Ray Smitty didn’t know much about environmental activists beyond what he’d seen on the news. But apparently they were out in full force, loud and proud, protesting in front of the burning rubble that was once a natural gas compressor station. According to his boss, Vicky Kaiser, owner of the Mescalero Ranch, the trespassing hippies were to be removed at once.
She’d added the words by any means necessary, which Smitty had hoped, but wasn’t certain, was all just bluster. On top of being ranch foreman, he was Vicky’s oil scout. It was a title that meant many things to many people. To her, it meant spy.
Strong-arming had never really been Smitty’s forte, but the passenger in his pickup was born for the task and looked eager to put his skills to work. Bo Clevenger was the head of Mescalero security, a title that Vicky treated more like mafia muscle than privatized law enforcement. Fortunately, given his appearance, he rarely had to get physical. The old rodeo bulldogging champ still looked the part of a man who used to dive from a running horse onto a five-hundred-pound steer. Add in the shaved head and prison tattoos and you had a modern-day desperado.
Smitty, on the other hand, was slight as they come. No matter how much he ate, he stayed as rangy as an antelope. Unfortunately, he had none of the animal’s vigor. Like Bo, he maintained the look of a cowboy, wearing boots, blue jeans, and pearl snap denim. He’d always been told he had a warm smile, which he’d used on more than one occasion to talk himself out of trouble.
As they drove up to the smoldering rubble of the compressor station, Smitty took in the scene. Although most of the fire was put out, the facility was still swarmed by fire trucks, state troopers, and sheriff’s deputy vehicles. To the side of the caliche road were nearly fifty or so protesters. Luckily, the TV news crews were gone.
Smitty turned to Bo, whose eyes looked hungry for a fight. “All right now, take it easy. Don’t want to make anything worse than it is. Just going to ask them to leave.”
Bo was bird-dog focused on the scrum of intruders. “And if they don’t?”
Smitty eased his boot on the brakes and slowed the pickup. “Hell, you’ve seen the forecast. We’ve got a damn blizzard coming in tonight. Supposed to get down near zero. And you know how these people are. They’ll stick around awhile. Get cold and hungry. Then head on home.”
It wasn’t until Smitty pulled around one of the fire trucks that he saw the retrofitted Greyhound, and about two dozen cars, vans, and SUVs, few of which looked any friendlier to the environment than his own one-ton Ford. There were fires scattered about their encampment, and at least fifty shelters, lean-tos, and tents of every shape, size, and color. They were home.
Given the wide assortment of pennants from around the world, there were representatives across the globe. But anything beyond the Union Jack and Canadian flag, he was pretty much stumped. Bo turned to Smitty but didn’t say a word. A look said it all. This is gonna get ugly.
Smitty softened his tone to take it down a notch. “You’re gonna be cool, right?”
Bo turned to face the protesters and narrowed his gaze. “Uh-huh.”
Smitty pulled his truck up to within twenty-five yards of the group and put it in park. He wanted a little distance in case things got physical and they needed to get away. He’d seen footage of nutjobs jumping in front of vehicles and blocking roads. But in the wide-open space on the High Plains, it would take a lot more than a few dozen bodies to stymie their exit.
As Bo opened his door, Smitty clutched his coat sleeve. “I’ll do the talking.”
Without reply, Bo jerked away and made a beeline for the group. Smitty made his own hasty departure and kicked into high gear to catch up with his partner. A quick survey of the protesters revealed a lot of ponchos and hoodies. A few were even wearing brightly covered beanies with flaps over the ears. Most carried signs, with varying messages of disgust for Mescalero Energy.
They were met halfway by one of the protesters who broke from the pack and made his way over. Unlike the others, who looked kind of wormy, this guy was beefed up and assertive. His blond dreadlocks were pulled into a ponytail, and he wore a week’s worth of stubble. In cargo pants and a blue goose down jacket, he looked a lot more mountain climber than rabblerouser.
Dreads launched in with a “Can I help you, gentlemen?” before Smitty could get a word out.
Bo was quick to respond. “We’ll be asking the questions.”
Smitty threw up a hand to Bo and turned back to Dreads. “Well, sir, as a matter of fact you can help us. My name is Ray Smitty and I’m going to be in charge of the cleanup and reconstruction around here.”
Dreads gave a nod. “I’m Kai Stoddard.” He tilted his head at the group. “And that’s Cosmic Order. We’re out of Austin.”
Smitty fought off a grin. He was almost disappointed when the guy’s name wasn’t Moonbeam or Sunflower, but Cosmic Order certainly scratched the itch for joke fodder. Dreads hadn’t needed to mention Austin given the Texas license plates on the bus. Where the hell else?
“Fine-looking group of folks you have here.”
Stoddard wasn’t buying the nice-guy routine. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smitty?”
“Well, we want to get our operation here back up and running soon as possible. Once the firemen clear out, we’re going to get a repair team and a construction crew in here to work.”
The guy glanced back at the facility and shrugged. “What does that have to do with us?”
“Nothing,” Smitty answered. “And I guess that’s the point. There’s going to be a lot of blowing and going. Dozers. Cranes. Semitrucks. Could get dangerous with vehicles moving in and out. So, if you’re done with what you’re doing, we’d appreciate you taking your leave.”
The guy smirked, clearly not believing a word. “You could give a rat’s ass about our safety.” He peered around Bo to check out their truck. “See the Mescalero logo on your door there. My guess is this has more to do with our message and how it might affect your company’s image.”
The banner hanging on the side of their old Greyhound read: Mescalero = Enemy of the Earth. The funny thing about it was that Vicky Kaiser couldn’t care less about the company’s image. She had given up on public relations a long time ago. But what she did care about was profitability. Getting the compressor station back online was her primary concern.
Smitty flashed a warm smile, which would hopefully take the tension down a notch or two. “We’re probably not going to agree on politics. But we can agree that the law is the law. And you’re breaking it here by trespassing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Stoddard fished an envelope from his pocket, took out a typed letter, and handed it over. “The property where we’re set up, on the other side of the county road, belongs to Garland Porter. And as you can see, we have his permission to camp here.” As almost an afterthought, he added, “His number is in the letterhead. Feel free to give him a call.”
Damn. Smitty had known the feud between Vicky and Garland would come back to bite them in the ass. He just didn’t think it’d be this soon. And there’d be no convincing their neighbor of reconsidering this deal. Garland had hated the Kaisers for years.
Smitty shook off the offer. “Got Garland in my phone already.” He looked over at the sign. “But you have to understand that it’s not just our natural gas coming through this pumping station. Comes from all over. And your message is focused on us. Do you mind telling me why?”
Stoddard seemed confused. “Because of the new pipeline.”
Smitty looked to Bo. “You heard anything about that?”
Bo shrugged. “Above our pay grade, maybe.”
Stoddard appeared eager to fill them in. “Our lobbyists in Austin tell us that the state is looking to approve a major pipeline deal called the Trans-Palisade, running from the Texas Panhandle down to the Permian Basin. Connecting somewhere around Midland and Odessa.”
Smitty took a second to process the information but came up short. “What does that matter? There are pipelines running across the whole damn state.”
“This one is different,” Stoddard shot back. “It’ll be delivering natural gas to facilities down on the coast near Brownsville. From there, it’ll be put on tankers and hauled to Europe. Which means, once again, we’ll be the ones responsible for polluting the rest of the world.”
“What about that monstrosity?” Bo pointed to the Cosmic Order Greyhound bus. “Reckon it runs off butterfly farts and Mother Nature’s goodwill to humanity.”
Stoddard looked a little ashamed, but not enough to back down. “We do whatever we have to do to get the job done.”
“So do we.” Bo stepped forward. “And you’re about to find that out the hard way.”
Smitty reached out and grabbed Bo’s sleeve again. “Hold on there.” He looked up at his partner and nodded in the direction of the protesters. More than a few were holding up their cell phones, recording the whole scene with their cameras. “Let me talk to Mr. Stoddard for a minute. Alone. Don’t want to end up with any more eyes on this than there needs to be.”
Bo remained focused on Stoddard. At first he looked loath to relent, but eventually he unclenched and lumbered back to the truck. The only man Smitty knew who had ever put the giant in his place was Garrett Kohl. And to this peacenik’s credit, he hadn’t backed down, even when Bo threatened violence. In fact, Stoddard looked downright ready to rumble.
As soon as Bo was back in the truck and cameras were focused elsewhere, Smitty continued. “I don’t have anything against you or your cause. I’m just doing my job. Trying to keep things running. And I got a wife and a kid to provide for. Surely you can understand that.”
Stoddard’s face softened and he dropped his shoulders. “I don’t wish you or your family any ill will, Mr. Smitty. But we’re here to stay. And until this pipeline deal is over, you, Mescalero, and whoever else comes against us, should consider yourselves at war.”