The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day

by Patrick O'Brien

  “I want my money back!” Tony laughed.

  “Me too,” Mike said, with a raised-fist gesture. “They promised to keep us amused, but they present us with a conundrum instead. Breach of promise, that’s what I say!”

  “Well, I for one am enjoying myself.” Punch chuckled heartily. “This is not only entertaining, but it’s downright educational. And it’s stimulating. I’m gonna have a lot to think about when this is all over.”

  “Here’s something else to think about,” Heidi said. “Our manifesto…”

  “Yeah, tell him about that, Heidi.”

  “Maybe you’d like to, Carlos?”

  “Nah, you’ll do it justice.”

  Heidi looked at the others. The idea for the manifesto had been kicked back and forth in the same loose fashion as ideas that come up spontaneously during loud and voluble conversations, over rounds of beer, in a tavern setting. None of them had quite taken seriously what they all proposed it should be about. As a declaration of group principles and beliefs, it fell short considerably of what most of them really thought and felt. But, like many such organizational statements of intent, it had a tone of high-mindedness that gave imprimatur to the existence of themselves as a group.

  As no one objected, she continued…

  “Primarily,” she explained, “it was a statement of their belief that if, by its inactions or actions, a government jeopardizes the sanctity of Mother Earth, its citizens have a right to disregard its legitimacy. Furthermore, they not only have a right to abrogate their allegiance, they have a right—indeed, a moral imperative—to take action beyond the purview of its authority. Ultimately, the existence of nations notwithstanding, Mother Earth is Mankind’s first home; as such, Mankind’s first duty is to its preservation, and it’s a duty that supersedes any other. A government loses any claim to legitimacy, in other words, if it imperils the safety of its citizens by allowing conditions inimical to the well-being of the earth, and hence to all its occupants.”

  Jody, who had been one of the original proponents of the idea, picked up the theme.

  “It’s a responsibility, Punch, that’s every bit as meaningful as the notion of patriotism. That is, we all talk about ‘love of country.’ We all pride ourselves on being patriotic. But what does that mean? Does it mean only that we should fly a flag or support somebody’s war or say the pledge of allegiance or sing the national anthem? Or does it also mean that love of country should extend to the land itself: to its rivers and streams, its lakes and forests, the air that its citizens breathe, the water they drink, and on and on? And if it does, why shouldn’t it apply equally to all the rest of the earth? Why shouldn’t we care about what happens out there beyond our borders? If you consider the finite nature of our planet, meaning it’s the only one we’ve got, why shouldn’t we care about protecting all of it, not just our own piece of it? Furthermore, if we do care, why shouldn’t we have the same right to safeguard it against environmental degradation of any kind?”

  “You see, Punch,” Heidi said, taking over, “our goal is to impress upon others that all of us have a right to protest against activities that are harmful to the environment, to Mother Earth itself. We all belong to it, we’re all here, and we all have a stake in what happens to it, because, ultimately, what happens to it, happens to all of us. We can’t just stand by and let things go on that damage the environment because, if we do, we are doing those things to ourselves.”

  Finishing up, she looked at Punch with all the expectancy of a physics teacher having just explained gravity to a class of apt, young students. To her, the logic of the proposition had so much clarity and soundness as to be irrefutable. She had presented it as a universal truth; indeed, she thought of it as having the same validity as any universal truth one might care to talk about.

  She waited for a response.

  Punch looked at her with a blank, incredulous expression, then said, “Yeah—I see what ya mean. And I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it put so well. You’re right on the money, I’d say. But, listen here…that part about disregarding the legitimacy of the government—that’s goin’ a little far, isn‘t it? I mean, that’s pretty subversive, wouldn’t ya say? And it’s the kind of thing that could really bring a load of rocks down on your head. No kind of government that I know of would buy into it…”

  “Its legitimacy, Punch, is derived from the principle that a government—ours, anyway—derives its authority from the consent of the governed, the people themselves.”

  Punch let the thought soak in for a moment; then, glancing at his watch, he stood up. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said, “I need to put a couple more logs on the fire…”

  He got up from his chair and squatted down by the fireplace. A piece at a time, he added several logs. Using an iron poker to break up the logs already burning, he released a spray of sparks, then watched as wispy petals of flame curled onto the fresh wood.

  “That oughta do ’er,” he said, standing up. “I like to get the place nice ’n warm before I go to bed. Course I got a little heater up in the loft, but it feels nicer with a nice fire…But, listen here, speaking of going to bed, it’s getting close to my bedtime, and you people got a big day tomorrow…and this is a conversation we can continue some other time. It’s been very interesting and very enlightening.”

  The abruptness of the announcement slightly disconcerted everyone, but the yawn that followed made them aware that indeed the evening had passed more quickly than any of them realized.

  “You’re absolutely right, Punch,” Heidi said, looking at her own watch and getting up from her chair. “It is getting late, isn’t it? And we do have a big day—a really big day!—tomorrow. How far will it be to the backside of Art Jimson’s ranch, anyway?”

  “From Livingston, we’re probably talkin’ twenty miles. Some of it’ll be over rough roads…”

  “We’ll need an hour or so to get there?”

  “All of that…maybe more.”

  The others took their cue. They rose from their places and stood there momentarily, waiting for the next word from Punch.

  “I’ve enjoyed your company,” he said to all of them. “And I don’t think I’ve ever had such a stimulating evening…not for a long time, anyway.”

  He walked with them to the back door, where he turned on the parking area light. He held the door as, saying their good-nights and good-byes, they filed past.

  “Y’all watch those curves,” he cautioned. “Don’t take’em too fast. They haven’t got any railings installed up along here yet.”

  He watched as they crossed the parking area and started up the driveway to the road.

  “See y’all in the morning!” he called out.

  He waited a moment longer, then closed and locked the door. He turned out the hallway light and walked back into the living room. Going to the breakfast bar, he opened an overhead cabinet and took out of a bottle of Wild Turkey. He unscrewed the cap and poured out a double portion into a whiskey tumbler. He put the cap back on and, bottle in one hand and glass in the other, went over to his chair and sat down.

  The fire burned with the soft glow of a campfire in the stillness of night. For a long time, sipping the whiskey, he sat and watched it burn.

  44

  The jagged mountain range in the distance, looking for all the world like the upheaval of a raging sea during a monstrous storm, constituted a northerly backdrop to the rugged pastureland behind Art Jimson’s ranch. To the south, the Yellowstone River channeled its way through land primarily given over to cattle raising, while in the east, the high plains of Montana opened up under a cobalt sky to a far horizon. The adjacent, westerly reaches of the ranch melded into an open-country mix of knobby, low-lying hills, narrow ravines, gullies, seasonal stream beds, and grazing land. The ranch itself covered six thousand acres of similar terrain and bordered the national forest.

  “This is it, is it?” Heidi asked, looking around.

  They had left the cars parked off a gravel r
oad about a mile back. Making their way over a narrow foot trail, they had arrived at a granite outcropping that, with a few spindly conifers growing out of it, resembled the prominent forehead of an Indian chief. Up to this point, the terrain had been marked by a gradual merging of forest and pastureland; but a hundred yards away from the trail, heavily timbered woods established a definite tree line. To venture beyond, into the denser growth, called for an enterprise of a different sort: a mountain-climbing expedition heading to one of the ten-thousand-foot peaks lying deep within the interior of the national forest or a hunting party intent on bagging black bear, deer, elk, even cougar. Their own design conformed more to an Indian raid on an isolated homestead during Montana’s early history than to anything recreational or sporting in nature.

  “Yep, this is your drop zone, if you wanna call it that,” Punch replied. “You’re on your own from here. What you see out there is all Art Jimson’s. The house and the cattle pens are about three miles straight out that way. Best way to get there is follow a creek bed. Lots of ’em out here, all working their way down to the Yellowstone.”

  The others had gathered about in a loose cluster. They listened to Punch as a group of city slickers might a guide about to turn them loose into the Mojave Desert or the North Dakota Badlands. The only ones who viewed the treeless clumps of hillocks and intermittent pastureland with equanimity were Rick and Peewee. Since earlier that morning, both had had the opportunity to look over the topo maps that showed the contours of the terrain and the probable direction of stream flows. They had already measured off the coordinates for Art Jimson’s ranch and had pretty much traced out a tentative line of travel. For them, the expedition hardly amounted to anything more than a military field exercise undertaken to hone map-reading skills and the use of the compass.

  They were eager to get started.

  “In other words, if we were crows, we could fly straight out that way?” Rick joked.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Punch said. “Crows usually get to where they wanna go.”

  Peewee grinned; he was fully recovered from the previous night’s funk and now had about him the air of a man on a mission. “We gotta get ourselves a pair of wings, Rick. Why didn’t you tell me to bring mine?”

  “Shit, Peewee, the only wings you got you got in airborne school, and the only reason they gave ’em to ya is because they felt sorry for ya.”

  “I done more jumps than you, buddy.”

  “Yeah, but you’re dumber ’n me, too.”

  “Finally admitted to bein’ dumb, huh? I been waitin’ for that one for a long time.”

  The others, standing nearby, smiled the wan smile of those welcoming a distraction from their anxieties. Despite a hearty breakfast, reminiscent of the one at IHOP back in Portland, their enthusiasm had progressively tapered downward the closer they got to the moment of truth. They were here now, on the verge of the big cross-over, but they were anything but triumphant. While for most of them the morning had begun talkative and chatty, their mood had grown suddenly subdued.

  “What do we do now?”

  Peewee looked at Tony with the grin of someone obviously relishing another’s discomfort. “Well, Tony,” he said, “why don’t you take out that camera and tripod you brought along and take some pictures for your scrapbook. I’ll gladly pose. Just tell me how.”

  “I think he was asking, ‘Where do we go from this point?’” Mike corrected him.

  “Wasn’t the plan to set up a base camp while you and Rick scouted the area?”

  “That was the plan, Mitch. Is that gonna work out for you?”

  “So…ah…maybe we should build a fire and get comfortable, then you and Peewee can do what you do best?”

  “I don’t know if a fire’s a good idea, Mitch. Somebody might see the smoke. After all, this is supposed to be a clandestine operation, right?”

  Mitch looked off to the south. What he saw didn’t discourage the notion of a fire. For a good quarter-mile, a treeless expanse of lumpy, rough pastureland did a gradual climb to the top of a smoothly rounded, elongated hill. Beyond the hill lay the ranchstead itself, but not for another three miles and well out of sight of where they were now.

  “You guys have looked at the map, right?” Mitch wondered.

  “We checked it out,” Rick told him. “Why?”

  “Didn’t you say the ranch is situated in a kind of bowl, open to the south on one side and a good three miles off?”

  “Yeah. That’s what the map shows.”

  “If it sits at the bottom of a bowl, how’re they gonna see a thin line of smoke more than three miles away? Besides, the smallest breeze will dissipate the smoke, don’t you think?”

  “You gotta point there, Mitch. And you oughta get a brownie for it. But we just don’t want anybody getting curious, in case they do see the smoke. Other people got ranches out here too, ya know.”

  “Well, I’m not gonna sit here freezin’ my ass off while you two guys are out there running around, keepin’ warm,” Carlos said impatiently. “I say the hell with it—we build a fire.”

  “Hey—easy, amigo…just a precaution. But have it your way.”

  “I can’t see that it would matter, either,” Mike said, scoffing at the idea.

  “You guys have it your way, okay. But me and Rick got work to do…”

  Punch, who had been standing there listening to the two sides squabble, suddenly said, “Lookee here, gents, you get this figured out. I’m gonna head back. I gotcha here—the rest is up to you.”

  His tone had an edge of matter-of-fact bluntness that all at once seemed devoid of the avuncular, good-ol’-boy hospitality they had experienced so far. It brought everyone up short.

  Heidi, taken aback, said, “Well, we certainly appreciate your help, Punch…”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “You’ve really been great…”

  Ralph, who had lit his pipe, took it from his mouth.

  “We would have never got this far if it hadn’t been for you,” he said and extended his hand. “And if you ever get to Portland, don’t hesitate to look us up.”

  “That goes for all of us, Punch,” Jody said, slightly dismayed.

  “Oh, I’ll for sure do that,” Punch said breezily. “I’ll look forward to it. And you folks for sure let me know how it all goes so I don’t have to read about it in the newspaper.”

  One by one, starting with Ralph, he finished off the round of handshaking. Then, tipping the bill of his blue Navy cap with its eagle insignia, he bid them all good luck. As he moved away, walking back up the trail, as though remembering to do it, he turned and gave them a parting wave.

  They waved back; then stood there looking at one another.

  They didn’t quite know what to make of his sudden departure, but they did know they were alone now, suddenly unmoored from someone whose professed like-mindedness had calmed the waters of their uncertainty. For the little while they had been with Punch, the old saying about safety in numbers had held sway. He was only one person, but he was a person of substance, character, and experience, and as such, had lent an outsize credibility to a venture whose conception had been dubious from the beginning. His approval and apparent empathy had met the need most of them had for self-fulfilling legitimacy. Punch had given recognition and acceptance. But now he was gone, and the vacuum left in his wake could only have the effect of a slow reemergence of doubt.

  Heidi cleared her throat.

  She turned to Rick.

  “You don’t really think a fire is a bad idea, do you? I mean, if we’re going to be here all day, it only makes sense. And Mitch is right—it’ll be small enough to go unnoticed.”

  Rick shrugged.

  “Whatever,” he said. “You guys can do what you want. But Peewee and me gotta get us out there and back without any of us getting lost or falling off a cliff.”

  “I don’t see any cliffs,” Tony said.

  “It wouldn’t have to be much of a cliff to fall and break a leg or sprain an ankle.
And it’ll be night, remember…and we’ll be comin’ back in a hurry. It’s good to know in advance what you might run into.”

  “I guess our fate is in your hands, then, is that it?”

  Rick gave Mitch the kind of look that said he didn’t have time for sarcasm. But he kept to himself whatever comment he might have made in return, saying instead, “You guys pick a spot and settle in. Maybe over there, by that group of boulders…You ready, Peewee?”

  “Let’s rock ’n roll!”

  Somewhere between the motel in Livingston and their present location, Peewee had changed in the back of the van from civilian clothes to camouflage fatigues and boots. He had also donned a webbed ammo belt secured by military suspenders, a military style backpack, and, strapped at his side, a holstered Colt .45. The only thing missing was a helmet. In its stead he had worn a black beret with an embossed military insignia on the front.

  He turned to Carlos. “I’m gonna leave this with you, amigo,” he said, handing Carlos a boxy leather case that might have contained surveyor’s equipment or paraphernalia for a photo shoot. Secured by three leather suitcase straps and a padlock, it had a webbed shoulder strap extending from one end to the other. “It’s my pride and joy, so keep an eye on it. Okay?”

  Carlos took it and lifted it for heft. “What you got in here, man? One of them collapsible picnic tables?”

  Showing his teeth, Peewee grinned.

  “I’ll give ya ten dollars if you can come up with a better guess than that.”

  “You’re gonna lose, man.”

  Peewee’s grin widened. “Yeah, but you can’t tell me what kind it is and what it will do.”

  “You gonna make us sit here all day and wonder?”

  “Just think of it as the culmination of everything we been doin’ so far.”

  “Like fireworks on the Fourth of July, huh?”

  “Somethin’ like that, amigo.”

  “Well, hurry back, man, so we don’t hafta be in suspense.”