Tyranny (13 page)

“Y
ou all right, boy?” G.W. asked as he walked over to join Kyle. The dust cloud kicked up by the wheels of Grayson's car as the government man drove away was starting to dissipate. As fast and angrily as Grayson was driving, he would be back to the highway in no time.

“I'm fine,” Kyle said. “I've been knocked around a lot worse.” He pressed a hand on his side where Grayson had kicked him. The place was a little tender, but he could tell he didn't have any cracked ribs.

But the kick had glanced off a little, too, Kyle knew. If Grayson had landed it squarely, the fight might have ended differently.

The guy was pretty good, and it would be a mistake to deny that.

“Who was that, exactly?” G. W. asked. “Another fella from the BLM, right?”

“Yeah. He said his name was Slade Grayson.”

G.W. snorted disgustedly.

“Sounds like somebody who ought to be workin' for those varmints,” he said.

“He had a copy of that old land grant and another paper he said was an official order giving possession of the ranch to the feds and telling you that you've got sixty days to get off the place. He said you could take your personal belongings and the stock, but the house and all the other buildings and improvements are government property, too.”

“That'll be the day.” G.W. frowned. “But it proves something that we suspected. If they don't want the cattle, they're not interested in operatin' it as a ranch. They want the land for some other reason.”

“You're sure the mineral rights aren't worth anything?”

“Not a blessed thing, and they've been checked out half a dozen times by oil and gas companies. And I'm
dang
sure there's no lost gold mine or anything crazy like that on it.”

“Well, it beats me,” Kyle said with a shake of his head. “Where were you this morning?”

“I rode out to take a look at one of the waterholes. Been a while since it's rained, and I wanted to make sure it hadn't dried up.”

“I didn't see your pickup around anywhere.”

“That's because Roberto took it to town this mornin' to have the brakes worked on. I noticed last night they were startin' to squeal a little.”

“I thought you fixed things like that yourself.”

G. W. shook his head and said, “Nah, I'm gettin' too old for mechanic work. Better to let somebody who knows what they're doin' handle it.”

That attitude came as a bit of surprise to Kyle. G.W. had always been the sort who believed that a man ought to be able to fix anything mechanical or electrical, a legacy of his own father, Kyle's great-grandfather, who had grown up during the Depression when folks did for themselves.

Even a hidebound old dinosaur like G.W. Brannock could evolve, Kyle supposed.

“What are you smilin' about?” G.W. asked sharply. “You just got in a fight with a government man. I reckon the US Marshals are liable to show up after a while and drag you away.”

“I don't think so,” Kyle said. “Grayson struck me as the sort of man who'd want to handle his own problems. He bragged that he's the guy they call in for the difficult jobs. He's not gonna want to admit that he got his butt handed to him by an old geezer and a young bum.”

“I'm not so sure about that geezer part,” G.W. said, his voice dry now. “Come on inside. What've you been doin' all day?”

“I almost forgot! Miranda called. She got that injunction against the IRS, just like she said she would.”

“It's probably not gonna matter now. We've got bigger problems.”

“Yeah,” Kyle said as he and G.W. went up onto the porch. He was grateful for the shade. “I told her about those two guys from the BLM we ran into last night. Grayson hadn't gotten here yet when I talked to her. I wish she'd been here to take a look at that land grant.”

“She'll see it soon enough. I expect her first move will be to haul those sons o' bitches into court. She'll make 'em
prove
that land grant is the real thing.”

“What if it is?” Kyle asked.

G.W. gazed off into the distance and sighed as he looked at his range.

“I sort of wish you hadn't asked me that, Kyle,” he said. “Because it doesn't really matter if that land grant's genuine or not. The only way the government's gonna put me off this ranch is to carry me off, feet first.”

 

 

Miranda got there about one o'clock. Kyle and G.W. were just sitting down for lunch, which consisted of ham sandwiches. G. W. led her into the kitchen and gestured toward the third plate on the table, saying, “I made one for you, too. Figured you'd be showin' up about now.”

“Thank you,” she said. She wore a sleeveless, light blue top and a darker blue skirt. Kyle thought she'd probably had a matching jacket on earlier for her meeting with the judge in El Paso.

He also thought she looked really good, although she was obviously angry and upset about the newest development in G.W.'s case.

Miranda sat down, took a drink from the tall glass of iced tea G. W. had poured for her, and said, “Tell me about what happened last night.”

“I already told you on the phone,” Kyle said.

“Tell me again,” she said. “I want to know the story as well as if I were there with you.”

Kyle looked at G.W., but his grandfather waved a hand and said, “You tell it. My throat gets tired if I talk too much.”

Kyle went over the encounter with Finley and Todd while Miranda took small bites from her sandwich and chewed slowly and deliberately. Despite what G.W. had said, he added a comment now and then.

When Kyle was finished, he told her, “That's not the end of it, though. Something else has happened since I talked to you earlier.”

“Oh, no,” Miranda said. “What now?”

“Another man from the BLM showed up. He had a copy of the land grant with him, and an order for G.W. to pack up and move.”

“Unpleasant son of a gun, too,” G. W. drawled. “He and Kyle got into a little fracas.”

Miranda's eyes widened. She stared at Kyle and demanded, “You got into a fight with a federal agent?”

“He jumped me first,” Kyle said.

“That doesn't matter! He's a federal agent!”

“Well, it ought to matter,” Kyle said stubbornly. “The government shouldn't have any right to come onto private property and attack somebody who hasn't done anything wrong.”

“Damn straight,” G.W. muttered. “But those people runnin' things in Washington, they've got it in their heads that there really isn't such a thing as private property. Deep down, they think that everything belongs to the state, and they're the state. That's why it seems right to them that they can take away more and more of somebody's money in taxes, because that money never belonged to the taxpayers in the first place. The government—the state—was just lettin' 'em use it. And since they think they're smarter'n everybody else, they ought to have the right to give that money to whoever they want to, mainly folks who'll then turn around and keep votin' for them. Same thing with property, like this ranch. There's one thing they haven't considered, though.”

Kyle was almost afraid to ask his grandfather what he meant by that, but he did anyway.

“What haven't they considered, G.W.?”

“That there are still some folks in this world who'll put up a fight when you try to do 'em wrong.”

T
he three of them spent the rest of lunch discussing strategy. Miranda didn't want to approach the judge in El Paso again right away to ask for another injunction, this time against the BLM. But she would if she had to, she said.

“The first thing I'm going to do is request a meeting with the BLM so I can examine that land grant,” she told Kyle and G. W. “I'm going to try to line up an expert to take a look at it as well.”

“Where do you find somebody like that?” Kyle asked.

“I'll start at the University of Texas. If no one there can help me, maybe they can suggest someone I can talk to. We need an expert who's very fluent in Spanish, who also has a strong knowledge of history and antiquities. Maybe a forensic archeologist who can determine the age of the paper the actual land grant is written on.”

“Like Indiana Jones,” G.W. said.

“Well”—Miranda smiled—“he doesn't have to wear a fedora and carry a bullwhip, but yeah, somebody like that who specializes in Spanish antiquities.”

After they had finished eating, Kyle and Miranda went out onto the front porch. Kyle perched a hip on the railing and asked, “What do we do if that fella Grayson shows up again?”

“Try not to get in another fight with him,” Miranda answered without hesitation. “Violence isn't going to accomplish anything.”

Kyle grunted. Sometimes violence was the
only
method that accomplished anything. But trained in the law as she was, Miranda wasn't likely to understand that.

What people often forgot was that violence was at the very heart of the legal system. The thing that made it work was the idea that people would be reasonable and follow the law, but what made them do that was the ever-present threat of force by the state. That was legally sanctioned violence, of course . . . but it was still violence.

When the state was in the wrong, as Kyle was convinced it was in his grandfather's case, there were only two responses: surrender or resistance. Surrender meant letting the wrongdoers win, but resistance might result in a different sort of evil as the state tried to impose its will by force. So which was the greater evil?

Kyle didn't have an answer for that.

“What if somebody comes to arrest me for what happened with Grayson earlier?”

“Cooperate with them,” Miranda said. “But don't say anything. Don't answer any questions or make any statements. Just don't even open your mouth unless I'm there.”

He grinned and asked, “So I guess you're my lawyer now, too? Are G. W. and I on the family plan?”

“You should probably pay me a retainer, just to make it official.”

She smiled back at him as she said it, and that kindled a warmth in him that had nothing to do with the day's heat.

“Well, I don't have much money. . . .”

He thought about asking her if a kiss would be enough for a retainer, then decided it was too soon for that sort of flirtatious banter.

“I'll draw up the paperwork and you can pay me later,” she said. She started down the steps and added over her shoulder, “Just remember . . . cooperate and say nothing.”

“All right.”

Kyle lifted a hand in farewell as she got into her car and drove off.

The hinges on the screen door rasped as G.W. opened it and came out onto the porch. He stood beside Kyle and both of them watched the dust cloud moving toward the highway.

“She's a pistol, isn't she?” G.W. said.

“What? Oh, you mean Miranda?”

“That's right. You're a mite fond of her, aren't you?”

Kyle shrugged and said, “She's helping us fight the government. That makes her an ally.”

“Seems to me this started out bein'
my
fight, not
ours
.”

“Yeah, well, that's changed now, hasn't it? After last night and especially this morning, I'm in it up to my neck.”

“I reckon that's true,” G.W. admitted. “That fella Grayson's got personal reasons now for wantin' to come after you. With me it's just business for him. Although pointin' a rifle at him might've made that a little personal, too.” G. W. paused. “You didn't really answer what I asked you about Miranda. What you're feelin' isn't just about her bein' on our side.”

“She's smart. I like that in a woman.”

“And easy on the eyes.”

“Definitely,” Kyle said.

“And ambitious.”

“Which I'm not. Is that what you're getting at? The fact that we wouldn't be a good match because she wants to make something of herself and I don't?”

“Don't go puttin' words in my mouth, boy,” G.W. said. “I don't plan on buttin' into your personal life.” He shook his head and went on. “Anyway, the way things are goin', this may not end well for either of us, so there's no point in worryin' about whether or not you hook up with Miranda.”

Kyle stared at his grandfather, cocked an eyebrow, and laughed.

“‘Hook up'?” he repeated.

“Hey, just because I like the older movies doesn't mean I haven't seen any newer ones.”

“All right, G.W.,” Kyle said, still smiling. “Just do me a favor . . . Don't ever say ‘hook up' again, okay?”

B
arton Devlin's cell phone buzzed in his pocket as he stood on the ridge focusing his binoculars on G.W. Brannock's ranch house. He grimaced, lowered the binoculars, and reached into his pocket for the phone.

The number on the screen was a familiar one. Devlin had been expecting this call.

“Hello, Charles,” he said as he thumbed the button to answer.

“Barton, where are you?” Charles Pierce asked. “I thought you were supposed to be back here this morning.”

“I know, but I'm still in Texas.”

Devlin waited for an angry explosion from his boss. It didn't come. After a moment, Pierce said, “The Brannock file has been closed, Barton.”

“I know.”

“So there's no reason for you to be there. You need to get back here.”

“No offense, Charles, but since when does a piddling little agency like the Bureau of Land Management get to tell us what to do?”

Again there was a heavy silence on the other end of the connection.

Finally, Pierce said, “The orders came from higher up. You should have been able to figure that out.”

“How high?”

“As high as it gets.”

Devlin frowned and said, “Wait a minute. Do you mean—”

“What I mean is that you should get back here,” Pierce interrupted. “I'm not going to say anything else.”

“But what about all the money Brannock owes? All the back taxes, the fines, the penalties—”

“Forget about it, Barton. It's . . . Washington.”

Devlin knew what his friend and supervisor meant. The capital city operated by its own rules, unlike any other place in the country.

And anyone who violated those rules usually paid a high price for doing so.

Devlin knew he had already pushed his luck by staying in Sierra Lobo after Slade Grayson had told him to go home. Grayson had a reputation as a bad man to cross, and everyone in Washington knew he wielded a lot of influence no matter which agency he was working for at the time.

But the
BLM
? A bunch of damned dirt diggers?

Something wasn't right here. Devlin wasn't going to allow the IRS to lose anything it rightfully had coming to it. That was why he had decided not to leave. Why he had driven around Sierra Lobo until he found a private home with a
ROOM FOR RENT
sign in the window. Why he had moved in with the elderly widow who was looking for company as much as for rent money.

And why he had been lurking here around G. W. Brannock's ranch for the past couple of days as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

“Barton?” Charles Pierce said in his ear. “Are you still there?”

Devlin heaved a sigh and said, “I'm still here. Are you sure about this, Charlie?”

“I'm certain.”

“We're going to just forget about everything that Brannock owes?”

“Damn it!”

Ah, there was the explosion Devlin had been expecting.

After a moment, as if the words were being dragged out of him, Pierce went on. “I'm not sure the old bastard owes anything.”

Devlin wasn't the sort of man who staggered when he heard unexpected news, but if he had been, Pierce's comment surely would have thrown him for a loop.

“What do you mean, Brannock might not owe anything? You've seen the results of the audit, Charlie. You know he's been cheating the government!”

“I know what the audit said. What I don't know . . . is how accurate the results were.”

Now Devlin was absolutely thunderstruck. He said, “The audit process doesn't make mistakes. It's just not possible. If the results are inaccurate, then it means . . . it means . . .”

Devlin couldn't go on. He couldn't express the thought in words. He could barely comprehend it.

If an audit was incorrect, it could only be because someone at the agency had made a mistake, which he had just said, and firmly believed, was impossible.

Or else they had falsified data on purpose to get the result they wanted.

For a second, Devlin's surroundings seemed to vanish. Instead, he found himself staring into an endless black abyss. Something lurked in that darkness, something horrible and insatiable that was always on the move like a giant prehistoric shark devouring everything in its path. Such a monster would do anything, stoop to any level, to keep stuffing whatever it wanted into its greedy, fang-toothed maw.

That couldn't be the government he had devoted his life to . . . could it?

With a sharp shake of his head, Devlin broke out of that terrible daydream. Charles Pierce was talking on the phone again, saying, “I don't know how soon you can get back to where you can catch a flight to Washington, Barton, so I'm going to cut you a little slack. But only a little. If you're not back here by the day after tomorrow . . . well, I hate to say it, but if you're not back by then, you're fired.”

“You can't do that,” Devlin said hollowly. “The union—”

“The union takes orders from the same people we do,” Pierce said. “If you do anything to gum up the works, don't think the union can protect you. You'll be hung out to dry so fast you won't know what hit you. You'll be lucky if you're just fired, if you know what I mean.”

Devlin knew, all right. Like everyone else, he had heard plenty of rumors about what might happen to people who didn't play the game or who stumbled over information they weren't supposed to uncover. He had known several agents personally who had just . . . disappeared. Their families apparently didn't know what had happened to them. They were just gone with no warning.

The same thing could happen to him, thought Devlin. If he persisted in trying to find out why he'd been shunted aside in favor of the BLM, he could be risking his life.

But how could he turn his back on a case? That would go against everything he had ever stood for. That would mean, when things were boiled down to their basic components, he was actually powerless.

He sighed into the phone and tried to make it sound full of despair and defeat. He didn't have to try very hard to accomplish that.

But there was still steel at his core as he said, “All right, Charlie. I'll see you in a couple of days.”

That was a lie, he thought as he broke the connection.

He knew how risky the course of action he was contemplating really was. The idea of making an enemy out of Slade Grayson caused a chill to travel along his spine. And there could be people higher up who were even more dangerous than Grayson.

But he had to take that chance. He couldn't do anything else and still be the man he believed himself to be.

Barton Devlin wasn't going to leave Texas until he got to the bottom of this.