“You, too?”
“All of us. You have to understand, it felt good for people to be together. It’s been hard for small ranchers. All the new people moving in drove up our property taxes. They keep trying to pass bonds. They want to make Highway 93 four lanes wide now. We can’t afford to live here anymore.”
“That’s got nothing to do with the pamphlets.”
“What happened up in Idaho started it at Ruby Ridge. Then the gun laws. Frank didn’t talk about anything else. No more picnics or ballgames. He bought guns and everybody else did. Then we started burying them. They’re in PVC pipe all over the place, twenty-four inches below the surface. We put a decoy above them.”
“What do you mean, a decoy?”
“A piece of metal. That way, when the Feds came, their metal detectors would find the decoy. They’d dig to that and go on. They wouldn’t be able to get our guns later, when it happens.”
“When what happens?”
“It’s happening now, just like he predicted. After he sold those guns to the ATF man, people really believed him, because everything he’d been warning about started coming true. Then they killed all those kids in that church down in Waco.”
Thoughts flitted through Joe’s mind like blinks of light. Boyd could have lived easily among the Bills, enjoying the camaraderie of weapons, the flirtation with being a small-time outlaw. He’d have burned his driver’s license and Social Security card in front of the group. Under the right circumstances, he might have helped produce the pamphlets.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Joe said.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I was afraid you’d leave me.”
He went to Botree and swung her legs onto the couch and lay beside her. Their arms twined and he could feel her breathe. They held each other for a long time while outside the hillsides burned.
25
Thunder in the mountains meant the threat of lightning rather than the relief of rain. Day by day, Joe knew where the worst fires were by the hazy darkness of the sky. Communities were being evacuated near Missoula, but the ranch was safe. Coop was weak and often slept in a chair facing the CB unit. Two police scanners monitored the airwaves for official transmission. The combined sounds of the three machines reminded Joe of wind and water and rustling leaves.
The family saw no one but each other. They communicated by radio with their nearest neighbors who were in turn linked to people farther up and down the valley. The Bills were living battle-ready, alert to any change.
Botree received a message that Johnny was fine, and could be reached by radioing a man who worked at the Wolf. Late at night, Frank began broadcasting from the mountains nearby, long taunts of the government forces he felt certain were preparing to attack. As Coop listened, he drew possible routes of attack and escape on his topographical maps, blotting the soft brown and green lines with his own overlapping network of heavy black. As one map became illegible, he started another. He ate little and refused to bathe.
After a week, Joe went to the bunkhouse for dehydrated food, but it was empty of all supplies, including sheets and dishes. His boots echoed like distant gunfire. Mice had gnawed the Liberty Teeth pamphlets and Joe carried them outside. The autumn sun made his eyes hurt. He siphoned gas from his Jeep onto the pile, and lit a match, The paper ignited and coils of smoke joined the brown sides above.
Joe kicked a tower of ash, which exploded into tiny black pieces that spread rapidly through the air. He jumped into the fire and began stomping the fragments of burnt paper. Ash and smoke whirled around him. He worked in a frenzy as if trying to grind the pamphlets into the earth, but succeeded only in killing the fire. He dumped gas over the unburnt paper and lit it again.
When he returned to the house, Botree sniffed at the smell of gasoline and carbon, but said nothing. They ate and played a board game with the kids. Later, after the boys were asleep, Frank’s voice crackled over the air.
“This is Camp Megiddo on the mountain with an urgent message to all patriots in Montana. We have an army to protect your family. The blue-helmets of FEMA are coming. The black helicopters are coming. The yellow-bellied bastards took your guns and now they want your land.
“When David fought Goliath, he said, ‘I shall strike you down and cut your head off and leave your carcass for the birds and wild beasts.’ We shall be victorious in the name of the Bill of Rights.”
His voice stopped. Botree and Joe stared at each other in the sudden silence of the house.
“Do you think he’s got an army?” Joe said.
“Maybe. A lot of people go along with him.”
“If the government thinks, so, he’s in trouble.”
“We all are.”
They went to bed, and for a long time Joe stared at the ceiling, wondering if she was right.
The morning sky was thick with smoke. Joe missed working, and he decided to forage the nearest timber for winter firewood. He wore his pistol and carried a bungee cord for a tourniquet in case of an accident. He used the ax the way his father had taught him., letting its weight perform some of the work. The pine split easily, each chip scenting the air. He gathered kindling against his body and carried it to the pile beyond the treeline. His leg ached and he limped. A man’s voice spoke from the woods.
“I see you, Virgil Caudill.”
Joe stopped moving. He felt an unmistakable relief.
“Turn that wood loose,” the man said.
Joe let the kindling drop.
“Set down right where you’re at.”
Joe eased to the earth. The hard weight of the pistol pressed his back Brush rustled and a young man stepped from the woods, aiming a rifle at Joe. Everything about him was familiar. His features were of the same rough mold as Joe’s, the Scots-Irish pioneers who’d settled the hills of eastern Kentucky. His face was too young for a beard.
“I’m Zack Stargil’s boy, Orben. You killed my cousin.”
His accent was a comfort. Joe felt as though he’d been temporarily deaf and had suddenly regained the ability to hear. He knew several Stargils. He recalled the man as a redheaded boy, the last of a long line of brothers. Little Stubbin, they called him.
The man spat and moved closer, squinting over the rifle sight. Joe was surprised that the gun was an old.22. He lifted his chin.
“You best speak while you still yet can,” Orben said.
Joe swallowed and licked his lips.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“You ain’t the boss of me,” Orben said. “And I ain’t in no rush.”
He moved sideways to the pile of wood and sat on an upturned log. He was very skinny.
“Did you talk to Billy any?” he said.
Joe shook his head.
“Just killed him in his sleep.”
“He was awake,” Joe said.
“Know who I am yet?”
“Little Stubbin.”
“They don’t call me that no more.”
Joe nodded.
“My cousin seen you driving a truck here. He works for the state, fighting fires out of Menifee County.”
Joe nodded.
“He didn’t say nothing about you having a bad leg. What happened?”
“Bullet.”
“Billy get one in you?”
“No.”
“You scared, Virgil?”
“Maybe.”
“Was Billy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I ain’t,” Orben said. “For your information, I ain’t scared one bit. You smoke?”
“No.”
“Me, neither. Cigarette does.”
Orben laughed and pulled a cigarette from his pocket without removing the pack. He lit it and inhaled, keeping his rifle aimed at Joe.