Killing Godiva's Horse - J. M. Mitchell Prairie Plum Press

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of the Bureau of Land Management, or any fed, for that matter. Suffice it to say, the agency claims his cattle are in trespass. Courts agree. BLM plans a round-up, intending to sell his cattle at auction to cover fees and fines. Meanwhile, this guy’s being called a hero for standing up to the feds.”

      Hoff closed the file and pushed it aside. “Interesting.”

      “Yeah, but it’s complicated. By horses. Wild ones, which BLM wants to shoot or capture. That has horse lovers up in arms, pointing at the rancher, saying get rid of his cattle, that everything would be fine if his cattle were gone.”

      Hoff smiled. “So why do you think it’d be trouble?”

      “First, the rancher hasn’t paid grazing fees in years. He makes lots of noise, justifying his actions, but bottom line, suffice it to say . . . he’s a freeloader. Other ranchers pay their fees. He doesn’t. Second, the agency’s caught in the middle, between horse lovers and this Manson character. Third, it’s not your state. You’d be sticking your nose in another delegation’s business.”

      “Interesting take on things, Alex.” Hoff sat back and rested his hands behind his head. “Are you aware the Senate may take up legislation on this issue?”

      “To do what?”

      “Make horses priority.” Hoff shook his head in disgust. “Someone’s calling in favors. Pulling strings. The little guy loses.” Hoff turned and stared out the window, first at the capitol dome, then at the marble-clad wing of the Senate. “I won’t bore you with my usual diatribe, but this country has problems. Real ones. Across the way, the Senate’s playing games, messing with horses.”

      “You’re sure?”

      “I heard it this morning. Chatter before conference committee. Talk of putting staff on it.” He leaned over his hands. “This rancher . . . Manson. He may need our help.”

      “That’s not a good idea, Brent. He’s everything you’ve worked against, your whole legislative career. He’s a welfare case.”

      “Maybe, maybe not. Making him a hero might serve the greater good. We might need a poster boy to drive the upcoming election. At least for our base.”

      “He’d be a distraction, Brent. I can’t risk letting you crash and burn over something that could turn into an ugly fight.” He sighed. “You’ve got too much to offer. I can’t let you jeopardize your chances. Not on this. If a partisan fight, hell, I’d push you to do it, but that’s not what this is.”

      “Do not worry.”

      “Horse lovers . . . they’re passionate. In a mud fight it’s hard not to get dirty.”

      Hoff laughed, and set his hands on his cherry wood desk. “Alex, let’s talk horses. Metaphorically speaking.” He waved his aide to a chair.

      Alex Trasker sat, his lanky frame sprawled in the chair. A cocky smile grew on his face, as if he knew which story he was about to hear.

      “Remember Lady Godiva?” Hoff waited for a nod. “Her horse did the work. Carried her all over town, but who remembers the nag’s name? Do you?” He paused and awaited a response. Seeing none, he continued. “Thought so. That’s because Godiva took the risks. Not the horse. Godiva. She was the one with the cause.” Hoff paused and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Not a criticism, Alex, just a metaphor. You are my most trusted aide. Like Godiva’s horse, you do the work. All of it on some issues. But like Godiva, I’m the one with the cause. The one who moves causes forward. Important causes. To do that, I have to be willing to take some risks.”

      Trasker sighed and stroked his beard. “But, this cause is . . .”

      The congressman cut him off. “Alex . . . remember, I’m taking the risks. I’m Godiva. You’re Godiva’s horse.”

      Chapter

      2

      Scattered clouds gathered over parched earth. For two years, they gathered but brought no rain or snow. Nothing. Not here. The headwaters of the river saw plenty of snow, but clouds passed by the high desert and plateaus of northern New Mexico, waiting to reach Colorado before releasing their moisture. The dusty range held little for deer, pronghorn, cattle, horses, or any surviving animal. Those that remained stripped the land of leaf and stem. If they could jump the fences in search of food, they had done so long before now. If their search brought them here, they had put themselves on the wrong piece of range.

      Year one brought concern. Year two, panic. Most ranchers gathered their stock and took them to pasture elsewhere, or sold them to wait out the drought. The animals remaining picked at desert scrub, searching for anything that could provide a little energy.

      Cumulus clouds floated over the plateau, somehow appearing a little more numerous, a little taller, a little bluer along the edges, but the cloud cover was not complete. Just wandering clouds, as had been the case for two years.

      One cloud settled over the plateau, seemingly held there, possibly by thermals rising up to meet it. Other clouds slowed to wait, only teasing the earth with virga—their rain drops evaporating before reaching the ground—but this cloud, as if defying an established plan, let go and poured. The San Juan Mountains, visible only moments before in the distance, now lay hidden behind a veil of rain draping from the cloud.

      The ground, splattered by raindrops, sucked up what it could. With few plants to help with the task, soil was soon overcome. Trickles formed and streamed downslope. Those trickles joined others, then sheets, then water marching toward drainages, coming together to form creeks, and those came together in a rush to the river.

      With parched ground for miles in all directions—except here, under one cloud—no one downstream expected what was coming. A wall of water.

      —·—

      “Here we go,” Jack Chastain said to himself.

      He let the kayak drift, pulled by the current toward the tongue feeding into the rapid. With long arms, he dipped one end of his paddle, held it, and turned the kayak across channel. He studied the boiling water below.

      Seems different than a minute ago.

      What do you expect? Scout a rapid from the hillside, it always seems different. Have some faith.

      He pointed the bow forward and let the kayak slip into the tongue. Slow, calm waters turned quick. Waves crashed over the kayak’s deck. Only one option now . . . to see it through.

      Current pushed the kayak toward boulders, nearly submerged, a swirling hole in between. He paddled left, through foam and splash. The river fought back, not letting go, pulling him right. He paddled harder. The hole grew large. Water slipping over boulders, calm, then turbulent.

      Keep away from that hole.

      He glided onto the rim—water plunging. He paddled hard, fast. Again. Again. Again.

      The kayak pulled away, into the current flowing past.

      Now, only the small stuff.

      He sucked in a breath, and let the paddle skim the surface, holding the kayak on line. He cut through the last of the waves and settled onto flat water, soaking wet, water shedding off his life vest and Park Service uniform. Paddling into the eddy at river left, he slipped around, then raised the paddle with both arms.

      Paul Yazzi, waiting above the rapid, returned the signal. Slipping into the current, he let his kayak float forward. He entered the tongue, picking up speed. Waves crashed over him, obscuring all but his helmet. The ends of his paddle appeared in alternating flashes, in and out of the water. He pressed for river left. Gliding toward the boulders, he worked one end of the paddle, stalled on the lip, and slowly pulled away. Free but balance lost, he slipped over, waves crashing over him. The bottom of the orange kayak bobbed in and out of whitewater, then up-righted. Yazzie dashed through the last of the

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