He sighed. “I needed those plots.”
“We could hike back from on top.”
“That would take more time than I’ve got,” Yazzi muttered. “I need to finish today. There are two more sets of plots on his range. I’ll figure something out and do them alone.”
“Why?”
“Because, you have to go down with the rafts.”
“These guys have another overnight. I have to be in town tonight for the meeting.”
“You rest. Blow off the meeting.”
“I’ll help on the first plots, hike out from there, get picked up at the road.”
“Why would you do that, and what do we do for a quadrat?”
“Cut some willow. Lay ’em out. If we’re off a few inches, so what. We want percent cover. We can assess that with all the precision we need.”
Paul nodded. “Why bust your butt to get to the meeting? You said the report’s mostly done.”
“Mostly.” Jack sighed. “Because, it’s unfinished business.”
—·—
The raft approached the sand bar.
“Sure it’s safe?” Jack shouted, watching Paul on the shore, his kayak already stowed.
“The creek is dry,” Paul shouted back.
The raft bumped the sand and Jack jumped from the tube. He waved his goodbyes and turned up-creek, following Paul, carrying only a radio and a water bottle borrowed from Lizzy McClaren. Paul moved out quickly, his pack on, carrying a handful of willow branches.
A half mile in, they climbed out of the drainage. Paul consulted the GPS on the data-logger, then led across open range. After another quarter mile he stopped. “The pin should be here,” Paul said, head down, searching the ground. He kicked, then dug with his fingers. “Found it.” He dusted around the pin, and slipped a tape measure over the head. He consulted his notebook. “Eight meters north.” He walked the tape out and stopped. He looked down.
Jack stopped beside him. Dirt. Ground devoid of grass. Not devoid of hoof prints. “This won’t take long. Won’t even need the quadrat. Not for this one.”
Paul nodded, jaw clenched. He punched on the data logger. “One hundred percent dirt.” He looked up. “Next plot, sixteen meters.” He walked upslope. “Here.”
“Same. Dirt,” Jack said.
Paul nodded.
“No wonder the creek flashed. Nothing to hold the rain.”
Paul read off the next location, and moved to the next plot. “No grass.”
“But three percent cover,” Jack said, laying the willow sprigs on the ground. “Snakeweed, on the line.”
Paul moved on. On the next, sagebrush. Only a small percentage of cover.
When done, Paul dropped the data logger into his pack. “Big difference.”
“Didn’t need me on these.”
“No, but it helped on the others.” He set a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You will be okay?”
Jack keyed his radio, and listened for the hit on the repeater. It popped. “I’ll be okay. You?”
“The last plots are also on range Manson uses. If like these, I will easily get to the takeout on schedule. If going according to plan, trespass cattle are being rounded up now.”
“So the data aren’t really a factor?”
“No, his cattle are in trespass, a policy matter. But I want the data. It is best we have it.”
Jack nodded.
“We should have acted years ago. The state office would not sign off, until now.” He pointed. “Because of that.”
Jack turned. On a distant knoll, horses picked at what looked to be more dirt than browse. He squinted, counting. Six, maybe seven, maybe more beyond the rise. Some gray, some sorrel, some white. Even at a distance, he thought he saw ribs. “Bad shape.”
“Like the range. But, horse advocates are ready to take us to court.”
“Must have a good bloodline. Skinny, but otherwise might be nice horses.”
“An old rancher in Colorado put his stud out with the mustangs. He’d push ’em into a box canyon, take the best colts for himself. Old man died a few years back.”
“And now they’re here.”
“Caught in the drought. Moved south searching for food.” Paul threw on his pack.
“Before you go, let me look at your map,” Jack said. “What’ll happen with Manson’s cattle?”
Paul turned, giving him access to his pack. “Auction. Five hundred cows with calves. Proceeds to pay fees and fines. It won’t cover it.”
Jack unzipped a pocket and pulled out the topo. “What’s the schedule for the horses?”
“Later in the week. Then off to adoption.”
Jack opened the map and slid a finger across the contours, studying terrain, then roads. A range road meandered across the desert, veering through a saddle between a mesa and a smaller knoll, and ended at a graveled county road. He looked up and scanned the horizon. Mesa—there, to the west. The knoll—south of it. He refolded the map and stuffed it back in the pocket. “Careful on the river, Paul.”
“You, too, my friend. Sorry I won’t make it to the meeting tonight.”
“Got it covered.”
Paul took off for the drainage.
Jack turned, put his eye on the distant mesa, and set out walking toward it. At the top of a rise, he keyed his radio. “Dispatch, this is Chastain.”
“Dispatch, go ahead Jack.”
“Molly, I’m gonna need a ride. Anyone who could pick me up on the BLM part of the monument? Back side of Spanish Skirts Mesa?”
“Standby.” The repeater clicked off.
Jack dropped his arm and continued walking.
“Chastain, this is Dispatch.”
He raised the radio. “Go ahead.”
“Luiz Archuleta’s on the plateau. If I can reach him, he could circle back to your location. Could be two hours. Three at the most.”
“Might be tight but that’ll work. I’ve got a meeting tonight in town.”
“Copy. I’ll see if I can find another option. By the way, the superintendent’s looking for you. He couldn’t raise you on the radio.”
“About what?”
“Questions. Your friend from the regional office is here.”
“What friend?”
“Erika Jones. She’s here with a congressional aide.”
Jack stopped. He took a breath, and raised his eyes to the sky. Friend? Yeah, right. “Tell Joe, I’m in a good location to talk. Got plenty of time. Otherwise, I’ll call from Luiz’s phone.”
“Copy.”
Why the hell is Erika here? He stepped around sagebrush and reset his direction. Let Joe Morgan worry about her.
Late summer, skies blue, light cumulus on the horizon. Hundred degrees in the shade. Hell of a day for a hike. He glanced west. Dust devils danced across the desert. He looked north. None.