Page 32 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)
S KIP’S CAR WAS a piece of crap, so he was glad Edison had offered his F-150 as their expedition vehicle.
Gallina Canyon—where the heart of the Gallina ruins were hidden—was located within the Chama River Wilderness, which meant they could not simply drive to the spot and camp.
A pack mule would be too much of a pain, so in the end they decided to backpack in.
After poring over maps, they worked out the best route.
But there was a hitch: to get as close as possible to the wilderness boundary before abandoning the pickup, they’d have to drive through the western portion of the San Juan Basin oil field, negotiating a warren of dirt roads built by the fracking companies leading to their wellheads and pump jacks.
Those roads were out of bounds to all but oil field workers.
“The hell with those fracking bastards,” Edison had said, staring at the maps over glasses of tequila, neat.
“It’s public land that belongs to the American people. We’ll sneak through.”
At the time, Skip had thought it a reasonable idea—but now, as they turned into the dirt road leading into the fracking badlands and were greeted with a huge, threatening NO TRESPASSING sign, he wasn’t so sure.
He’d recently had a disagreeable brush with the law, which had included an arrest, jailing, and a trial.
He’d been resoundingly acquitted—but it had been a terrifying experience, and he really, really did not want to get into any kind of trouble again.
“Someone should unload a twelve-gauge into that sign,” said Edison, giving it the finger as he accelerated past.
They entered a maze of dirt tracks, Edison driving and Skip navigating, using his iPad and Google Earth.
They were, he saw, already three-quarters of the way to their destination, if not more.
A few miles on, as they wound among the dry washes, buttes, and arroyos of the terrain, a battery of giant fracking tanks, painted green, came into view in the middle of a large area bulldozed flat and surrounded by a dirt berm—a horrible excrescence on the landscape.
Nobody seemed to be there.
“Look at that,” said Edison.
“Unbelievable.”
They drove past the tanks, where the dirt road divided yet again.
Skip checked his iPad—there were no mapped roads here, but he could still guide them using GPS.
“Take the right-hand road up that mesa.”
They climbed up a zig-zag cut into the mesa rim, and came out on a sagebrush-covered flat.
There were views all around, and now the full extent of the fracking field could be seen: a plethora of dirt roads leading hither and yon in no discernable pattern, each terminating in a bulldozed flat with a well and a row of tanks containing fracking fluid.
Piping coiled like snakes around each of the wellheads.
The field extended westward as far as the eye could see.
“Disgusting,” said Edison.
Skip viewed the expanse with anxiety: this was what they’d have to drive through.
And he could see three white pickups parked at a wellhead not far below the mesa—oil service vehicles.
A bunch of roughnecks were there, working on something.
Skip looked at the GPS.
“Um, it looks like our route goes past that.”
“Is there a way around?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll just speed past them.”
“They’ll see us coming.”
“Screw them. We own this land.”
Edison might be right, but the fact it was public land hadn’t stopped the oil companies from putting up a bunch of NO TRESPASSING signs.
Skip reminded himself that, Edison being a billionaire, he could buy his way out of all sorts of trouble.
Wasn’t that what rich people did?
Of course it was.
Edison drove to the far side of the mesa, where the road dipped down into the next valley.
At the lip, Skip wondered if the workers would see their vehicle, now prominently outlined against the sky.
And see them they did: several began pointing up, then running toward their trucks.
Edison accelerated, slewing around a couple of hairpin turns before they reached the bottom.
The day was relatively cool, but the road was still parched and they were sending up a corkscrew of dust that could be seen for miles.
Once on the flat, Edison really opened it up.
“Easy, now,” said Skip, gripping the door handle.
“We’ve gotta get past them before they can block the road.”
The fracking well was temporarily invisible, blocked by some badland formations, but as they came around a hoodoo at high speed, Skip could see the workers in their vehicles, pulling out of the flat and heading for the main road.
Edison floored the accelerator as they fishtailed on gravel and dirt.
Two of the pickups had now reached their road ahead.
“They’re going to block the way,” said Skip.
Edison didn’t answer, his hands gripping the wheel, face tense.
The third pickup also halted on the road, which was now fully obstructed.
“We’ll go around them,” Edison said.
“To the left.”
Skip could see what he was talking about: the left side of the road, while rough desert with scattered rocks and gullies, might still be passable.
The roughnecks had gotten out of the pickups.
Several were holding metal bars.
Skip could see their dirty faces sadistically grinning with anticipation.
But Edison did not slow down.
A hundred feet before reaching the blockade, he veered off the road, their truck leaping a dirt ridge.
He headed for a gap between two rocks, made it by mere inches, swerved and braked as they lurched over a small gully, then swerved again, the dust billowing up in huge clouds.
Edison reached out of the window and gave the roughnecks the finger.
Skip heard some shouted obscenities.
He turned back and got a glimpse of the men, piling back into their pickups.
“They’re coming after us,” he said.
“Of course they are.”
Edison veered back onto the road, once again going flat out.
For a while there was too much dust for Skip to see behind them, but then they rounded a curve, and then he could see that, indeed, at least two of the trucks were giving chase.
Their vehicle was briefly airborne as they cleared a small hump.
Edison gave a whoop as they slammed back to earth.
Skip consulted his GPS.
They were now about halfway across the fracking area.
Beyond, in the blue distance, the land rose as the badlands gave way to a pinon-juniper forest. Even farther beyond that was the wilderness boundary, where even these dirt paths would end.
“See if you can figure out a way to lose those bastards,” Edison said.
There were so many roads up ahead, so many rock formations, that it would have been easy to shake their pursuers—were it not for the plume of dust they were sending up.
It was like a running advertisement of their location.
“Take a right at the next fork,” Skip said.
He continued to give Edison directions, threading them through a maze of roads, dry washes, abandoned pumpjacks, fracking tanks, and hoodoo rocks, all the while headed toward the national forest. Skip wondered if the workers could continue to pursue past the oil field.
He wished to hell Edison had not given those guys the finger.
Still, the two white pickups followed.
And now, finally, they reached the end of the fracking area and dove into the pinon-juniper woodland.
“They’re still following,” said Skip.
“Gaining.”
“Shit,” said Edison.
“This damned truck is just too heavy to outrun them. Time for plan B.”
“Plan B?”
Edison popped open the glove compartment and removed a massive handgun.
“Whoa. No way,” said Skip.
“That’s insane.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t shoot anyone,” Edison said, waving the gun around.
“This is strictly for self-defense.”
“Maybe they’ve got weapons, too.”
“I doubt it. It would be against company policy. Anyway, I’m not going to show this unless we’re directly threatened.”
Skip was seized with apprehension.
“Look—I didn’t sign up for this.”
“They have no right to chase us,” said Edison.
“They aren’t cops. And did you see those iron pipes they’re carrying? We’ve got a right to self-defense.”
They drove around a low butte.
He braked, then drove off the road, parking the pickup in the shadow of the butte.
“Okay, let’s roll.” He tucked the gun into the rear of his waistband and started to get out.
“Roll what?” Skip cried in a panic.
“Just follow my lead. Get your phone out and start recording—but surreptitiously. Skip, don’t worry—I’ve got everything under control.”
Edison walked back to the dirt road.
Skip followed, heart pounding, as he fumbled with his cell phone.
This was insane.
In minutes, the two pickups hauled into view.
Edison waved at them from the roadside and they braked hard, slewing to a stop.
The doors flew open and four guys got out, at least two holding long metal pipes.
They came swaggering over, stopping about twenty feet away.
They looked fierce: big-bellied, massively strong men with dirty faces.
Two wore wifebeaters, one a greasy shirt, and the fourth was, surprisingly, in some sort of uniform, pressed and clean.
Skip started to video, holding the phone casually at his side and trying to keep his fingers from trembling.
“You boys are trespassing,” said Mr. Clean—evidently the supervisor—stepping forward.
“This is public land,” said Edison, suddenly and surprisingly calm.
“Didn’t you see the signs?”
“I did. But as I said, this is public land. Now, I have a question: What do you intend to do with those pipes? Are you threatening us?”
Edison’s voice was so assured, it was like he’d become a different person.
“You boys are coming with us,” said the man.
“We’re taking you to the sheriff.”
“You have no right to detain us.”
“Fuck you,” said the supervisor, beginning to grow angry.
“You’re coming with us, whether you like it or not.”
“Nope,” said Edison.
“And you’re off your fracking lease. This is national forest land.”
The supervisor was now red in the face.
He glanced toward his crew.
“Guys, show these motherfuckers we mean business.”
“We have the right to self-defense.”
“Fuck you, Jack,” said one of the men, advancing with pipe raised.
The others followed.
Reaching around to the small of his back, Edison removed the gun from his waistband and held it lazily at his side.
The men halted. “Cocksucker’s got a gun.”
“Just so we’re clear,” Edison said.
“I will exercise my legal right of self-defense if any of you takes even one more step forward. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and try calling my bluff.” He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze falling on Mr. Clean.
“I can see you’re the supervisor. So you’re going to collect everyone’s IDs for me to examine. I’m reporting you to the oil company. My associate here has it all on video—and your bosses aren’t going to like what they see.”
The men looked at Skip in surprise.
He nervously raised the phone.
As he did so, the irate look on the supervisor’s face began to morph into an expression of apprehension and uncertainty.
It was astonishing how quickly Edison had turned things around.
“Mr. Supervisor? Let’s have those IDs. Toss them on the ground, and my associate will record them with his phone.”
“Go fuck yourself. You’ve no right to collect our names or anything else.” The man’s tone was not as bellicose as his words implied.
“Just as you have no right to detain us.”
There was a silence that stretched into minutes.
“Tell you what,” said Edison with a sudden smile, tucking the gun back into his waistband.
“I’m willing to let it go. We’ll go on our way, and you go on yours. No harm, no foul. What do you say?” His voice was laden with sarcasm.
The roughnecks looked at each other, shuffling their feet.
Finally, the supervisor hawked up a gobbet and spat it on the ground, then without another word turned, making a brusque gesture for his crew to go back to their trucks.
In a few minutes they had climbed in and were gone.
Abruptly, Edison started to laugh, shaking his head as they walked back to their own vehicle.
“Guys like that are the proverbial dog that caught the car. You know, Skip, most people in this world are dumbasses: they take a leap, only to find themselves waist deep in shit.”
Skip tried to laugh along with this bit of philosophy.
Edison pulled out the revolver again, this time showing it to Skip.
“You ever seen one of these?”
“Never.” It was massive, a handgun on steroids.
“It’s called the Judge. This particular model, in fact, is known as the Raging Judge.” Edison laughed.
“Stainless, six shot, six-point-five-inch barrel. Fiber optic sight. Impressive, don’t you think?”
“Hell, yes.” And it was impressive—a huge, terrifying gun.
“Takes either Colt .45 rounds or .410 plated disc buckshot. Or a quarter-ounce slug, for that matter—if you think your wrist can handle it. She’s gotten me out of a pickle more than once.”
Skip wondered what sort of “pickle” he might be talking about, but felt disinclined to ask.
They got back in the pickup and Edison put the Judge back in his glove compartment.
“Carry on, Navigator,” he said, face flushed and triumphant from the encounter.