by Chris Offutt
“They ain’t worth hiding out over.”
“No, those are all local. The one that’s got him spooked is federal. Two days after the gun ban passed Congress, he sold four rifles to a man from Lolo. The rifles had bayonet mounts, and the man was an undercover agent for the ATF.”
“This whole thing’s over a bayonet mount?”
“You bet. The Feds tried to make a deal. Said they’d drop the charges if Frank gave them information on some other people.”
“What people?”
“There’s some extremists here, Joe. They don’t recognize the federal government in any shape whatsoever. They believe in the supremacy of local law. They elected their own sheriff and put up reward posters for state cops, lawyers, and judges, dead or alive. They tried them in absentia. They even printed their own money.”
“Did Frank give them up?”
“No. He skipped bail and went to the mountains.”
“What’s he do up there?”
“He writes letters to the government. A few newspapers printed some, but the Feds made them quit. Now he writes directly to the senators, congressmen, and President. He even sent letters to the governor of every state. He writes to the FBI and the CIA, and the ATF, too.”
“What’s in them?” Joe said. “The letters, I mean.”
“His ideas mostly. The economy, freedom, politics. How he’s building an army to protect us. His plans for the future. He’s brilliant, Joe.”
“I don’t know how brilliant it is to tell the government you’re building an army.”
“One gun at a time, he says.”
“That’ll just get him in trouble.”
“He’s already in trouble,” Owen said. “He says they’ll come after him sooner or later, and if speaking his mind makes it sooner, that’s fine with him.”
Joe slowed for a turn, feeling the transmission strain in the lower gear. Wind carried smoke down the valley to block the moon. The last person he’d retrieved from jail had been Boyd when he’d been charged with public urination for using bushes at night. A Rocksalt lawyer had told him it would get thrown out of court but Boyd was found guilty and fined two hundred dollars. The judge had told him to stay in the hills where he belonged.
“I got to tell you something,” Joe said. “I don’t understand this whole mud people business. Or the Jews and banks stuff, either, I don’t much care for it.”
Joe sped along a straight stretch. Owen shifted toward him and took a deep breath.
“Let me put it this way,” Owen said. “If a black man has pride, it’s good. And if an Indian has pride, it’s good. But let a white man have pride, and he’s bad. Now why’s that?”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. White man’s got to stick up for himself,”
“Against who?”
“Everybody. Nobody’s watching out for us. A white can be the best man for a job, but another man gets it because of his skin color. That’s racism, Joe, pure and simple.”
“Maybe so,” Joe said, “but you can’t fight prejudice with more prejudice.”
“The races are supposed to stay separate. That’s what the Tower of Babel is about. You know that story, right?”
“Sure,” Joe said. “The old-time people built a big tower and God didn’t like it. So he made them speak different languages.”
“You know your Bible,” Owen said. “And those languages are the races. God wanted them to stay apart.”
“That’s not what the Bible says.”
“Then let’s look at it another way. Who gets all the government services in this country? The cities. And you know who lives there? Mud people.”
“Folks where I’m from get a lot of government help,” Joe said. “And we’re white.”
“What kind of help?”
“Doctors, welfare, and food stamps mostly.”
“Where the hell is that, a Rez?”
“No, down south. And sort of east.”
The sky was black, specked with stars. The air had cooled. Autumn would soon start here, while Kentucky was still boiling with misty heat.
“Let me ask you something,” Owen said. “Why are you with me right now?”
“Partly for Botree,” Joe said. “Plus nobody else could help that lady get out of jail. She’s the same age as my mom.”
“All right,” Owen said. “You got your reasons and I respect them. Maybe you’ll come around to the rest of it.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Trucks roared past the Jeep. The glow of Missoula rose in the sky ahead. Joe parked in the jail lot and Owen left the jeep, holding the duffel bag. The CB emitted a steady hum, and Joe wished he had a regular radio that worked. The Bills reminded him of Kentuckians who remained loyal to the Confederacy, flying the Stars and Bars and swearing that the South would rise again. They forgot that Kentucky was never truly part of Dixie, and that secession had brought terrible destruction.
Owen came across the lot with a woman holding his arm and a policeman behind them. Owen helped her in the back. The cop circled the Jeep and wrote the license number on a small pad. He shined his flashlight in Joe’s eyes and asked for his license and registration. He seemed disappointed that Joe was legal.
“Ma’am,” Joe said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Lucy said. “The son of a bitches never laid a hand on me.”
Joe glanced at Owen. “Any trouble?”
“None,” Owen said. “They didn’t want the gold at first, but they had no choice. Did you know you can use a credit card for bail?”
“No.”
“I couldn’t believe it. Makes it easier for rich folks to get out of jail.”
“It’s always easier for them,” Lucy said from, the back. “Surely you know that by now, Owie.”
“Ma’am,” Joe said, “would you like me to stop for anything?”
“Just take me home, please. And stop calling me ma’am. Going to jail made me feel young.”
Joe drove to her house in Lolo, where a woman waited on the porch. Lucy invited them in for a sip of brandy. They declined.
“Tough, ain’t she,” Joe said, as they drove away.
“Women here have to be,” Owen said. “Montana sent the first woman to Congress. Botree told me that.”
“She’s as tough as they come.”
“So was our mother. Nobody else could stand up to Coop but her. When she died, the whole place just generally went to hell. Then the bank tried to foreclose, and Coop barely beat that.”
“Botree said he had to sell, some land.”
“A lot of families did. Used to be, you could work something out with the bank but now the land’s too valuable. People are pouring in. I’ve been all over the West and it’s changing fast. A lot of little towns are ruined for good. Santa Fe and Aspen are the worst.”
“Where they coming from?”
“All over. The eastern cities and California, mainly. There’s not enough water and food for all these people. Hell, Montana can barely keep cattle alive.”
Joe dropped Owen at the bunkhouse and headed north toward town. He wasn’t ready for the ranch yet. He hadn’t driven alone in months, and didn’t realize how much he missed it. He wondered how many miles until Alaska.
Missoula was quiet. He passed the Wolf and a few taverns. Now that Joe was here, there was nowhere he wanted to go. He felt the same way about town that Boyd had.
He changed channels on the CB until he found the truckers’ band. The occasional scraps of conversation lent him comfort as he drove to the ranch. If he’d surrendered after shooting Rodale, he’d be in prison now, but receive letters and visitors. Most importantly, he’d have a date for release. Instead, he had a landscape that beguiled him with its light and space, a community that wasn’t his, and a woman in whom he could not confide. The promise of Alaska struck him as a last resort, like poison that a terminal patient keeps handy.
&nb
sp; 22
* * *
At summer’s end the days stayed hot while night took a jacket. The rivers were low and many creeks had dried to long skinny threads between patches of dusty earth. A series of lightning storms ignited several fires in western Montana. Smoke flowed along the valleys like water. It flooded basins and rose as if in a dam, spilling black air into the next network of open space between the slopes. Daylight was tinted by floating ash. Sunsets gleamed like neon.
Coop, Owen, and Johnny moved into the bunkhouse, leaving Joe alone with Botree. Joe hadn’t shared a bedroom with anyone except his brother, and felt awkward for a couple of weeks. He wasn’t sure who was supposed to turn off the lights at night, or make the bed in the morning. He worried about the protocol of undressing and getting into bed. Botree’s practical approach gradually relaxed him.
Every day after breakfast Botree gave the children school lessons, using mail-order textbooks that came with, guides and schedules. Dallas was performing math problems at a third-grade level, adding and subtracting rapidly in his head. He thought it fanny when Joe told him he still counted on his fingers at times. Botree used a system of phonics to help the boys learn to read.
While the children studied, Joe exercised his leg by walking a little farther each day. He followed the fence line into the woods and found a deer trail that led toward the river. His wounded leg was stronger, although pink scars surrounded his knee like ragged lace. He was slowly beginning to enjoy the open valley. With so much land in sight, there were few surprises. He could see an enemy coming from a long way off. Nothing would take him by ambush.
On an August morning, motion in the underbrush made him stop moving. A hawk stood on a log clutching a pheasant. Satisfied that Joe posed no threat, the hawk spread its wings for balance, opened the pheasant’s chest, and began eating the interior. Small bones cracked and tendons popped. The bird’s severed head lay in the scuffed dirt.
Botree was waiting for him by the corral when he returned. Dust covered her boots like a skin.
“Owen came by,” Botree said.
“What are they living on down there?”
“MREs, mainly.”
“What the heck is that?”
“Meals Ready to Eat. It’s military food. Just open it up and eat.”
“They’re going to regret moving out.”
“It’s their choice,” Botree said. “Owen brought your gold coin and some money. He said you can get work driving a supply truck to the firefighters. The fires are worse and they’re bringing in crews from all over the country. They need lots of drivers. Pays good.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You said you used to work on a truck.”
“They won’t hire me. I don’t have any references around here.”
“Lucy’s cousin is in charge of hiring. He wants to return the favor.”
“I don’t reckon it’ll hurt to talk to him,” he said.
The prospect of a fob excited Joe more than he expected. He had always worked, beginning in grade school when he raked leaves for quarters from his mother. Later he had dug ditches, shoveled manure, and repaired fence. He enjoyed the exhaustion that followed labor, the strain in his limbs, the satisfaction of seeing the result of his work. Hauling supplies to firefighters would be similar to moving garbage—both were necessary and both offered a measure of autonomy. He hoped he wouldn’t work alone.
That night he and Botree lay in the darkness of their bedroom. The house was quiet. The bright points of Orion were visible through the window.
“That guy,” Joe said, “Lucy’s cousin. Is he a Bill?”
“Yes.”
“Are there other Bills working on the fires?”
“Quite a few.”
“Doesn’t working for the government make them hypocrites?”
“The government hires a bunch of different businesses. Trucking is just one. There’s food and medical, too. You’re getting paid by the trucking company, not the government.”
“It’s still federal money.”
“A lot of the land that’s burning is federal, too. That makes it our land. Your land.”
“Then we should work for nothing, right? To protect our property.”
“You’re taking this whole thing a little far, Joe.”
“Me? You all are walking around with enough guns to fight a war, and I’m the one who’s going too far,”
Botree rolled onto a propped elbow, curving the blanket with her hip.
“A lot of people depend on the fires to make a year’s worth of money in four or five months. Next spring, they’ll have work clearing the burn. Some of the people will be Bills.”
Joe regretted having spoken. A job would allow him to buy the kids some toys. He wondered what Botree would like. She wore no jewelry and had little regard for possessions at all. He felt good about lying beside a woman and starting a new job. He leaned to kiss Botree. She kissed him back, then covered his body with hers.
In the morning, Abilene cried when he left. Aircraft droned along the valley, heavy tankers carrying fire retardant, and smaller planes with hotshot crews who parachuted into the fire. The western horizon was brown with smoke. He found Job Service in Missoula, and filled out an application. He was sent to a warehouse where a crowd waited for an interview. They were rough-looking men who appeared as ready to fight each other as the fires. Joe’s name was called quickly, and several people glared at him. He entered a tiny room with a desk and stacks of paper. The interviewer had a burr haircut, steel glasses, and an eagle tattooed on his forearm.
“I already know you got a license,” he said. “Can you drive a big truck?”
“Yes.”
“Narrow roads, mostly dirt.”
“I was raised on them.”
“Start tomorrow. Be at the loading dock at seven for truck assignment.”
“Thanks,” Joe said.
“No,” the man said. “Thank you,”
Joe went to the Wolf for lunch. After eating he stepped inside the poker room. The dealer lifted his eyebrows in recognition and a few players glanced at Joe. A television flickered without sound. The woman in the chip cage was reading a magazine. There was an empty seat but he had no desire to play. Six months before, the game had offered a sense of belonging that he no longer needed.
He wished his brother could see him now, but if Boyd were alive, there would be no Joe, no life in Montana. Virgil would be foreman of the garbage crew, married to Abigail, and their kids would go to the same school he had attended. Every week the family would convene at his mother’s house for Sunday dinner.
The next day, he rose at dawn. The western sky held a smoky darkness that would never fully leave the day. He ate a banana and drank a cup of coffee, the same routine he’d followed for years in Kentucky. He made a sack lunch and strolled to his Jeep. His leg felt fine.
In Missoula he parked at the warehouse and walked to the loading dock, where several men drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. A man with a clipboard stared at him.
“You Tiller?” he said.
Joe nodded.
“You got truck eleven.”
He pointed to two young men sitting on a metal rail. They were skinny, their knees clearly defined within the bent legs of their jeans. They wore western hats and boots, flannel shirts and vests.
“You’re stuck with Gerard and Phil for a crew,” the boss said. “They’ll tell you the procedure. You can’t get rid of them until we get a new driver.”
Joe joined them, aware that the other men were watching him.
“You Tiller?” Gerard said.
“Are you boys sober?” Joe said.
“As the dead.”
“That’s a damn shame. Which one of these rigs is number eleven?”
They led Joe to a three-ton truck with battered fenders. The engine started smoothly, and Joe checked the lights, blinkers, and horn. Satisfied, he climbed into the cab. Gerard directed him to a line of trucks waiting for access to
equipment.
“We get new stuff in the morning,” Phil said. “Comes in by plane and we haul it to the fire crews. Me and Gerard do this every year. At Christmas we fill in for the post office when they run out of tracks. Fire season’s better.”
“How come?” Joe said.
“Better pay, no snow, and the girls wear shorts.”
“Plus the dope is better,” Gerard said.
“Do me a favor,” Joe said. “Don’t smoke that shit in the truck.”
The line of trucks moved forward, and when it was their turn, Joe backed to a set of sliding doors on the cement dock. Phil and Gerard began packing crates of supplies into the truck. Joe signed for the load and received a copy of the inventory, which included sleeping bags, purified water, shovels, freeze-dried food, and chainsaws.
They drove west of town and climbed a rough dirt road that reminded Joe of home. The air cooled as they went higher, but the sky turned dark with smoke. They reached the fire camp and passed a commissary trailer, a first-aid tent, and a mobile food court. Portable toilets made of blue plastic stood at crossroads. Parked by the edge of the woods were three bulldozers and a gigantic water truck. Antennae rose from a communications center beside a large trailer with a sign that said “Incident Command Post.” Men walked rapidly about, walkie-talkies on their hips. The crackle of radios blended with the steady hum of generators.
“It’s like a town up here,” Joe said.
“Hell, yes,” Phil said. “Got everything but girls and bars.”
Joe stopped the truck for a line of exhausted men who were trudging across the road toward tents. Their clothes were dirty, their faces smeared with dirt and ash.
“Great,” said Phil. “We’re just in time for shift change.”
“Is there a fire close?” Joe said.
“No, the helicopter drops them off. They got a landing zone down the road. A truck brings them here.”
“That’s the job you want,” Gerard said. “Transporting a crew. Nothing to it.”
At the supply area, Joe stood in the back of the truck and moved boxes to the edge, while Phil and Gerard stacked them on the ground. They finished, drove off the mountain, and ate lunch in the afternoon sun. Phil and Gerard passed a joint. Wind had temporarily cleared the smoke, and Joe lay on his back. The sky was dark blue overhead, like looking into water from the middle of a lake. He felt grateful for the patterns of work—rising early, performing a task, being an equal among men who worked. He appreciated the clear hierarchy of command and duty, the shared sense of responsibility. His presence was needed.