9
D MINUS 82
CHAPANEE VALLEY, WYOMING
The paramedics avoided eye contact with Roy Jr. as they hauled Roy by stretcher into the ambulance. The last thing Roy Jr. heard his father say before the ambulance doors closed was “Don’t knuckle under, son!”
The ambulance got turned around, then negotiated the bumpy dirt road off the ranch. Three men who had been watching everything at a respectful distance now moved in closer as Roy Jr. watched his father being taken away.
The rawboned one, dressed like a cowboy, was his neighbor, Mike, who owned the closest ranch. Mike’s sons were not in sight, but likely patrolling the spread on horseback. The big, burly man in bib overalls was Roy Jr.’s uncle, Rusty. He had brought sons and grandsons, all armed, and dubbed “anti-government extremists” by the press. The stocky man in camouflage fatigues and a boonie hat was named Gary. Roy Jr. had never met him before three days ago. Gary had driven about 300 miles with a party of 11 other men who came armed and equipped to help Roy’s family and friends defend the ranch, if necessary. Right then they were in hasty defensive positions facing the feds.
The Bar G Ranch spread over thousands of acres, but there were only three roads cut through the rough land. The feds had their military armored vehicles massed at the three entrances. Of course they could go off-road just fine, but for now evidently intended to stay on clearly defined avenues once they moved in. No doubt reconnaissance aircraft had caught heat signatures of armed parties waiting for them in the hills and brush, too. What they might not suspect was that some of Roy’s allies were hiding among the cattle, as a sort of infrared camouflage. There wasn’t nearly enough manpower to secure the entire perimeter of the property
When Rusty drew close enough, he squeezed his nephew’s shoulder. “How you holdin’ up, Junior?”
“I think I’m still a long way from a heart attack, if that’s what you mean,” Roy Jr. replied.
“Did he say anything before they took off?” Mike asked.
“He said ‘don’t knuckle under’,” Roy Jr. replied.
Rusty and Mike chuckled.
“Hey, fellas,” Gary said, looking down the road the Ambulance had taken. “Here comes The Man.”
A black SUV drove toward them, a white flag tied to the antenna.
“What the hell do they want, now?” Mike wondered aloud.
Gary looked Roy Jr. in the eye. “They want you to knuckle under.”
“He’s right,” Rusty said, spitting into the dirt. “With Roy out of the way, they’re gonna test the waters with you. Scare you or sweet talk you into givin’ up.”
“Don’t do it, amigo,” Mike said. “Don’t fall for their bullshit. They got no right to even be here. They only pull this kind of stunt because folks been lettin’ ’em get away with it for so long. We need to stop lettin’ ’em get away with it.”
“We’re with you, Roy,” Gary said. “Don’t let them scare you. You’re not alone.”
Roy Jr. thrust his hands in his pockets. “They’re gettin’ paid to be here,” he told Gary. “You guys’ll have to go back home at some point to your jobs and families. They can afford to wait until you do.”
“We can stay for the rest of the week,” Gary said. “If it hasn’t blown over by then, some of our buddies will come to take over. We’ll rotate men through here, if that’s what it takes. There’s a guy gonna interview me for a podcast here on site. I’m goin’ on a HAM radio broadcast when I get back. The word will get out.”
The SUV pulled to a stop and three doors swung open. A man in a suit and two figures in black combat gear emerged from the vehicle.
Gary locked-and-loaded his AR15. “You two Nazi ninjas, back in the vehicle!” he commanded.
Mike and Rusty also got their weapons ready.
The man in the suit raised both hands, fingers spread. “Gentlemen, we came under a flag of truce. There’s no need…”
“We’ve all seen how ‘honorable’ you clowns are,” Gary interrupted. “Tell your goons to get back in the truck, now.”
The negotiator nodded to the two dark figures and they climbed back inside.
“That really wasn’t necessary,” the negotiator said, then extended his hand toward Roy Jr. “My name is Ray Hollis. Can we speak in private?”
Roy Jr. reluctantly shook his hand and gestured over toward the tack shed. The two men walked over and faced each other in the shade of the small structure.
“First of all,” Hollis said, “I’m sorry about your father. We’ve got him on his way to the best care available and we’ll do everything we can for him.”
“Who’s this ‘we’ you’re talkin’ about?” Roy Jr. asked. “Do you speak for the hospital and ambulance service, too? Do they work for you?”
The negotiator’s public relations facade faltered, and he licked his lips. “Hey, there’s no reason to make this hostile. We’re all sorry about your father. None of us wants this situation we’ve got, here. We all just want to resolve this reasonably so nobody else has to get so stressed out.”
“Reasonably,” Roy Jr. echoed, mockingly. “You show up here with an army of killers because my dad built a duck pond on his own property, and you want to talk about bein’ reasonable.”
With a flash of irritation, Hollis said, “Look, it won’t do anybody any good to have another argument about the law concerning wetlands…”
But Roy Jr. wasn’t done. “You’re lyin’ through your teeth about not wantin’ to be hostile. Look at these goose-steppin’ bastards you brought here. You don’t want this situation? You made this situation! This situation is exactly what you people want.”
“Calm down, sir,” Hollis said. “We don’t want any more…”
“Kiss my ass, Mr. Hollis,” Roy Jr. said. “You want me to calm down? Get the hell away from our land, and we’ll calm down. Put this army of yours on the border, and protect the people who pay your salary, instead of stealin’ from us. I’ll calm right down, then.”
“I understand you’re upset…” Hollis began, only to get interrupted again.
“Mr. Hollis, I’m not in the mood for any more of your snake oil. This is my family’s property and you’re trespassin’. I don’t care what the EPA says, what the FBI says, the ATF, the IRS, the DHA. You’re breakin’ the law. You thought I’d be weaker than my father and you could strong-arm me. Now you got the media callin’ us a bunch of Klan members. Kiss my ass, Mr. Hollis. You boys came dressed for a fight. Well, you drive one of those tanks through our fence or onto our driveway, you’re gonna get one.”
Hollis shook his head and gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. “All right. We tried to reason with you.”
Ray Hollis walked back to the SUV. Gary snickered and called after him. “Hey, revenue man! Most of us know all about Waco. Guess what? All of us will shoot back this time. And you don’t get a cease-fire when you run out of ammo.”
Roy Jr. watched the SUV bump along and disappear down the road. Had he just guaranteed bloodshed? Should he have knuckled under, regardless of right and wrong?
He knew most of those standing with him were just as scared as he was. Maybe some of the boys who came with Gary were itching for a fight–he didn’t know for sure. But Roy Jr.’s father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather had worked their lives away making the Chapanee Valley a profitable ranch to feed and clothe their families. Once upon a time Roy Jr. had assumed he could pass it down to his own son.
That wasn’t a sure thing anymore. But he wasn’t going to let some jackbooted Fed bulldoze his family off this land. Not on his watch.
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