C. Box: Free Fire

“Think it’s the law?” Bud asked, as the truck got close enough so they could see several long antennas bristling from the roof. It was a new-model GMC, a Yukon or a Suburban.

“You have something to be scared of?” Joe asked.

“Of course not,” Bud said, but he looked jumpy. Bud was sittingon a downed log and he turned and looked behind him into the trees, as if planning an escape route. Joe thought how many times in the past his approach had likely caused the same kind of mild panic in hunters, fishermen, campers.

Joe asked, “Okay, what did you do now ?”

“Nothing,” Bud Jr. said, but Joe had enough experience talkingwith guilty men to know something was up. The way they wouldn’t hold his gaze, the way they found something to do with their hands that wasn’t necessary, like Bud Jr., who was tearing off pieces of his bread crust and rolling them into little balls.

“She swore she was eighteen,” Bud said, almost as an aside, “and she sure as hell looked it. Shit, she was in the Stockman’s having cocktails, so I figured they must have carded her, right?”

Joe snorted and said nothing. It was interesting to him how an old-line, hard-assed three-generation rancher like Bud Longbrakecould have raised a son so unlike him. Bud blamed his first wife for coddling Bud Jr., and complained in private to Joe that Missy, Bud’s second wife and Marybeth’s mother, was now doing the same thing. “Who the fuck cares if he’s creative ,” Bud had said, spitting out the word as if it were a bug that had crawled into his mouth. “He’s as worthless as tits on a bull.”

In his peripheral vision, Joe watched as Bud Jr. stood up from his log as the SUV churned up the hill. He was ready to run.

It was then that Joe noticed the GMC had official State of Wyoming plates. Two men inside, the driver and another wearinga tie and a suit coat.

The GMC parked next to Joe’s Ford and the passenger door opened.

“Is one of you Joe Pickett?” asked the man in the tie. He looked vaguely familiar to Joe, somebody he might have seen in the newspaper. He was slightly built and had a once-eager face that now said, “I’m harried.” The man pulled a heavy jacket over his blazer and zipped it up against the cold breeze.

“He is,” Bud Jr. said quickly, pointing to Joe as if naming the defendant in court.

“I’m Chuck Ward, chief of staff for Governor Rulon,” the man said, looking Joe over as if he were disappointed with what he saw but trying to hide it. “The governor would like to meet with you as soon as possible.”

Joe stood and wiped his palms on his Wranglers so he could shake hands with Ward.

Joe said, “The governor is in town?”

“We came up in the state plane.”

“That was the jet we saw, Joe. Cool, the governor,” Bud Jr. said, obviously relieved that the GMC hadn’t come for him . “I’ve been reading about him in the paper. He’s a wild man, crazy as a tick. He challenged some senator to a drinking contestto settle an argument, and he installed a shooting range behindthe governor’s mansion. That’s my kind of governor, man,” he said, grinning.

Ward shot Bud Jr. a withering look. Joe thought it was telling that Ward didn’t counter the stories but simply turned red.

“You want me to go with you?” Joe asked, nodding toward the GMC.

“Yes, please.”

“How about I follow you in?” Joe said. “I need to pick my girls up at school this afternoon so I need a vehicle. We’ll be done by then, I’d guess.”

Ward looked at him. “We have to be.”

Joe stuffed his gloves into his back pocket and picked up his tools from the ground and handed them to Bud Jr. “I’ll ask your dad to send someone out here to pick you up.”

Bud’s face fell. “You’re just leaving me here?”

“Get some work done,” Joe said, gesturing toward the fence that went on for miles. “Come on, Maxine,” he called to his dog.

Bud Jr. turned away and folded his arms across his chest in a pout.

“Quite a hand,” Ward said sarcastically as Joe walked past him toward the Ford.

“Yup,” Joe said.

The governor’s plane was the only aircraft on the tarmacat the Saddlestring Regional Airport. Joe followed Chuck Ward to a small parking lot at the side of the General Aviation building.

Joe had heard the stories about the drinking contest and the shooting range. Rulon was an enigma, which seemed to be part of his charm. A one time high-profile defense lawyer, Rulon becamea federal prosecutor who had a ninety-five percent convictionrate. Since the election, Joe had read stories in the newspaper about Rulon rushing out of his residence in his pajamasand a Russian fur cap to help state troopers on the scene of a twelve-car pileup on I-80. Another recounted how he’d been elected chairman of the Western Governors’ Association becauseof his reputation for taking on Washington bureaucrats and getting his way, which included calling hotel security to have all federal agency personnel escorted from the room of their first meeting. Each new story about Rulon’s eccentricities seemed to make him more popular with voters, despite the fact that he was a Democrat in a state that was seventy percent Republican.

Governor Spencer Rulon sat behind a scarred table in the small conference room. Aerial photos of Twelve Sleep County adorned the walls, and a large picture window looked out over the runway. The table was covered with stacks of files from the governor’s briefcase, which was open on a chair near him.

He stood up as Ward and Joe entered the room and thrust out his hand.

“Joe Pickett, I’m glad Chuck found you.”

“Governor,” Joe said, removing his hat.

“Sit down, sit down,” Rulon said. “Chuck, you too.”

Governor Rulon was a big man in every regard, with a round face and a big gut, an unruly shock of silver-flecked brown hair, a quick sloppy smile, and darting eyes. He was a manic presence , exuding energy, his movements quick and impatient. Joe had seen him work a crowd and marveled at the way Rulon could talk with lawyers, politicians, ranchers, or minimum wage clerks in their own particular language. Or, if he chose, in a languageall his own.

Ward looked at his wristwatch. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before we need to leave for Powell.”

“A speech for the Community College Commission,” the governorsaid to Joe before settling back in his chair. “They want more money-now that’s a shocker-so they’ll be willing to wait.”

Joe put his hat crown down on the table. He was suddenly nervous about why he’d been summoned and because there was no way to anticipate what Rulon might do or say. Joe had assumedon the drive into town that it had something to do with the circumstances of his dismissal, but now he wasn’t so sure. It was becoming clear to him by Ward’s manner that the chief of staff didn’t really like the purpose of the meeting, whatever it was.

“Everybody wants more money,” Rulon said to Joe. “Everybodyhas their hand out. Luckily, I’m able to feed the beast.”

Joe nodded in recognition of one of the governor’s most familiarcatchphrases. In budget hearings, on the senate floor, at town meetings, Rulon was known for listening for a while, then standing up and shouting, “Feed the beast! Feed the beast!”

The governor turned his whole attention to Joe, and thrust his face across the table at him. “So you’re a cowboy now, eh?”

Joe swallowed. “I work for my father-in-law, Bud Longbrake.”

“Bud’s a good man.” Rulon nodded.

“I’ve got my resume out in five states.”

Rulon shook his head. “Ain’t going to happen.”

Joe was sure the governor was right. Despite his qualifications,any call to his former boss, Randy Pope, asking for a job reference would be met with Pope’s distorted tales of Joe’s bad attitude, insubordination, and long record of destruction of governmentproperty. Only the last charge was true, Joe thought.