Altered America (2 page)

             
The steamboat departed the next morning. It was much smaller than other riverboats Lorenzo had traveled on, a broad stern-wheeler with very shallow draft. A pair of derricks sat forward for grasshoppering over sandbars. Yet the cabin deck was comfortable and there were enough passengers for Lorenzo to melt into. The officers and Negro waiters knew Specht. Showered him with attention. Specht didn't have his whole gang with him—just his bodyguards. Lorenzo could feel their unease when they glanced at him. Unnerving at first. But soon he understood they failed to recognize him; the scars, the missing teeth, the zigzag crumple in the middle of his face broadcasted a harder life than theirs and they thought of themselves as very hard men.

             
Lorenzo allowed this doubt to simmer in their souls as he watched the river go by, the olive ribbon so narrow he swore he could stretch out his arms and touch both banks. The shore was rocks and weeds that grew dead-looking as sticks, punctuated here and again by mesquite and black willow and hackberry which thinned into prickly pear and scrubby grass beyond; a jagged, broken palisade of green hemming the buffs and browns of the desert. Seen on a map, each riverbank was painted differently—to the left-hand lay Mexico, to the right was Republic land north to the Nueces, yet to a traveler the countryside was indistinguishable.

             
At mealtimes Lorenzo kept far from Specht, eating with an assortment of passengers. Once, at dinner, a debate emerged regarding a proposed import duty, the first of its kind for the Republic. Some at the table argued this would create a more equitable structure for funding the courts and what-not, reducing reliance on the
patrons,
but the rest said a duty would be the wellspring of protectionism, misused by the legislators to punish those industries and producers they disfavored while benefitting those who were, more likely than not, their supporters. It amused the table to ask taciturn Lorenzo his opinion on the matter.

             
"Seems to me whoever stands to profit the most from events is the body fighting hardest for them to come about," he said.

             
Which satisfied both sides as an indictment of the other.

             
They shuffled freight and passengers at Progreso and Edinburgh. From there it was nonstop upriver to Rio Grande City, the northernmost boundary for the steamboats. Lorenzo waited until Specht was in his stateroom and knocked on the door. Specht invited him inside and offered a cigar, very mannerly, and they sat and smoked while Lorenzo briefly recounted the events of eight months ago. Specht's demeanor assumed a more drained and serious expression.

             
Finally Lorenzo told him about Valasquez and how she had employed Lorenzo to win Specht's money at cards.

             
"A riveting tale, Mister Lorenzo," said Specht, regarding his cigar. "And how are you supposed to do this?"

             
"By cheating. By introducing a chilled deck into the game." He meant a deck where the cards had been previously arranged to deal Lorenzo the winning hand.

             
Specht chuckled. "Dear Miss Valasquez. Some time ago I outbid her for a parcel of land she very badly wanted. I'm afraid she hasn't forgiven me for it. And how much do you stand to make on this endeavor?"

             
"Twenty percent of the winnings. I reckon I can do better."

             
Lorenzo turned and pitched his cigar through the open window. It might have gone into the water or it might have landed on someone's head or started a fire. "I've two-thousand dollars' worth of gold in my pocket she staked me for playing money. But I've also got this," and he pulled a slip of paper from inside his coat and passed it to Specht. "It's a check drawn on the First Republic Bank of Rio Grande City for another five-thousand. As you can see, it's already made out to
you
."

             
Specht examined the paper.

             
"The idea was for me to throw the check into the pot once I believed your goose was nearly plucked. You would take the bait and match it with currency. Then the chilled deck was to be dealt. I would win the hand and take back the check along with your five-thousand plus."

             
Specht pulled on his cigar, exhaled.

             
"What I propose," said Lorenzo, leaning close, "Is that you and I let bygones be bygones. I don't want revenge. I want money. You keep the check and pay me half of it now. That along with the two thousand in my pocket puts me way ahead of twenty percent. We dock at the City and go our separate ways. You cash the check and you've made twenty-five hundred for doing nothing."

             
Specht rolled the cigar in his fingers. "What about Valasquez? She'll want you dead."

             
"Four-and-a-half in gold can buy me a fast horse with plenty left over."

             
Specht held the check up to the light. "It
is
her signature," he said.

             
As Specht stacked the coins before Lorenzo, the corner of his mouth curled and he said, "The least you can offer me is the chance to win some of this tonight in the saloon. I rarely meet such a worthwhile player. No tricks, no cheating—for either of us. Simply gentleman to gentleman."

             
Lorenzo nodded. "I'd like that."

             
After supper, the staff pushed the furniture against the walls of the saloon, leaving a single table in the center. They arranged chairs around it like the bleachers in an arena, the passengers spilling their whiskey-and-sodas rushing to claim the closest seats. Specht and Lorenzo sat across from each other, with another pair of gamblers—they said their names were Howes and Newcomb—between them, hot for the action. To stay honest, they recruited a waiter as dealer. Tipping him soon became a competition in itself to assure he didn't favor one philanthropist over the others.

             
The game started in high spirits, Specht making jokes to an appreciative crowd while they muttered and gasped at the give-and-take. Lorenzo won some rounds, folded on others, but rarely was beat outright by a better hand. Specht searched for Lorenzo's tell but the other man was too cool to reveal it—or perhaps the dead nerves in his face were incapable of demonstrating emotion. As the game ground on and much of the audience, sleepy or drunk, lurched off to their staterooms, it became apparent the plane of the tablecloth had tilted to shift an abundance of specie toward Lorenzo. Specht turned irritable, snapping at the dealer and Howes and Newcomb. They endured his insults with brush-offs or silence.

             
Finally Specht slammed another useless hand onto the cloth as Lorenzo pulled a gleaming pile toward him and Lorenzo said, "I can understand why you're upset. Even with seventy-five percent odds against me, you still can't win."

             
Specht looked at him sharply. "What did you say?"

             
"Come on," said Lorenzo. He inclined his head toward Howes and Newcomb. "You think just because one grew a mustache and the other cut his off, I don't recollect the three men who whupped me that night?"

             
Specht's lips went tighter than piano wire.

             
"Why don't you tell these two shave-tails to take a swim and you and me play some real cards?"

             
The alcohol turned icy in the veins of the remaining onlookers and the dealer, who really just wanted to go to bed, stepped away from the table. Everybody was thinking,
Here it comes
. Then Specht gestured. Howes and Newcomb scraped up what money they had and faded into the shadows of the saloon.

             
Several deals more and it was over: Specht couldn't match the raise. A few coins lay scattered like breadcrumbs in front of him. "Congratulations." He stared calmly at Lorenzo. "I just hope something terrible doesn't happen to you—again—before you buy that fast horse."

             
Lorenzo signaled a waiter leaning against the bar. The waiter reached behind the counter, walked over, presented a thick square of cloth given to him earlier by Lorenzo. Lorenzo paid for the favor with a ten-dollar round, unfolded the square into a waxed canvas bag and pushed his winnings over the table lip and inside. He stood and hoisted the bag onto his shoulder.

             
"I figure it doesn't make no difference," said Lorenzo. "The only reason you gave me that twenty-five hundred before is because you planned to take it back one way or another. Now excuse me. I'm going to step outside and breathe some fresh air."

             
He made it to the starboard promenade just as Howes followed him out the door, drawing. Lorenzo shot the man in the gut, then ran aft. A bullet zipped by his ear and he saw Newcomb coming out the saloon's stern doorway. They blazed away at each other, both a little wild, before Newcomb grunted, seesawed over the railing, and fell into the paddle.

             
Everybody on the riverboat was awake and hollering. Lorenzo looped the drawstrings of the bag around his left wrist several times, white-knuckled the cords. Specht ran onto the deck with a Sharps rifle—who knows where he got it—blowing the guardrail beside Lorenzo to splinters. Lorenzo dropped him in the knee, and while Specht lay there groaning, he put a second in the other one. Lorenzo was forever damaged. Least he could do was to give Specht a limp for the rest of his days.

             
"You still have the bank check but you'll find Miss Valasquez emptied that account this morning," Lorenzo called to him. "You could have confirmed it with the bank ahead of time—if it was possible to send a telegraph from a boat."

             
Then gunfire came at Lorenzo from nineteen directions, passengers and sailors shooting at him because any stranger witness to aggression will always take the side of the person bleeding on the ground whether he's a beatified saint or the man who just raped your sister. Lorenzo ducked his head and stepped off into the water.

             
He kicked hard to escape the suction of the paddlewheel. The bag dragged him toward the sand, an anchor chained to his arm, but he couldn't have let go if he'd wanted.  He thrashed and spluttered, and when there wasn't river in his mouth he damned the Republicans and their aversion to paper tender. Through sheer mule-headed stubbornness, he willed the bag and himself into the shallows, bullets churning the water around him.

             
"Let's go, smart guy," and Delaney was hauling him toward the shore. The bank was a fireworks of blasting and gun smoke. Valasquez's people returned the riverboat's volley, shattering glass, evoking screams, knocking out lanterns, starting fires when the kerosene splashed. The vessel suddenly became very quiet and retreated around an oxbow.

             
They lit a fire. Lorenzo sprawled on the ground beside it, drenched and huffing. Someone threw a camp blanket around him. Delaney unsheathed a Bowie knife and severed the drawstrings around Lorenzo's wrist.

             
He exhibited the heavy money bag to Valasquez like a prize salmon. "He did good. It's all here, Madam President."

             
"Madam President?" said Lorenzo. "You're right, Miss Valasquez, I don't know much about this country."

             
"If women can vote, then it stands to reason they'll vote themselves into authority," Valasquez replied as she scabbarded her rifle. "Unfortunately, due to the peculiar laws of our republic, I have so little authority to abuse. In any other country I could have used my position to seize Specht's land. My engineers tell me there's rock oil beneath it. But now I believe Mister Specht will be forced to sell the parcel to compensate for tonight's losses. I will be the buyer."

             
"Every garden has its serpents." Lorenzo spat water and grit. "And what about me? Do I keep my fifty percent?"

             
Delaney picked his nails with his Bowie. The others waited, gunstocks on their hips or hands near their belts. Lorenzo knew his six-shooter was empty, his cartridges as full of the Rio Grande as he was.

             
Valasquez appraised him. Something there, in those eyes. In the firelight. Then she turned, undid a horse's saddlebag, and tossed a lump of clothing onto the ground.

             
"Why don't you step out of those wet things and we'll discuss it," she said. "It's a hundred miles to Laredo."

We The People

by Dan Gainor

May 17, 1998

              The wind shifted and brought the smell of death.

             
Nathan wasn’t sure which of them smelled it first—the horse or him. Madey was a 9-year-old mare that didn’t grow skittish easily. That meant there was something else Nathan didn’t notice. Something else on the wind.

             
The .30-.30 Henry came out of the leather scabbard with a nearly silent whoosh. The lever-action rifle was a lot like the man who held it—merely middle-aged, but a product of another era. Nathan liked the rifle and loved the archaic image of a man, a horse, and a gun—all straight out of the Old West.

             
Nathan urged the horse forward slowly, eyeing the tree line up ahead. The nearest one of his ranch hands was back with the herd. If trouble came visiting, he was on his own.

             
Madey got reluctant the closer they got to the trees. Nathan climbed off slowly, keeping a firm hold on the reins in his left hand, with the Henry in his right. What remained of the body was drawing flies and stinking all to hell. It didn’t look like they had interrupted anyone’s dinner, but clearly something had ripped the cow’s throat out and eaten much of meat.

             
From the looks of things, Nathan figured a wolf. He hated wolves. Every rancher hated wolves. Every sane human being hated the sneaky, cattle-killing bastards. By every “sane” human, Nathan naturally left out the eco-weenies who screamed every time cattlemen protected their herds. Montana was covered by the stupid Endangered Species regulations, but if the wolves attacked him, he wasn’t going to worry about regs. Unfortunately, word might get out. Government hassle was hassle no man needed.

             
A quick glance around the body told him all he needed to know. Not a wolf.
Wolves
. At least two, maybe more. Forget Hollywood, wolves weren’t always the cute and friendly little movie stars that idiots like Kevin Costner got to dance with. Adult wolves were trouble. And from the size of those paw prints, one of these wolves was a force to be reckoned with.

             
Madey saw the wolf before her master, but her reaction was enough. The horse moved left as a gray patch raced quickly through the brush toward them. Nathan gripped the rifle firmly to his shoulder and fired twice, working the lever just like his daddy had taught him 40 years before. The wolf dropped before it could pounce on its newfound prey. The first shot took it in the side. The second had gone clean through the skull. It was dead as it hit the ground.

             
It wasn’t alone.

             
Another wolf came flying out of the trees on his left. Nathan whipped around and fired, but wasn’t quick enough. The shot went wide. The wolf hit him with close to 200 pounds of muscle and mean. The Henry went flying and Nathan tumbled onto his back and rolled, sucking for air as his hands clawed for new weapons. He figured he had cracked a couple ribs at least. Blood was running down his face from cuts to his scalp. If he didn’t do something quickly, the ribs would be the least of his worries.

             
That’s when he got a good look at the wolf. It was gray and black, with some lighter fur around its mouth. It had a huge head that sat on powerful, muscled shoulders. Its fangs were enormous and deadly as it howled in rage. Nathan didn’t even have time to pull the Colt from its holster. He just fired from the hip.

             
The wolf dove forward and Nathan tried to slide back out of the way, jabbing a Bowie knife at the animal with his left hand. The knife slashed the wounded creature, splattering blood. The wolf bit desperately at his arm, making a loud chomp with its teeth. Luckily it grabbed mostly coat, not flesh. The Colt roared again and then again until the wolf was done moving.

             
Nathan passed out from the pain. He awoke with the sound of a nearby jeep and saw that Madey was looking down at him. The jeep had to be Wally. Nathan was determined not to let the young man see him lying down, even now. His right hand grabbed the reins and he pulled himself up, slowly, painfully.

* * *

              The trip to the doc confirmed three cracked ribs, 27 stitches in various places and a dislocated left shoulder from knife fighting what turned out to be a 187-pound gray wolf. The boys, as he called his hands, had weighed it. They were impressed.

             
The injuries were enough for the police report to keep him safe from the feds. Still, some whiny idiots were bound to make trouble for him daring to defend himself against two predators. Of course, the same morons would complain if he had shot two thugs who had tried to mug him. Left Coast morality was no morality at all.

             
The doctor was business-like. It wasn’t unusual for him to sew up patients missing pieces from animals, barbed wire, or the occasional knife fight. Doc Lewis didn’t even bother telling Nathan he had to stay in bed for a few weeks. He knew that would be a waste of breath. “See you at the party tomorrow?” Nathan just smiled.

             
The party was an annual event for the local cattlemen and women. It was held every May, just to celebrate surviving another hard Montana winter. This year it was at his friend Milt Hotchkiss’s “Malted Milt” Ranch a bit closer to Lewiston. Milt had about 3,000 deeded acres with 1,500 acres of government lease area for extra grazing.  That was nothing—his longtime friend had once joked that his entire spread would fit in Nathan’s barn.

             
Nathan Cutler was a fifth-generation rancher, with what granddad had called a “mother lode of money.” But for all that ranching had made the family fortune, the stock market made it 100 times bigger. Forbes estimated the Cutler family fortune at just shy of $600 million. Nathan laughed out loud when he read that. He hadn’t checked in the last five minutes, but the last tally was closer to $2 billion—enough to buy just about anything.

             
The party was a typical cattleman evening. Drinking, catching up on the news, and lots of jokes made at Nathan’s expense because of his injury. He knew the humor held deeper concern from friends who didn’t understand why he still rode out every day to check on his stock—even in deepest winter. Most of the ranchers paid others for that privilege.

             
Much of the talk was still about the recently cloned sheep, Dolly. A year after the announcement, the meat industry was still trying to figure out the implications of cloned animals. One of the cattle industry publications had just had an analysis of what cloning might mean to ranching. The days of range wars over grazing rights were long gone, but this was still cattle country. Cattlemen didn’t even count sheep when they went to sleep. More sheep, even cloned ones, made everyone unhappy.

             
Milt was already a bit in his cups, but then it was his party. He took the shovel from the fireplace tools and started banging it on the stone to get attention. “Ladies and gentlemen. I want you to raise your glasses to my good friend, Nathan Cutler. He might be stubborn, but there isn’t a man or beast out here that can stand against him, even a 187-pound wolf. To Nathan, they just don’t make Americans like him anymore, and that’s a damn shame.”

             
The toast was a sign the gathering was winding down. The partiers gradually declined in number as they always did. A handful of the men stayed and moved into Milt’s library where they continued last year’s political argument with even more vigor. The ranchers were an independent lot. They had little use for regulations coming out of Washington, or even out of Helena.

             
“Clinton was bad enough before. Now with this Lewinsky business, he’s an embarrassment to everything the nation has ever stood for.” That was Carl Wideman, the head of the local ranchers association. Carl felt that the only time the letter “D” should be used after a politician’s name was in the word “red.”

             
Milt responded with a familiar argument.  “Regulations on how to run our stock. Regulations about how to run our schools. You can’t even shoot a wolf without having the government climb down your throat. The Founders wouldn’t have stood for this garbage. Hell, my granddaddy wouldn’t have stood for it.”

             
Carl let out a sigh. “The sad part is, we don’t know what the Founders would have tolerated. Yeah, they rebelled over a few measly taxes and because they didn’t get a say in Parliament. But times are different now. They’d probably be watching ‘Seinfeld’ or messing around on their computers.”

             
Nathan wasn’t beat up enough to accept that argument. He had been raised better. His parents had named him Nathan Hale Cutler to honor the Revolutionary War hero hanged by the British. Hale was known for his last words: “I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country.” Nathan wasn’t ready to give up his pursuing those same ideals. But then, Nathan was never willing to give up on anything.

             
“The Founders were different. Better. They risked everything—families, friends, wealth. They could have sat back and lived comfortable lives. They chose freedom instead.” He looked around at the room with reluctant disdain. “We’ve chosen comfort.”

             
“Times have changed, Nate.” Milt was one of the few who called Nathan by his nickname. “There aren’t many willing to stand up for their rights. They teach obedience in the schools. They are turning our kids into clones, just like that stupid sheep. Men like our Founders, they’re like the gray wolf—an endangered species.”

             
The conversation had gone sour and the night soon broke up.

             
Driving injured was a challenge, but Nathan never shied from such. He had to maneuver the Hummer one-handed, but he managed. The whole conversation kept swirling around in his head. There was something about it that was important and he just couldn’t grab it. The Founders. Freedom. Wolves. That damned sheep.

             
Nathan almost drove off the road when he realized where his own subconscious had gone. If some idiot could clone a sheep, why not clone wolves? Not the gray ones that were just big pests, but the kind who caused real trouble—the kind who made nations.

             
The kind who’d made
this
nation.

* * *

              Nathan was barely able to sleep and started prowling the house in the middle of the night.  He kept going over his idea in his head. It would take money, lots of money. Money he had. It would require someplace private, far away from prying eyes and over-zealous regulators.

             
It would need... Hell, the list was almost endless. Nathan would only trust one man with a project like this. He called Dave Collins, his own personal Mr. Fixit.

             
“Nathan it’s barely 5 a.m. back east. What’s up?”

             
“I need you out here right away. It’s important.” He didn’t bother saying goodbye.

             
Formally Dave was a business consultant. He had worked his own way through Harvard and then Wharton Business School.  They’d met when Dave was working on Wall Street—he caught wind that his boss was planning on churning Nathan’s accounts to make up for some company losses, so he walked from the job with some incriminating memos and ratted on the firm to Nathan. The reveal had saved Nathan several million dollars.

             
As a reward, Nathan set up Dave in business and became his Number One client. That had been nearly 10 years ago and they had worked on a couple deals every year since. Nathan had tried to hire the man, but Dave was just as stubborn and just as independent as Nathan. Instead, Dave became almost a surrogate son to a man who had lost his only child in an Air Force training accident.

             
Dave landed that afternoon.

             
He wasn’t surprised when it was Nathan picking him up. The Old Man—as he affectionately called him—liked doing business face-to-face. Dave commented on the injuries and Nathan’s only response was, “Varmints.” He wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

             
“I’m hiring you to do a job.”

             
Dave started to respond and Nathan gave him a glare that would melt the snow and ice at the North Pole.

             
“Okay, tell me what’s up. If it’s as serious as I think it is, I’m in. You know that.”

             
Nathan could barely contain himself. “I want to clone the Founding Fathers.”

             
Dave almost spit out his Coke. “I thought you had some big merger deal or another land purchase. Cloning? That’s ridiculously far out of my league, and yours. Did that wolf give you a concussion, too?”

             
“Just listen for a minute. Then... then if I can’t convince you, I’ll give a million dollars to Greenpeace or something equally stupid as punishment.”