by Sylvia Nobel
“Who’s Penelope?”
The reflective smile softened his craggy features. “My mother. She had real pretty red hair too when she was young. He always called her Babydoll. She died…let’s see, it’s been about ten years ago now. He’s gone downhill a lot since then.”
“I’m sorry.”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, we all are. But, those are the cards we’ve been dealt and with God’s help we’ll get through it. So now, little lady, if you’re ready I’ll be happy to take you to the front lines of our little war zone,” he said, his voice assuming a more business- like quality.
“Give me two minutes to get my things and I’ll be right with you,” I said, placing one hand on the banister. I’d barely taken two steps when I heard the scrape of footsteps from above. To my dismay, Jason Beaumont clomped down the stairs towards us with a saucy swaggering gait, fastening the holster of a 9mm handgun to his waist. When his distracted gaze zeroed in on me, it was interesting to watch his cocky, self-assured expression alter with each progressive downward step. On closer inspection his initial indifference evaporated into disbelief, recognition, and finally a blaze of animosity.
“Jason,” his father called out, “meet Kendall O’Dell.”
“We’ve met,” I said dryly.
He clattered to the bottom of the steps. “What…what the hell is this bitch doing in our house?” he snarled, his finger pointed only inches from my nose.
Champ’s thick brows plunged into his beet-red face. “What’s the matter with you, boy?”
“I hope you haven’t been talking to her about any of our private family stuff. Don’t you know she’s one of those dumb-ass media sluts?”
Champ roared, “You’d best watch your mouth! Kendall happens to be a friend of Bradley Talverson. She’s come down here to do a story on our border problems, plain and simple. Now I believe you owe her an apology.”
Unmoved by Champ’s appeal, the wispy strawberry-blonde beard on his chin quivered as he snarled, “I don’t owe her shit. You’re being set up, Dad. I know for a fact she’s working for the enemy. A couple of us saw her at the rally yesterday and we spotted her twice afterwards chauffeuring that Lopez woman around town.”
The affable light faded from Champ’s eyes. “Is this true?”
“I don’t have clue one as to what he’s talking about. I was with an employee of mine by the name of Lupe Alvarez. She went home sick yesterday morning.” Flushed with anger, I turned back to Jason. “No doubt made sicker by you and your moronic bunch of skinhead thugs. And by the way, I didn’t appreciate your childish game of road rage either.”
“What’s she talking about?” There was a dangerous edge to Champ’s voice.
Uncertainty ruled Jason’s face for a fleeting second before he reasserted himself with a sarcastic, “It was no big deal. Me and a couple of the guys was just having a little fun. Okay, so maybe we had a few too many beers and made a mistake. Is it my fault that wetbacks all look the same to me?” Smirking, he brushed past me and disappeared into the kitchen.
Champ surveyed my heated face with chagrin. “I apologize for any trouble caused by my son. He can be kind of a hothead at times.”
I gave him a quick overview of what happened, including the cat incident. “There is no excuse for terrorizing people or animals.”
His skyward glance seemed to be searching for inspiration. “Look, these kids are just responding to a situation we have no control over. Folks who aren’t from around here don’t have any idea what we’re up against. Our livelihood is at stake, our families, our sovereignty for chrissake! Most of the news reporters soft peddle what’s really happening. The awful truth is, we’re under siege! It’s like living in a pressure cooker every single day and I guess Jason, like all of us, sometimes tends to overreact.”
Overreact? I longed to ask him what he thought of Jason’s open declarations of hatred and bigotry on full display in his room, but didn’t want to reveal how I knew. “Who’s this Lopez woman he mentioned?”
His clenched jaw made the chords in his neck stand out. “An activist lawyer who heads up one of those immigration advocacy groups in Tucson. That woman has made it her mission in life to make our lives a living hell. For the record, just so you get the whole picture, this Mexican bitch is suing my ass for a half a millions bucks for so-called human rights violations against a bunch of trespassing illegals who trashed my property!” He gulped in a couple of calming breaths, started to speak again and then apparently thought better of it, clamping his mouth shut for a few seconds before saying in a carefully controlled tone, “I’ll be waiting for you in my truck.”
He stomped away without another word, grabbing a set of keys off a hook beside the door. Walter was right on the money. This place was a tinderbox of volatile emotions on all sides, poised to explode at the slightest provocation. A war zone. Not a happy thought. Needless to say, the discord had my belly in a nervous stew as I raced back down the stairs after retrieving my tape recorder, camera and jacket. But, I had to admit that I was intrigued by what I’d learned so far. The yearning to solve Lupe’s dilemma was still dominant, but it was a real stretch to think that I was going to come up with anything viable by this afternoon. On the other hand, the opportunity for a feature article on the ongoing border tensions was tangible. Why go home empty-handed?
In the kitchen once more, I noticed Jason and Bethany with their heads together at the far end of the table as I made my way towards the side door. The glitter of malicious humor reflected in her swift sideways glance pretty much confirmed that I was most likely the subject of their cozy chitchat. To hell with both of them. Shrugging into my jacket, I stepped outside and hurried towards Champ’s green Chevy pickup, breathing in the frosty, hay-scented air and reaffirming that Rascal still retained his number one spot as my favorite member of this motley household.
14
The brilliant rays of the rising sun breaking over the distant peaks illuminated the almost full moon, poised above the western horizon like a pearly-gray medicine ball. The wind hadn’t abated much since last night and, in fact, seemed to have gained strength.
Cloaked in a Levi jacket trimmed with a sheepskin collar and sipping fresh coffee from a large mug, Champ’s frame of mind appeared to have improved somewhat as I climbed in beside him. He agreed to my request to use the tape recorder for our interview and then, after a couple of minutes of initial awkwardness, seemed to forget it was there.
With a look of pride shining in his eyes, he explained how the neat row of guest cottages behind the main house had once belonged to various family members. Less than a year ago, they had been completely remodeled. There were also two bunkhouses for visitors wishing to ‘rough it.’ I noticed that much like the Starfire, there was a hum of activity about the place even at such an early hour. Ranch hands on foot, horseback and driving dusty weather-faded pickups, exchanged friendly salutes with Champ as we cruised by whitewashed stables and pipe corrals filled with horses, sheep, goats and even a few llamas. He informed me that the smaller animals had recently been added as an attraction for guests with children. Their list of services also included trail rides, hayrides, cookouts, participation in branding and cattle roundups and even western dances. Within minutes, we left the trappings of civilization behind and headed out into the open range where straggling herds of white-faced cattle munched on smoothly sculpted hills of dry grass. Beyond the vast cactus-strewn grasslands, tier after tier of rugged mountain ranges thrust upward to collide with the bold blue sky. It was hard to believe that a single family held stewardship over such a gigantic empire when most of us are lucky to own a tiny plot of acreage at some point in our lives.
“Man, this place would be perfect to film a western movie,” I remarked with a note of admiration.
He chuckled. “Did you ever see The Last Arizona Cowboy?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, it was made right here five years ago.”
“No kidding?”
“And that wasn’t the only one. We registered with the Arizona Film Commission after that and there’ve been four other movies shot here. A cable station was down here just a couple of months ago doing a TV movie.”
“Is it lucrative?”
He edged me a meaningful glance. “Oh, yeah, definitely. They even used Brett as an extra in the last one and, before that, Jason and a couple of his buddies picked up quite a chunk of change helping to tear down some of the sets and haul stuff away.”
“How exciting for everyone.”
“Sometimes. Those Hollywood types can be a real pain in the ass, pardon my French. Real bossy. Demanding. And temperamental. Their crews tear up the roads something awful hauling equipment in those big trucks. They’re noisy and messy, but I’ve got to say the meals put together by the catering companies they hire is just about the best damn food I ever ate.” He laughed and rubbed a hand over his generous middle.
We rode in silence for a few minutes until he pointed to the cracked shingles of mud stretched across empty stock ponds, explaining that they were usually eight to ten feet deep with runoff from the summer rains. “That little spit of moisture we got yesterday was useless.” He shook his head, scanning the distant vista with a thoughtful look. “You know, I thought my dear wife had lost her marbles when she first came up with the idea of starting a dude ranch. But, after nearly seven years of drought conditions, grazing allotments being cut, and skyrocketing fees, well, our backs were against the wall. In the salad days, we were running ten thousand cows and about one thousand bulls. Our calves were going for a buck a pound. Now we’re lucky to get sixty-five cents.” A little smile quivered at the corner of his mouth. “We owe your guy big time for saving our butts. Tally worked out an arrangement for taking some of the cattle in trade for some of those fine-looking Appaloosas. They make the best dang saddle horses in the world but, frankly, I’m afraid he’s losing money on the deal even though he’d never admit it.”
“How long have you known Tally?” I asked, moving the small microphone a little closer to him, noticing that the wrinkles crisscrossing his cheeks and creasing the corners of his eyes were so pronounced it looked as though he’d had his face pressed up against a wire screen for twenty years.
“His pa, Joe, and me knew each other since we were knee high to a bullfrog. Used to compete at the county fairs and rodeos all the time.” He turned to me, grinning impishly. “Guess you can figure out which one of us came in first most of the time.”
I smiled back. So that meant Champ had known Tally all his life. And it also confirmed my suspicion that Tally must be well acquainted with both of the enchanting Beaumont offspring. The uncomfortable knot of suspicion inside me intensified, but I admonished myself once again for being silly. Tally was an intelligent guy. He wouldn’t have the slightest interest in a spoiled brat like Bethany.
“I’m gonna show you just a small example of our problems,” he said, turning onto a narrow side road. We bounced along until it tapered into little more than a sandy path. Then, he stopped and invited me to join him outside. Strong wind gusts grabbed my hair and smacked it repeatedly across my face. “Does the wind ever stop blowing out here?” I asked, capturing my unruly locks in one hand.
“Nope. That’s one thing around here that’s pretty constant.” We walked towards a thick grove of mesquite. I wasn’t sure why until I noticed the piles of trash littering what should have been the pristine landscape. Beneath the low overhang of shrubbery was a small clearing where the range grass had been flattened or obliterated by the heavy foot traffic. A flash of irritation shot through me when I saw the piles of discarded plastic gallon water jugs. There must have been fifty or sixty of them. Scattered everywhere were empty food tins, diapers, toilet paper, beer bottles and discarded cans of a Mexican beverage called Jumex. Empty potato and tortilla chip bags, along with dark green plastic garbage bags snagged in the foliage, snapped and crackled in the stiff wind. The mess was appalling.
I looked up and saw the aggravation in Champ’s eyes. He pointed to the ground, grimacing. “My Border Patrol buddies call this a lay-up area. That’s where the guides or two-legged coyotes, or whatever you wanna call these scumbags, drop off their loads of jumpers. They camp out here and wait for their ride. And this,” he continued, moving his index finger to a well-worn footpath snaking away through the brush, “is just one of dozens of paths they’ve worn clean through my property all the way from the blasted border. Can you believe we just cleaned this area up a few days ago?” he huffed. “Now, along with everything else, we get to be trash pickers, and that’s not all. These people kill off wildlife and set fires to cook and keep warm in the winter. I tell you, it’s a goddamn losing battle.”
“I saw the results of one fire when Payton drove me over to Dean’s place yesterday,” I said.
A heavy sigh. “Yeah, that’s just the latest in a string of ‘em. Considering how dry everything is we’re lucky they haven’t burned down the whole southern half of the state. On top of that is the five head of prime beef we’ve lost over the past year because my cattle eat these plastic water jugs they leave behind. Two other head escaped through cut fences and were killed on the highway. A friend of mine over at the Dunbar spread is being sued by a woman who ran into one of his bulls and is now paralyzed. Every rancher in this area is suffering because of this unstoppable invasion of our country. And make no mistake about it,” he said with a curt nod, “it’s just that, an invasion.”
I had an instant vision of the big black bull I’d encountered on Arivaca Road and thanked my lucky stars I’d been able to stop in time. As we drove back towards the main road, I noticed that the glow of pride in his eyes had dimmed.
Champ tapped the horn and waved towards a horse and rider silhouetted on a windswept bluff. The rider responded by brandishing a rifle. “That,” Champ said, pointing his chin at the man, “is a primary example of wasted manpower. In order to protect my own property right here in the so-called sovereign US of A, I am forced to hire extra hands to stand lookout and chase these people down when I should be paying them to put in a good day’s work.”
“I hope this question doesn’t offend you, but I have to ask it. I couldn’t help but notice that you, along with Tally and every other ranch I’ve visited lately, employ Mexican laborers. Isn’t it just a little bit hypocritical of you guys to complain about the influx of these people when you’re helping to create the problem?”
He flicked me a look of irritation. “Look, we’re not talking about migrants coming here with a legal temporary work permit. It’s too bad the government did away with the old bracero program. In most cases, it worked pretty well for both sides. No, ma’am. We’re talking about having to deal with a new and more dangerous breed of criminal ilk invading our borders, and that includes these terrorist cells.”
“Isn’t it the Border Patrol’s job to apprehend these people?”
A shrug accompanied his tired sigh. “I’ll tell you something. I know a lot of these guys personally and they work their asses off doing the best they can, but let’s face it, even though things have really tightened up a lot at the legal border crossings with the National Guard helping out, there’s no way on God’s sweet earth they can hire enough agents to patrol the whole two thousand miles. If you ask me, I’d say the only solution left is to bring in the military.”
“You mean the Army?”
“Yes ma’am. Them or the Marines! It’s the federal government’s job to secure our borders and they’re doing a piss poor job of it. Last month me and the boys rounded up over 400 illegals,” he said with a sharp laugh. “Maybe we ought to be on the payroll.”
“That’s a lot of people.”
He snickered. “Oh, that’s a drop in the bucket. You know how many were apprehended last year?”
“No.”
“Over 700,000, and we’re not seeing just Mexicans. If you check with the Border Patrol you�
��ll find that Orientals are coming in, Eastern Europeans and even people from the Middle East.” He shot me a grave look, tacking on, “And after what happened in New York, we can’t afford to fool around. We need to be extra vigilant protecting our country’s borders, because that number only reflects the people that were actually caught. You see why we’re calling it an invasion?”
He had a point, a very good point.
“Do the math,” he went on. “Multiply that number along the entire Mexican border and you get some idea of just exactly what we’re up against. Oh, I’m sure you think I’m a hard-hearted so and so, but I have one simple question. Why don’t we force the Mexican government and all these other corrupt countries to take care of their own people? Then they wouldn’t be pouring across, using up our resources as a nation, draining social services meant for our own people, clogging hospitals, overrunning our schools, illegally voting to influence our elections and who knows what other God-awful mayhem they may have planned for us.” His hands clasped and unclasped the steering wheel. “Have you heard the latest thing the damn Mexican government is up to?”
“Um…I’m not sure.”
“Now they’re providing survival kits to make it easier for these people to cross the desert.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not,” he grumbled. “I just read it in the paper. The kits contain food and water, medicine for scorpion and snakebites, salt, even birth-control pills for the women, for chrissakes! I know it’s politically incorrect to be suspicious of people from different cultures, but I think Americans are finally waking up and realizing what’s happening to our sovereignty. People who enter this country illegally are lawbreakers. Some of them are dangerous criminals and I’m tired of the fuzzy-headed thinkers in Washington making us feel like the bad guys for defending ourselves. You can feel free to quote me on that.” His mottled complexion and heavy breathing revealed passionate opinion, but he didn’t strike me as unreasonable, just a patriotic man with strong convictions. Did he approve of his son’s involvement in the White power movement? I was beginning to suspect that he just might. By his tone, I wouldn’t be all that surprised if his sympathies lay in that direction also. And, considering the ongoing problems, would anyone blame him?
