The boss was a blur, now, as he barked orders aimed at cutting his losses. First thing, he sent Francis into Granby to make arrangements for his usual low-bed operator to move the D-6 over to the logging camp. Best park it where the crew could keep an eye on it, at least until he returned from Denver. No way was he going to leave his prize cat at the logging site where it would be vulnerable to further depredations while he was gone. Jacques had a feeling the bastards would try again and felt totally exposed. He had called the Sheriff’s department, first thing, but the county cops had failed to respond with the alacrity the situation demanded.
That was more than two hours ago. So, where is my protection?
It was a touchy item, near the top of the boss’s shit list.
Later that afternoon, the Western-Pacific attorney showed up on the landing without notice in a sleek black limousine, just as Jacques was about to depart for Denver. It was a late model Cadillac, with darkened windows. Most of the crew, including Tom, was still on hand, and they watched the attorney climb out of the back seat. He looked like the stereotypic high roller, complete with the trench coat and dark shades, even a cigar. The man was obviously none too pleased. He had a grim look on his mug of a face. It seemed to Tom the guy had stepped straight out of a Hollywood “B” gangster film.
After exchanging a few curt words with the boss, the two men disappeared into the office. When they emerged a half-hour later St. Clair’s face was pale. By then, Tom had returned to camp. But he heard the full story about what had transpired from Francis Delacour, who got it from the horse’s mouth.
Western-Pacific had upped the ante. Apparently, the front office had been alarmed by the eco-sabotage and on short notice dispatched their top attorney. The man had flown in from Denver to take charge of the situation. The attorney spelled it out in blunt language. He wanted the boss to send his crew into all of the marked units at first light and start dropping trees. “As fast as possible. And keep dropping them. We are fully within our rights. We have the contract, we own the timber, and possession is nine-tenths of the law. For now,” he told Jacques, “don’t bother to push the skid road in. You just get those trees on the ground. You can skid ‘em out, later...”
But this direct interference did not set well with the boss. Jacques told the lawyer to his face where to stuff it. According to Francis, “Where the sun don’t shine.”
That was when the lawyer hit him with the whammy. “Well, St. Clair, let me put it in plain English. If you can’t get it done, we’ll tear up your silly sub-contract and find another operator who knows how to follow orders. You get the picture?” Then, he twisted the knife, adding the implicit slur, “Comprende vous?”
TWENTY FIVE
Along the rear wall of the Nugget saloon was a row of half-lit booths, and in the far left corner an even more dimly lit wrap-around stall with a circular table. The booth was well away from the saloon’s overhead lighting, and out of earshot of the usual crowd at the bar. This confidential corner was where Pinecone met regularly with his cohorts, Mike Phillips and Steve Gaylord. Both of his mates were fellow refugees from mainstream environmentalism and shared his sympathies with the more radical Earth First movement.
Each had been actively involved with the Ancient Forest Rescue campaign, a diverse coalition; but they also made up their own separate splinter group. They were a generic enterprise, a splinter with no formal identity, just another nameless cell of a broader movement. After all, a group with a formal name, a paid staff, a phone and a front office becomes a recognizable blip on someone’s radar screen; hence, a target for psy-ops. Best avoid that with the camouflage of anonymity. The bard put it best: “What’s in a name?”
The trio had no acknowledged leader for similar reasons. Like the Musketeers of old, they were true libertarians and freely passed the mantle of “leader” around the table among themselves, taking turns, usually with a good deal of associated fun and banter. Occasionally they drew straws, but always they operated on a consensual basis. A group with a designated leader, after all, can be decapitated, and so reduced to flailing arms and legs. But a headless (not to say mindless) trio can strike dread into the heart of the enemy, no less than a disembodied rider on a moonlit night.
There was important business on tap, this particular evening. The fight to save the ancient trees of Bowen Gulch was fast approaching a climax. The contract for the timber sale had been awarded and a dozen derivative deals inked. That very morning, they had received worrisome news. A logging crew was now ready to go. The campaign to save one of the last great places was in danger of being outflanked by modern-day minotaurs, half-human and half-machine, strange hybrid monsters with the cerebrum of a man and jaws of ravening steel. Soon, the fabulous creatures would be unleashed on one of Nature’s last unspoiled strongholds. The liquidation of Bowen Gulch’s 800-year-old trees was about to begin. The ghouls would soon descend.
Unless, of course, the three musketeers could find a way to stop them. An epic battle was about to be joined.
Pinecone set down two frothing schooners of beer on the table, then slid into the circular booth beside his colleague Mike Phillips, the second member of the team.
“It’s five straight up,” said Pinecone. He laid down some bills and silver coins and pushed them across the tabletop to his companion. “Steve should be here any minute.”
Mike nodded. He scooped up the change without counting it and slipped it into his pocket.
The “Steve” was Steve Gaylord, the splinter’s stealthy third leg, who had been dispatched earlier to keep an eye on the logging site. Very early that morning, they had received a helpful tip from an unnamed source over at the district office that a Forest Service marking crew would leave for Bowen Gulch within the hour, for the purpose of unflagging the dropped unit, the one those three had spiked, and to lay out its replacement. Steve was a born shadow and had been sent to reconnoiter.
Like his eco-mates, Steve had followed his own unique but more or less parallel path to a more radical perspective. Once upon a time in a previous life he had been a computer programmer and a self-described yuppie. But that was in a galaxy long ago and far-far away. Although Steve’s former career had been successful by any measure, he had moved on when the career seemed to him to be going nowhere. The work had come to feel irrelevant, a quaint term from the counterculture days of the 1960s when “relevant” and its opposite expression actually meant something. Both words had been in vogue in that distant past but held little traction, nowadays, and even sounded like the faint detritus of an extinct language. Why persist with a yardstick that was hopelessly out-of-date? Simple. Steve Gaylord was hopelessly out of date, himself.
Indeed, he reveled in the fact and would have it no other way. Steve was a firebrand and something of a misanthrope. He considered it great sport to “get in peoples’ faces.” How he loved jabbing the jaded ones with pointed reminders that they were leading “lives of quiet desperation.” What fun to play the mirror and feed back all of the mindless materialism. The man lived out of the back of his pickup and got by on next to nothing. Despite having few possessions, he flourished, supporting himself on handouts. Not that he was afraid to work. Not at all. Steve was a jack-of-all-trades and worked at odd jobs whenever he could find them, whatever came his way. But gas, food and beer money was all he really needed. Steve Gaylord had found his calling and lived to pursue it. He was a born-again warrior for Mother Earth.
Mike skimmed off the suds as he waited in silence with Pinecone. The beer was good and cold. Although Mike shared the passion of his peers for wild places, he was a different sort of nerd. He was the only one of the three with deep pockets, and thus served as the group’s financier. Mike bankrolled the trio’s exploits with a roll of cash that never faltered. A new age entrepreneur, he owned and operated a successful chain of sporting gear and outdoor clothing outlets, located in Boulder, Denver and Colorado Springs. The three stores catered to a niche market, extreme sports junkies, skiers, hikers, b
ikers, wilderness campers, and the like. The stores did well enough. Tourism continues to be the perennial grease for the Colorado economy. Whenever Mike needed to get away he tossed his gear into the back of his 4x4 pickup and headed for the mountains, his release from purgatory.
“Ah, here he comes.”
Steve Gaylord slid into the booth with both palms upraised. “Done,” he said. “Give me ten.” The others slapped back. It was high-fives all around.
“All right!” said Mike.
“The fearsome threesome!”
“They finished,” Steve said soberly. The two others fell silent.
“You’re shitting me,” Pinecone said in a subdued tone that conveyed real surprise. “They never move that fast. Never!”
“Well, they did this time.”
There had been increasing worry. They had gotten word about a new resolve over at the district office. The timber beasts that still dominated the Forest Service were determined to push ahead with the Bowen Gulch sale, despite mounting opposition from Joe Public. Come hell or high water. It was as if the district ranger and his timber staff took the protests as a personal affront. In the face of growing public opposition to the sale, they were more determined than ever to “get out the cut.” As if strip-mining ten million board feet somehow justified their banal existence.
Another long silence.
“Zero hour,” Steve finally said.
“Yeah,” said Pinecone. “We can’t afford to wait any longer. We are out of time. We’ll have to move tonight.”
“We can’t allow them to push the road in.”
“No.”
“It won’t be easy,” said Mike.
“Fuck easy,” said Steve. “Whatever it takes.”
“Exactly” said Pinecone.
“OK. That decides it,” said Mike. “Let’s go get some dinner and plan the action…” The others nodded. Mike put his clenched fist on the table. “One for all!” he said.
The others placed their hands on his.
“And all for one!”
Thieves were never thicker than these three.
TWENTY SIX
Tallie was brushing Luther down when Mary came into the barn.
“Did you have a good ride?”
“Always”
Mary had an apple in her hand which she now offered to Luther. The horse plucked it from her fingers. “I’m so proud of this guy,” she said, stroking his neck. The apple disappeared in two quick bites.
“He’s the best.”
“Bernard is so thrilled to be able to ride him again. It’s the darndest thing I’ve ever seen. I guess miracles do happen. Luther’s made a believer out of me.” Mary scratched the top of Luther’s head. The animal lifted his nose and swished his tail, loving the attention.
“We healed him,” Tallie said. “Tom and I.”
Mary looked stunned.
“How I don’t know, but we did. I think it happened when we rode him, together.”
“It was you two, then?”
Tallie nodded. “I think so.”
“So what are you, a couple of horse whisperers?” Mary was laughing. “I was not aware that you and Tom went riding. For what it’s worth, I like your new boy friend. Does he know what happened?”
“Not yet.”
“You should tell him.”
Tallie had pushed her sunglasses up over her forehead. “I plan to.”
“That’s some powerful energy happening between you. I’m so happy for you.” There was love in Mary’s eyes.
Tallie was immensely pleased and resumed brushing.
“He’s so different from Jake,” Mary said. “And thank heaven for that.”
Her aunt was right as usual. The marriage with Jake Flaherty had gone wrong almost from the day they tied the knot. The tumultuous relationship had lasted only six months, most of which time they lived apart. It had been one of the most stressful times in her life. Despite appearances, Tallie was actually six years older than Tom. Her stormy second marriage had been much like the first with that boring businessman Harold. Twice married and twice divorced, from men who believed they owned her and sought absolute control.
But Tom was different. From the very first, their coupling had been so easy and right. During the long bus ride cross-country to San Francisco her reverie never faded. Weeks later, she still felt him deep inside of her. Their bodies seemed perfectly attuned. The wild friction of their lovemaking was like silent music, long improvisations of surprise and wonder, free form accompaniments and endless harmonious variations, beautiful music that only they could hear, as they slowly ascended to the summit of their full measure, their dueling bows bent on mutual annihilation. After, she could never remember the things he whispered in her ear, nor even her own solemn benedictions. As if their love words belonged not to this world but to an eternal moment.
Tom made the other men in her life seem like boys by comparison. He was the key to her lock, the hand in her glove. Despite the pain and background noise that usually roiled her head, she had been having dreams of late, waking dreams more vivid than day, about a life and shared things she had never dared to believe might come true.
He had passed her a few lines hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper, a spur of the moment thing…
You stole my heart when you went away.
How I resented your being gay.
But I’m sorry, I was wrong, and pray
For your forgiveness. Suffice to say
I love you anyway.
The poem wasn’t much, only a ditty. But it meant the world to her.
“Tom writes poetry.”
“Ahhh. I’d love to read it.”
She often discussed her intimacies with her aunt, girlfriends as well as men, but there were a few things she did not share.
As Mary turned to go she said, “Oh by the way, we eat in half an hour.”
“Good. I am sooo hungry.”
“Don’t ask me ‘what’s for dinner?’ Bernard won’t tell. He wants to surprise us.” Mary made a face, mimicking her husband. “The old coot’s on the rampage again. He won’t even let me in the kitchen. Something garlicky, though. Anyway, it smells good. It better be or I’ll divorce him.”
Tallie laughed.
Mary was nearly out of the barn when she turned back. “Would you believe I came out here to call you to dinner, then almost forgot?”
Tallie smiled. But when Mary left, her eyes filled with tears.
TWENTY SEVEN
Jacques St. Clair had been cruising east on I-70 for nearly an hour. After crossing Berthoud Pass he had descended through Idaho Springs, and was now fast approaching the western outskirts of the Mile High City. The evening commute was winding down. What remained of the heavy traffic was moving in the opposite direction – out of town. Jacques had entered the notorious smudge of brown haze that hangs like death over the creeping Front Range megalopolis. His business occasionally brought him to Denver. It was an OK city, as cities went…
Just so I don’t have to live there.
The boss knew he was fortunate to live and work in the mountains where there was plenty of elbow-room, and fresh air. He hardly noticed the smog and traffic, but his head was a welter of worries and what ifs.
The boss was still fuming about that dandified company attorney, Ted Roe, who had foxed him, earlier in the day. For a languorous moment Jacques rubbed his temple and mentally reviewed the irate meeting on the landing. The conversation with the lawyer had not gone well. Roe personally exhibited many of the qualities that Jacques most despised in a man. He found the snide attitude especially infuriating. Roe wielded the power of insinuation like a weapon.
He thinks ‘cause he went to Haaarvad his shit don’t stink.
Lawyers! How he hated the bastards and Roe was so typical of the breed. The man was a dandy, alright, with that groomed-to-perfection look, the dapper suit (under his trench coat) and loud paisley silk tie, the designer dress shoes, the cologne, yes, even the gaudy rings on his
dainty fingers, and Christ, those uncalloused hands! The man obviously had never done a lick of physical labor in all of his miserable existence.
As Jacques relived the rancorous confrontation he began to rage all over again. He could never understand why it always seemed that honest working men like himself were lorded over by assholes like Roe, men who lived off the sweat of others and never produced a goddamn thing themselves of any value, only trouble for others. Such men were no better than parasites. Jacques recalled the sneer on Roe’s face when he slipped him the Mickey.
That lowdown snake...
Western-Pacific had been awarded the contract for the Bowen Gulch timber sale. However, it was standard for the big outfits to sub out the actual work to smaller operators. Jacques disliked doing business with them because he resented the interference. He preferred to run his own show and he did, whenever he could scare up his own jobs. He and his brother were always bidding on contracts. Bowen Gulch, however, had been too tempting to pass up. The unprecedented size of the timber translated into big money for all concerned. Now, belatedly, Jacques wished that he had heeded his brother Paul’s advice. His older brother was his business partner and half-owner of their Leadville-based outfit, Right of Way Inc. Earlier that spring Paul had advised him in the strongest language to review the sub-contract line by line with Tim Hollinger, their private attorney. As usual, though, Jacques had been in too much of a damn hurry.
It was now painfully evident that the fine print and his haste earlier that spring might well end up costing him. It all depended on how far W-P was prepared to go. At the moment, his top priority was damage control. Before leaving Granby, he had attempted to reach Hollinger by phone to discuss the escape clause. Unfortunately, his attorney was out of the office. He would try again in the morning.
Damnation!
A man could wind up in the poor house overlooking the subtleties of contractual language. Was it already too late? He wondered. The clause loomed like Everest. He wondered if he had been “set up” by company lawyers who at this very moment were probably snickering in their double martinis.
NSummer Page 15