Archer Mesa trailhead was deserted when Jim forded the creek and rode in. The sky was a clear royal blue and the morning sun had burned off the early chill. He scanned the area.

        The trailhead was in a grassy bowl formed by Archer Mesa to the south, a steep rocky ridge to the north, and a half mile slope back up to the plateau he’d just descended. Peeking beyond the slope were the snow speckled mountains, clear and shining in the slanting sunlight. The grass on the meadows and slopes was dry, browned by sun and lack of rain.

        He rode up to the wood fenced corral, dismounted, and unsaddled the horse and mule. He put them in the corral and found hay in Bob’s trailer. After he threw them a bale he gave Buck a good grooming.

        “Okay, Buck, you get some down time while I run into town. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

        The horse raised his head and looked Jim in the eye. After a moment Buck nodded, let out a grunt, and went back to eating.

        He walked over to the little shack used by the trailhead host hoping to cadge a cup of coffee. He was out of luck. A note on the door informed him that the host was in town until noon.

        Jim walked back to the trailer and unhitched it from the truck. He was about to get in and drive off when a squad car came cruising up the gravel access road. The car rolled into the trailhead and came to a stop next to the trailer. As the dust settled a mountain of a man got out.

        The mountain strode up to Jim, towering over his six foot, rail thin frame.

        “Howdy. I’m Zeke Thomasen, Sheriff of Flint County. Are you the fella who works for Bob Lundsten?”

        Battered boots stuck out from his jeans and his tan, snap button shirt sported the metal badge of his office. Six foot five and over two hundred sixty pounds with a rugged, weather beaten face, he looked like the kind of western lawman who would break up barroom fights single handed and stare down gunslingers. Jim immediately thought “John Wayne” from the old western movies. The sheriff had some hard miles on him, probably about sixty five years’ worth by Jim’s reckoning, but his eyes were bright and alert under his white Stetson. Jim liked him on sight.

        Jim stepped forward and shook hands.

        “Yes, sir. I’m Jim Taylor. Out here from Wisconsin for the summer. Down here on a fool’s errand for some campers who have more money than sense.”

        The sheriff snorted. “I’ve told Bob I can’t see how he can put up with taking care of folks like that.”

        “Sheriff, I’m coming to that point myself. What brings you out here?”

        “You heard about the big protest over at Flat Top Mountain? Lot of folks don’t want oil drilling there. We’ve got eco people, green people, and a lot of local elk hunters trying to stop it. That area is a prime elk breeding ground.”

        “Yes, sir. I’ve heard a bit about it from Bob. Personally, I’m sympathetic.” Jim smiled and shrugged. “But, um, I’m new here and figure I should keep my head down and stay out of trouble.”

        “Good, keep it that way.” The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “ I see you’ve got a gun on your hip.”

        “Yes, sir. Bob’s rule. I’ve got it in case I need to put an animal down. Can’t just call the vet like back home.”

        “You sure do use ‘sir’ a lot. Where’d you get your manners?”

        Jim laughed. “No, just habit I guess. My dad, he’s a judge back home, almost called you ‘Your Honor’. Once you get chewed out by your dad who sends people to jail, you learn to do it without thinking.”

        The sheriff shook his head. “Huh, a judge? Why’d he send you all the way out here to baby sit spoiled tourists? Running from something?” The sheriff gave Jim a penetrating look.

        “Sheriff, it’s a long story,” he put his hands up, palms out, “but nothing criminal.” And nothing I want to talk about.

        “Well, anyway, I’m here to warn you and Bob. We’ve got the access road to Flat Top blocked off, don’t want the protesters mixing with the drilling crew.”
         “What’s that got to do with us?”

        “I’m afraid some of them might come up your way and get at Flat Top from behind. I need you to let me know if you see folks trying to do that.”

        “You can get there from the Solitude trail?”

        “Yep. Go over Florence Pass and then head west five miles then south. Take a couple of days on foot.”

        “Okay, Sheriff, I’ll let Bob know as soon as I get what I was sent for.”

        “What was that?”

        “Champagne, brie cheese, goose liver pate, and genuine table water crackers.”

        The sheriff laughed and shook his head. “Jim, you give Bob my sympathy.”

________________________

        Chet Stevens, Jr., had climbed part way up the ridge behind the camp. He had his cell phone to his ear.

        “Okay. It’s in motion. I’ll call when…” He stopped when he saw movement below him.

        “Chet, what are you doing up here?” His wife, Stella, stepped into view fifteen yards away. “Who are you calling?”

        “Call you later,” Chet whispered and shut the phone quickly. He stuffed it into a pants pocket. “Hi, Hon.”

        “Chet, who were you calling?” she asked impatiently.

        “Just trying to make a business call, but even climbing way up here the cell service sucks.” He tried to put a frustrated look on his face, grimacing and slumping his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion.

        “You have people to manage things,” she snapped. “The boys are making too much noise. I think I’m getting a migraine.” She rubbed her temples for emphasis. “Why don’t you take them fishing?”

        Chet stuck both hands in his pockets to hide his clenched fists. “Okay, I’ll get the guide to take us.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 1