The county is divided up more or less fifty-fifty into private and public lands, public meaning the state and the feds, mostly the feds. The federal government manages its property through two entities, the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and the Charles M. Russell National Park (CMR). Of the two, the BLM is the more interesting outfit. It is, in its own opinion, mostly misunderstood. Some locals call it the Bureau of Land Mismanagement. Jeanette calls it the Big Lousy Monster. None of the ranchers like it because it controls the land leases they depend on.
Ranchers Road is around thirty-five miles long and runs south to north into a peninsula formed by Lake Fort Peck, a big depression-era man-made lake. The road is the north-south lifeline of the six ranches it connects to the east-west state highway that crosses Fillmore County, a highway otherwise unhindered by any town except the county seat of Jericho. Heading up Ranchers Road, the first ranch reached is the Haxby place, which is owned by Sam Haxby, otherwise known as Sam the Survivalist. Sam’s ranch is essentially a fortress. Although I thought the Haxbys were plenty peculiar, Jeanette said she was happy to have them as neighbors. They kept their fences strong, their cattle contained, and their business to themselves. Sam and Ina Haxby had six children over the years, all boys, four of whom had moved away. Jack and Carl, both in their forties, stayed behind to ranch, raise their families, and I guess also to prepare for Armageddon.
The next ranch along the road was us. The Square C was the biggest ranch on the road, although I won’t say how big. If you want to tick a Fillmore County rancher off, ask him how big his ranch is, how many cattle he has, and how many guns he owns. You’ll not likely get an answer but you’ll surely get a steely eyed stare.
The Feldmark ranch, known as the Spear F, lay north of us. Aaron Feldmark was in his early seventies, his wife Flora about fifty-five. They lived alone, not counting all their animals. They had raised a family of three boys and four girls, all of whom had moved away as soon as they graduated from high school. Mrs. Feldmark had arrived here as a school teacher in one of the one-room schools in the county and ended up marrying a rancher. This was not unusual. School marms come out from towns like Billings, single and scared, and before you knew it, some rancher had taken her to a dance, fixed her flat tire, tossed a couple of steaks in her little freezer, and she was here for life.
The Thomason ranch, the Lazy T, was next up the road. Buddy Thomason was a widower, his wife dead from pneumonia when his daughter Amelia was but three years old. It was one of those things. It was spring, the rains had come, Ranchers Road was one long strip of impassable gumbo, and Greta Thomason, a mail-order bride from Germany who Buddy had picked from a catalog, came down with a terrible cold that turned into pneumonia. Greta passed before anything could be done, leaving Buddy to raise Amelia. Far as I could tell, he’d done a pretty good job of it.
Next up the road was the Brescoe ranch, one of several Brescoe ranches in the county although all the others were south of Jericho. There were more Brescoes in Fillmore County than any other family. At the high school, there were sixty-three students and thirty-eight of them were Brescoes, nearly all of them boys, which I guess made prom night a bit awkward. Julius and Mathis were the Brescoes along our road. They were in their fifties and all their kids, six of them, had grown up and moved away.
Ranchers Road ended at the gate that led into the Corbel place, except the Corbels were long gone, sold out three years back to a Californian named Cade Morgan who some folks said had once been the director of a television show or something. I’d never heard of him even though I’d spent years in Hollywood troubleshooting for some of the big studios. But the television crowd and the big movie people didn’t mix that much so maybe that explained why I didn’t know him. Anyway, Cade had sold off the Corbel cows and, far as I could tell, wasn’t farming, either. What he was doing out there on his ranch, nobody knew, but it was his business. Being able to tend to your own business is what generally attracts outsiders to this part of Montana, including me.
The Fillmore County 4th of July Independence Day organizing committee gathered in the back room of the Hell Creek Bar, Jericho’s favorite watering hole and conference center. Although I had my grocery list, I loitered at the door and watched Jeanette sit down beside Sam Haxby and share a couple of words with the survivalist. Sam was one of those little guys built like a fireplug, and about as tough. A quick look around revealed representatives from the other ranches along Ranchers Road. There was Aaron Feldmark, looking like a gentleman cowboy with a big “Hoss Cartwright” hat, black vest, string bolo tie, and striped pants tucked into intricately carved cowboy boots. Sitting a couple chairs away was Buddy Thomason, Amelia’s dad, dressed in dirty jeans and old boots spattered with dried mud. Julius Brescoe, his nose stuck in the latest issue of Western Ag Reporter, sat behind them in bib overalls. I’d noticed his truck outside with his dogs, a couple of border collies, sitting patiently in back waiting for his return.
I heard some commotion behind me and saw Cade Morgan as he came inside the bar, giving the patrons the high sign and the bartender a wink. Square-jawed, high cheek bones, and curly black hair, Cade Morgan, by any lights, was a handsome fellow. Coming in with Cade was someone I’d never seen before. Tall, bald, about a mile wide at the shoulders, a hawk bill for a nose, and a couple of ears that would have made Dumbo proud, this guy had not only been hit by the ugly stick, he’d been pounded.
Cade saw me, and flashed a grin that showed a full set of chemically whitened teeth. “Hey, Mike,” he said. “What do you hear from the City of Angels?”
I’d made the mistake (OK, I was drunk at the time) of telling Cade I’d once been a cop and then a gumshoe for the studios. “Not a thing,” I told him. “Which is exactly how much I want to hear.”
The big, ugly fellow who was with Cade gave me the once-over. I ignored him until Cade introduced us. “Mike, this is Toby. An old buddy.”
Toby and I shook hands. I have big hands but mine was swallowed in his. “This is my first trip to Montana,” Toby said and I picked up an accent but not one I could quite place. Eastern European, I thought, or maybe Russian. When I didn’t reply to his comment, he added, “I think Montana is very nice.”
“It sure is,” I replied and left it at that.
Cade swaggered inside the room and Toby followed. When he went by me, I noticed a tattoo creeping up from under the back of his shirt onto his neck. I couldn’t see enough to tell what it was but I would have bet money it covered his entire back. Not that I cared, one way or the other. If a man wanted to look like Queequeg, so what? These days, people get tattoos for lots of reasons—fashion, boredom, in search of a personality, or for no reason at all.
Edith Brescoe, aka Mayor Brescoe, aka the wife of the local BLM agent, aka my former paramour—I’ll get to that—rapped her knuckles on the table in front to get everybody’s attention. The gray suit she was wearing made her look crisp and efficient. She was kind of like that in bed, too. Not passionate. Not romantic. Crisp and efficient.
“OK, people,” Edith said. “Quiet down, please.” She waved toward the back of the room. At first, I thought she was waving at me but it turned out to be two young men who brushed by me from the bar area. They were dressed in casual slacks, sports coat, and open neck shirts, which meant, pretty much, they weren’t from around these parts. Both were thin-faced, had the perfectly combed hair of Ivy Leaguers and, if I wasn’t mistaken, manicured nails. I instantly ID’d them as either property developers or environmentalists, both bad news for ranchers. The developers want to subdivide the ranches, the enviros want to knock down the fences and bring back the buffalo. Either way, the ranchers get screwed.
The effete pair walked up front and stood smiling beside the mayor but before she could tell us who they were, Aaron Feldmark stood up and said, “I got something to tell everybody, Edith, and it’s damn important.”
“Can it wait, Aaron?”
“No. I said it was important. I even put a ‘damn’ in front of it so
you’d know.”
Edith was unimpressed by Aaron’s cussing. “If you’ll indulge me for just a few minutes, I promise I’ll get back to you. I want to introduce these two gentlemen who just want to say a few words and be on their way. OK?”
Aaron looked peeved but sat down and Edith went on. “Folks, this is Brian and Philip Marsh. They’re brothers and they represent an organization that works to provide habitat for threatened species.”
There were groans from the audience because they now knew what they had—environmentalists. The pair shared glances, then Brian said, “Hello everybody. As I’m certain you all are aware, the Environmental Protection Agency has proposed regulations that will strictly control the ecological impact of the raising of large domestic ungulates. My brother and I are here to help you determine the statistical data necessary to comply when these regulations take effect. What we will do is survey your ranches so as to determine the methodology required to bring them to a functioning level of biological diversity. We will do this by determining the biomass consumed and created, including the carbon and methane exhalations from the extant population. Once this is accomplished, we will have the necessary data to provide you with an assessment of pollutants and a methodology for regulatory compliance. Are there any questions?”
The ranchers reacted to this little speech with stunned silence until Sam said, “Yeah Let me make sure I understand. You make your little study and turn it over to the EPA, the government then swoops in, makes a declaration on how we’re a menace to society, and we get kicked off our land.” He pointed his finger at the two boys. “I tell you before I let you within a mile of my ranch, it’ll be over my dead body. I seen your black helicopters. Bring ’em on, buddy. I got some ordnance ready for ya!”
Brian and Phillip looked at each other again, then Phillip said, “We don’t have any helicopters, sir.”
Sam crossed his arms. “So you say.”
“No, really. I mean we just want to—”
Aaron interrupted. “What’s the name of your organization?”
“We’re from Green Planet, a private non-profit,” Philip answered.
“Why you sons of bitches,” Aaron growled. “It was you two who killed my heifer, wasn’t it?”
“Sir?”
Aaron stood. “They knocked her out yesterday with a sledgehammer, looked like, then cut her throat. And my fence was cut in two places. I found this note. It’s how I know’d it was them.” He dug around in his pocket and then produced a folded up paper, unfolded it, and read its contents. It said:
This range improvement project brought to you by the Green Monkey Wrench Gang. No Address—we’re everywhere. No phone—we’ll be in touch.
A shocked silence ensued while the brothers took on an expression best known as “deer in the headlights.” The Monkey Wrench Gang was the title of a novel by Edward Abbey about a crew of rowdy, drunken guys raising havoc with private property throughout the west during the 1970s. I’d read it and I suspected most of the ranchers at least knew something about it. The novel had inspired ecoterrorists who specialized in things like spiking trees to cause chainsaws to whip around and kill lumberjacks. They also cut fences, burned homes being built in what they considered eco-sensitive areas, and occasionally killed livestock. In other words, menaces to decent society.
Philip found his voice although it was a bit squeaky. “Sir, we’re from Green Planet. We don’t know anything about the Green Monkey Wrench Gang.”
“And we just arrived this morning,” Brian pointed out.
Edith took up for the brothers, saying, “Senator Claggers said these boys would drive in from Bozeman this morning. I saw them pull in. They haven’t been here long enough for any mischief.”
“Senator Claggers!” This eruption was from Tom Wattles, a rancher from down south. “That old hypocrite? You taking orders from him now, Mayor?”
“It never hurts to be polite to a member of the United States Senate, Tom.” Gently, Edith reminded everyone of the sad and sorry truth that made Claggers so important. “Senator Claggers is on the committee that oversees the BLM.”
“That don’t give him the right to send these two girly-boys over here,” Sam said. “But, hell, they look to me like they’d be afraid of a cow. Naw, Aaron. I don’t see them doing what you said.”
Jeanette stood up. When Jeanette Coulter stood, I don’t care what else is going on, folks tended to pay attention. “I had a bull killed the same way,” she said. “And our fence was also cut.”
“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Sam demanded.
“It was Square C business, Sam,” she replied and Sam nodded, getting that.
“If these two didn’t do it,” Frank Torgerson, the county mortician, said, “then who did?”
I had been watching the brothers. If they were guilty of these crimes, I wasn’t getting a vibe in that direction. Sam was right. I doubted either one of them had ever seen a cow up close.
Jeanette nodded to the Green Planeteers. “You’d best leave,” she said, quietly.
“Get out of the county and stay out,” Sam added. “We catch you around here, I got a rope for a necktie party.”
“You’d hang us?” Philip gulped.
“Stretch your neck from here to Bozeman. Now, git!”
The Marsh brothers fled the room and, after some grins and winks, the conversation turned to who had done these major affronts to our cow society.
Frank said, “I saw a young fellow in a white truck the day after that big storm. He turned up toward Ranchers Road.”
“I know who you saw,” Jeanette said and then told them about the young fossil collector. This started another round of talking.
“You let a fossil collector go out on the Square C?” Sam demanded, raising his eyebrows so high I thought they were going to fly right off his forehead.
“He look like he could kill a cow?” Julius asked.
“I tell you somebody’s got to look into all this,” Sam said.
“Job for the law, Sam,” the mayor said.
“Which we don’t have,” Sam retorted. In fact, the position of county sheriff hadn’t been filled for a couple of years after the last one had died peacefully in bed. He was a Brescoe, named Spud. Since there was virtually no crime in the county other than the occasional fender bender outside the Hell Creek Bar on a Friday or Saturday night, the county commissioner, who happened to be Julius Brescoe, Spud’s son, had decided to save some money and not hold an election for another one.
“I could call the state police,” the mayor proposed, “and see what they say.”
Based on the frowns aimed at her, Edith’s proposal was not received well. Fillmore County folks never like outsiders to poke into their business and that includes state troopers. After some more discussion, it was decided to let things ride, everybody was to keep their eyes open, and we’d see what we’d see. The gathering then turned to planning the Independence Day celebration and I took my leave. As I walked out, I saw a shiny silver sport utility vehicle, no doubt a hybrid, turning onto the main highway. The Green Planeteers were taking off.
I chased down Jeanette’s list, loaded up Bob with barbed wire, nails, and some groceries, then came back to the bar for an early beer. I ordered a Rainier, put my boot up on the brass rail, then drank it with the quiet satisfaction of a cowboy with no present responsibilities.
A dainty foot went up beside mine. The mayor’s. Our legs briefly touched and I got a mild thrill although our affair had been over for more than a year. “A Rainier for the lady,” I told Joe the bartender.
Joe delivered the beer and Edith and I went over and sat at a table. “You look good,” I told her, which was the truth. If I wasn’t mistaken, she’d unbuttoned the top button on her blouse since the meeting. I could almost smell the perfume I knew she had dabbed between her breasts.
She appraised me with her gentle, blue-gray eyes. “Thanks, cowboy. You’re not looking too bad yourself.”
“Why aren
’t you in the meeting?” I asked.
“When Jeanette’s in the room, she takes over. They don’t need me. It’s good to see you, Mike. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too. How are you doing?”
Edith picked up her Rainier and took a thoughtful sip. “Ted and I are doing OK these days,” she said with no real conviction.
This I took as a signal she had no interest in revving up our affair so I shifted the conversation. “Those two enviro boys could have got hurt this morning.”
She smiled a sad smile. “I’m not surprised at the reception they got. Change isn’t going to come easy to this county.”
“Change doesn’t come easy anywhere,” I said. “But I don’t see the ranchers ever going along with any of this environmental stuff. They figure they’re the best environmentalists, anyway, because they take care of the land and all the critters inside their fences.”
Edith gave me a hard look. “Mike, the days of ranching in the West are over. All the federal government has to do is change a few rules and every one of those folks in that room would be gone. They have no friends in Washington, D.C., not one.”
“How about Senator Claggers?”
Edith responded with a grunt of derision, had herself another swallow of beer, then said, “The ranchers are their own worst enemies. They hunker down here, keeping to themselves, and think they can keep the future away. But it’s coming, Mike, and it’s going to destroy them. The environmental groups have been shoveling money to the politicians like slop to pigs and now they have lawsuits to glue public land together to create a huge bunch of nothing out here. Monument land will be combined with the BLM and the CMR. Every ranching lease will be canceled. All oil and gas exploration will stop dead. Most of it already has. Let the angels rejoice, it’s going to be buffalo and wolves as far as the eye can see. And you know what? I don’t much care anymore.”
Edith was not a rancher’s daughter. Her parents had tried to make a go raising pigs and chickens on a little five-acre farm down in the southern part of the county. When she was in high school, her mother committed suicide and Edith had run away, washing up in Denver as a waitress. Eventually, she’d gotten her GED, latched onto some kind of scholarship that got her a B.A. in Education, and come back to Fillmore County as a grade school teacher. After that, she’d married Ted Brescoe, the local BLM agent, and started dabbling in politics. Now, she was mayor of the county seat. Pretty good for the daughter of a pig farmer in cattle country. I’d always admired Edith, even before we’d started bouncing the bedsprings.