitat. Suddenly, all the ponds and watering holes the beavers created were disappearing, which had an effect on waterfowl, songbirds, deer and elk, raccoons-the list goes on. Hell, those dams even helped keep the aquifers full back then by slowing down runoff. They limited soil erosion, even helped ease flooding.”
Marlin shook his head and smiled thinly. “I know I’m rambling on a little. We’re here to talk about cedar-clearing, right?”
“No, that’s all right,” Susannah said, leaning forward, trying to make eye contact. “Like you say, it all ties together. I can tell this issue means a lot to you. You’re a very passionate man, John. I can see that in you.”
The game warden held her gaze for a few seconds, smiling, playing the game with her. Then he glanced down at his cup. “I need a little more coffee. You want some?”
Susannah nodded, and Marlin gestured at the waitress.
“Okay, next question,” she said. “What about the red-necked sapsucker?”
“I was afraid you were going to ask me that.” He thought for a moment. “Yes, it’s an endangered species, and yes, it nests almost exclusively in cedar trees in Central Texas. So the official Parks and Wildlife Department position is that we are against most brush-clearing in sapsucker habitat.”
“And what’s your personal position, John?” Susannah asked.
He gave her an appreciative smile, acknowledging the double entendre. Just as he was about to respond, the waitress appeared to refill their coffee cups. After she left, Marlin’s face was serious again. Back to business.
“Can we talk off the record?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“I think, sometimes, when a species becomes endangered, that’s the way nature wants it. Think about it: More than ninety-nine percent of all species that ever existed are now extinct. And man has had little to do with the decline of the majority of them. Hell, with most of them, we couldn’t have kept them around if we wanted to. They just weren’t in Mother Nature’s plan anymore, and when that happens, there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.”
“That’s an interesting point.” Susannah paused, stirring her coffee, unsure what to ask next. “You’re looking good, Susannah,” Marlin said, out of the blue. “Beautiful as ever.”
Susannah could feel her face getting warm. She was used to a little back-and-forth flirting, but nothing so direct and sincere. “Why, thank you, John. That’s…that’s very sweet.”
He nodded, drank the last of his coffee, then said, “So-we all done here?”
“One more question.” Susannah reached down and switched off the tape recorder. “Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?”
The game warden grinned and held up his cup. “We are having coffee.”
“No,” Susannah said. “I mean… well, you know what I mean.”
For the longest time, Susannah thought he wasn’t going to answer.
CHAPTER THREE
At seven o’clock Sunday morning, a dented red Ford truck with a primer-gray hood trundled down the isolated dirt roads of a quiet Blanco County ranch. Dust plumed behind the truck, hanging in the air like fog. The driver, a wiry man named Red O’Brien, was having another frustrating discussion with his passenger, poaching partner, and best friend, Billy Don Craddock.
“All I’m wonderin’,” Billy Don said while scratching his massive belly, the impressive centerpiece of his three-hundred-pound physique, “is why they call it the BrushBuster 3000. Last year’s model was the BrushBuster 2000, then all of a sudden they come out with the dang BrushBuster 3000. But shit if I can see the difference. Motor looks the same. Body’s the same. Even the same damn colors. So what the hell’s that ‘3000’ mean, anyhow?”
“Who the hell cares?” Red said, drumming the steering wheel, impatient.
“Don’t you ever think about stuff like that, Red? I mean, don’t it make you wonder?”
“Well, goddamn, Billy Don, it means it’s better by a thousand. What the hell you think it means?”
“But a thousand what?”
Red shook his head, hoping to draw the conversation to a close. He took a sip of coffee from a traveler’s mug and said, “All I know is, we got plenty of work to do. Mr. Slaton’s payin’ us by the acre to clear these damn cedars, and the faster we work, the more we rake in. Comprende?”
Billy Don plucked at his muttonchop sideburns and stared out the window as the truck progressed into the ranch.
“This is easy money, Billy Don,” Red continued. “I mean, people all over the county are practically shittin’ themselves tryin’ to get rid of all the cedar trees. All because of a few dry wells-which don’t make a lot of sense to me because wells do that on occasion. It’s just a matter of hydrological semantics.”
Billy Don glanced over, but said nothing. Red liked to flaunt his vocabulary now and then, but Billy Don had caught Red making up phrases a couple of times. This time, though, the big man let it go.
“Be that as it were,” Red said, “we gotta make hay now, before they all come to their senses. You see, Billy Don, it’s what you call a limited marketplace.” Red also enjoyed showing off his mastery of economic issues. “They’s only so much work to go around, so we need to get what we can, while we can. Plus, if this drought breaks, people are gonna forget all about clearing cedar. You foller me?”
Billy Don nodded and donned a serious expression. “You think it has sumpin’ to do with horsepower?”
“What’s that?”
“The ‘3000.’ Maybe that’s the number of-”
“Will you quit harping about that shit!”
Red pulled around a copse of live oaks and spied the two bulky tree-cutting machines looming in the early dawn. The BrushBuster 3000 was truly an awesome piece of work. It looked a lot like a tractor-except for the ominous steel appendage jutting out in front. It resembled nothing so much as an overgrown lobster claw, with two hydraulic pincers that could shear a twenty-inch tree at ground level in a matter of seconds. Red loved the rush of power he felt when sitting at the BrushBuster’s controls. And the fantastic noises it made! Man, when you got that ol’ diesel engine screaming at eight thousand RPMs, and combined that with the wrenching noises the blades made when they bit into a big softwood tree like a cedar… goddamn! It sounded like you were beating a pig to death with an accordion. And the amazing thing was, it was supposed to sound that way! It sure beat anything Red had ever seen at the monster-truck rallies.
Red pulled up beside the twin machines and cut the truck’s engine. “Billy Don, we’ll be working in separate areas today. That means I’m not gonna be around to watch after ya, so pay attention to what you’re doing. No screwups today, all right?”
Red was referring to a minor flaw in Billy Don’s botanical skills that had caused some problems the week before. Namely, Billy Don could hardly tell a cedar tree from a telephone pole.
They had been working a ranch that was home to the single largest madrone grove in Texas. The madrone was a fairly uncommon tree-now even more rare thanks to Billy Don. He had polished off a six-pack of Busch with lunch, then proceeded to level half of the ten-acre grove before the infuriated rancher shot out both of Billy Don’s tires with a twelve-gauge. Mr. Slaton had been boiling mad when he heard about it, but Red talked him out of firing Billy Don. Red had become good friends with the old guy, but boy could he get wound up tight sometimes!
Both men fired up their BrushBusters, and Red watched Billy Don head off toward the northernmost pasture on the ranch. It was a damn big place. They had been working the ranch for three days
solid and hadn’t laid eyes on the house or even seen another vehicle. Most owners would stop by every so often to check the progress, but not this one. Red figured the owner might live over in Austin or down in San Antonio. Maybe a fancy lawyer or doctor. Those kinds loved owning big ranches: someplace they could bring their buddies and act like a big-shot cowboy.
Red was just about to put his BrushBuster in gear when a Land Rover pulled up beside him. Speak of the devil, Red thought. Must be the owner, finally deciding to take a look. Out of the vehicle climbed a man in his fifties, hair graying, wearing outdoor gear straight out of some catalog. Red cut his engine and hopped down to introduce himself. It never hurt to get acquainted with these society types. He might get invited to a party…or better yet, he could learn the man’s schedule and come out and poach a few deer when nobody was around.
“’Mornin’,” Red said. “Red O’Brien.”
The man shook Red’s hand, but had a strange expression on his otherwise friendly face. “Uh, yeah, I’m Walter Gibbs, the owner. I saw the tracks in here and-well, uh, I’m kinda wondering what you’re doing out here.”
“Sir?”
“What exactly are you doing on my ranch?”
Red gestured at the BrushBuster. “Clearing cedar, just like you asked.”
“But I didn’t order any land-clearing. I was thinking about getting it done, same as everyone else, but-”
Red scratched his head. “This is the Leaning X, right?”
Gibbs chuckled. “I hate to tell you this, but no. It’s Raven Hill Ranch. The Leaning X is the next gate down.”
The man continued talking, but Red didn’t hear any of it. His mouth had gone dry, his temperature was rising, and all he could hear was what Billy Don had told him just three days ago: Aw, hell, this is the place, Red. It’s right here on the map. Slaton musta given us the wrong combination to the lock. Let’s just cut it off and git to work.
“So what’d you tell her?” Phil Colby asked.
John Marlin steered his Dodge Ram off the highway onto a gravel-topped county road. He was answering a hunter-harassment call from a man named Cecil Pritchard. It was a low-priority call from the day before, and Marlin had been too busy to respond yesterday. Colby, Marlin’s best friend since childhood, was joining him on what the Parks and Wildlife Department called a “ride-along,” a chance for civilians to get an up-close look at a game warden’s daily activities and responsibilities. Colby joined Marlin several times a year and Marlin always enjoyed the company.
“Well, Susannah Branson is a nice gal, no doubt about it, so I wasn’t sure what to say,” Marlin said. “And I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So I told her that it might be nice sometime.”
Colby nodded. “No harm in that. It’s no big deal, just a couple of friends getting together for coffee.”
Marlin gave Colby a sideways glance.
“On the other hand,” Colby grinned, “she’s damn good-lookin’. Hell, if you don’t wanna take her out, give her my number.” Colby was trying to lighten the mood a little, but Marlin was having none of it. After a pause, Colby said, “Listen, John, you know how sorry I am about this whole deal with Becky. But that’s how things work out sometimes. You gotta tell yourself it’s for the best.”
Marlin didn’t reply. He pulled into a dirt driveway and approached a run-down mobile home where a filthy toddler was playing in the barren yard. Marlin recognized Beth Pritchard sitting on the porch steps, in white shorts and a pink tube top, smoking a cigarette. Next to the house was Cecil Pritchard’s gray Chevy truck, with a bumper sticker that read: KEEP HONKING. I’M RELOADING.
“’Mornin’, Beth,” Marlin called as he and Colby stepped out of the cruiser. “I hear Cecil’s been doing a little hunting this weekend.”
“Wasting time and money is what I call it,” Beth sneered. She gestured around her. “What do you think, John? Does it look like we can afford a deer lease?”
Marlin simply shrugged, not wanting to get in the middle of a domestic squabble. He looked over at Colby for help, but Phil was suddenly interested in something on the horizon. A few yards away, wisps of smoke floated out of a barrel, carrying the acrid scent of smoldering garbage. Evidently, Cecil was too chintzy to pay for trash pickup. Marlin considered mentioning that there was a burn ban in effect in Blanco County-due to the drought-but then Cecil Pritchard would probably just toss his trash out on the highway.
“Cecil around?” Marlin asked.
Beth gave a dismissive wave. “He’s out in his workshop. Do me a favor and arrest him for somethin’, will ya?”
“Thanks, Beth.” Marlin eyed the toddler. “Looks like Junior’s growing up real good.”
Beth grunted.
Near the mobile home sat a small low-slung building slapped together with tar paper and sheet metal. A couple of old tires had been thrown on the roof to keep it secure on windy days. Marlin and Colby entered the shack, where Cecil was sprawled on a torn plaid couch watching a football game on a small black-and-white TV.
The men exchanged greetings and Cecil offered Marlin and Colby a beer from a large galvanized washtub that was currently functioning as an ice chest. They declined.
After a few minutes of small talk, Marlin said, “I got your message on my machine, Cecil. What’s up?”
Cecil turned down the TV, hiked up his suspenders, and said, “Y’all ain’t even gonna believe what happened to me yesterday.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Emmett Slaton was a robust seventy-five-year-old rancher who looked like he could still leap from a galloping horse and wrestle a steer to the ground. He was a stereotypical raucous Texan, always sitting at the loudest table at any cafe. Friendly enough, most of the time, but with a legendary stubborn streak and a tendency toward bigotry. Salvatore Mameli had experienced both traits firsthand during his initial phone call to Slaton two weeks ago. At first, the rancher had been polite, if not cordial.
But when Sal had made his proposition, Slaton ladled out a string of obscenities, then summed it all up by saying he’d “rather kiss a sow on the mouth after feeding time than sell my operation to some two-bit Capone.”
Apparently, Sal’s well-oiled hair and pinkie ring weren’t a big hit with the locals.
But Sal had patience-and a remarkable ability to control his temper when needed. He simply thanked the man for his time and wished him a good night.
A week later, Sal felt he was making progress. During the second phone call, the rancher had merely told Sal to “catch the next train to hell or Houston, it don’t matter which.” Sal, however, still didn’t lose his temper, mostly because he had never been to Houston. Also, he could tell that being a little blustery-“ornery” was the word they’d use around here-was merely part of the Texan’s act. The truth was, Sal was having a tough time reading some of these Texans. Sometimes he would think he was on the verge of a fistfight, only to have the man clap him on the back, say, “Hell, I was just bullshittin’ ya,” then laugh like it was the funniest thing since Grandpa dropped his dentures into the mashed potatoes. Sal took heart in the fact that Slaton had seemed to soften a little during the second phone call, as if he just enjoyed giving people a hard time.
Finally, on the third phone call, the rancher had said, “Aw, what the hell-I’ll hear you out. Come see me at the ranch.”
So Sal was practicing his spiel, thinking of the empty promises he was about to make, when he pulled into the entry way of Buckhorn Creek Ranch on Sunday morning. Slaton’s home, a limestone-and-granite monstrosity, sat half a mile off the road, ringed by towering hundred-year-old oak trees.
As Sal parked his new Lincoln, a fearsome-looking Doberman pinscher raced off the front porch, placed both front paws on Sal’s door, and howled at Sal through the glass. Sal instinctively recoiled from the growling beast.
“Heel, Patton!” Slaton yelled as he came out the front door. The dog immediately retreated to his master’s side and plopped his rear onto the ground.
Sal, feeling somewh
at safe now, climbed out of his car. “Mistuh Slaton?”
“Call me Emmett. With an accent like that, you gotta be Sal Mameli,” Slaton said, extending his hand. “Damn glad to meet you.”
Sal shook Slaton’s hand, keeping an eye on the Doberman.
“Don’t worry about him,” Slaton said. “The growlin’ is just for show. If he really wanted to do ya any damage, you’d never even hear him comin’.”
Sal wondered if that was supposed to make him feel better. “Patton, huh?”
“Yessir. Named after a great American-and a distant relative of yours truly, I don’t mind tellin’ ya.”
“Dat right?” Sal feigned interest. He had noticed that Texans tended to be long-winded-and he hoped he wasn’t in for a story.
“Somethin’ like a third cousin on my daddy’s side,” Slaton said. “But that’s neither here nor there. Let’s head inside and hear what you’ve got to say.”
The two men entered the house, with the dog following a little too closely in Sal’s footsteps. Slaton led Sal to a large den where a rust-colored cowskin rug covered the polished Saltillo tile underneath. It was furnished in a traditional ranch motif, with blocky wooden furniture, wood paneling, and several antique-looking firearms mounted on the walls. Slaton motioned to two chairs beside a large fireplace. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I know it’s early, but the bar’s always open ’round here.”
“Got any scotch?”
“No sir, fine Kentucky bourbon’s the only liquor I keep in my home. And I got some cold beer.”
“Beer’d be fine,” Sal replied, looking around the room. It was much too gaudy for his tastes, but the room-in its own backwoods way-spoke of money. And a man who understood the value of a dollar was certain to appreciate Sal’s generous “offer.”
