Tyranny (11 page)

Which was where he found himself now, unsure of his next move. Normally, he would be glad to be home again.

Unfortunately, as sickening as the thought might be, there was a good chance home was now where his deadliest enemies lurked....

F
or somebody like Kyle who didn't work at a job with regular hours, Monday was just another day of the week.

This one was a little different, though, because on this particular Monday there was a chance he might see Miranda Stephens again.

It was crazy for him to feel that way, he told himself sternly as he ate breakfast by himself in the kitchen. Despite their late night the previous evening, Kyle's grandfather was long since up and out somewhere on the ranch, tending to whatever needed doing.

Kyle had meant to get up early, have breakfast with G.W., and find out what he could do to help. But not surprisingly, he had overslept.

At least he could clean up after himself, he decided. G.W.'s breakfast dishes were in the sink. Kyle washed them, along with his own, and put them in the drainer.

Then he went outside to see if he could find something else that needed to be done.

Years ago, G. W. had put in a vegetable garden near the barn by making half a dozen sets of rectangular wooden frameworks that were four feet by six feet on the sides, as well as six inches deep. He had filled those frameworks with topsoil to form raised beds in which were planted tomatoes, green beans, red and yellow peppers, two different kinds of squash, and corn. Those vegetables grew better in the topsoil than they would in the more sandy soil found here in the valley.

That sandy soil supported two large beds of watermelon and cantaloupe, though. When Kyle was a kid, nothing had tasted much better to him than a good yellow meat or black diamond watermelon fresh out of the patch.

Now he saw several of the women who were married to some of G.W.'s ranch hands picking vegetables from the raised beds. Kyle walked over to them and asked, “Can I give you a hand, ladies?”

One of the women made a shooing motion and said, “No, señor, you have more important things to do.”

“As far as I know, I don't have
anything
to do.”

“Señor Brannock said you were looking after the place today, in case more men from the government came to take it away.”

So G.W. wasn't keeping his problems secret from the people who worked for him, thought Kyle. That came as no surprise. His grandfather wasn't the sort to sit around bitching and moaning, but he wouldn't conceal the truth from his friends, either. G.W. could be a stern taskmaster, but he had a lot of affection for his hands and their families and would feel like he needed to shoot straight with them about the problems facing the ranch. That unfailing honesty was one reason they were so loyal to him.

Kyle sighed. G.W. was trusting him to handle things, but if half a dozen SUVs filled with federal agents showed up, he didn't know what in the world he could do. There were plenty of guns and ammunition in the house, but he couldn't stand off a full-scale government assault by himself.

Of course, neither could he and G.W., and Kyle knew his grandfather wouldn't ask Roberto Quinones and the other hands to risk getting thrown in prison—or killed—on his account.

Still, maybe a show of force might do some good. He went back into the house and took one of the lever-action repeaters down from the gun rack. He carried it out onto the porch and sat down with it.

If G. W. wanted him to stand guard, that's what he was going to do.

Despite his determination to stay vigilant, and even though he hadn't really been awake that long, he began to get drowsy almost right away. The heat and the lack of anything to do made it difficult to remain alert.

His head drooped forward, and he dozed off. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep when the sudden shrill ring of the telephone in the house jolted him upright.

Kyle's neck ached from the position it had been in, and he felt a little dizzy and light-headed, not to mention disoriented, as he stood up quickly. The phone continued ringing, so he muttered, “Hold your horses,” as he turned toward the door.

G.W. had a cell phone—he wasn't a complete Luddite—but he was also one of the few people around who had kept his landline. He probably wouldn't give it up until the phone company discontinued that type of service, as it inevitably would.

At least it was a normal digital cordless phone, not one of those old black rotary dial units with a curl cord running from the receiver to the base. Kyle had seen pictures of those, but he had never seen one in real life.

The menu screen on the phone displayed a number but didn't say whom it belonged to. G. W. probably hadn't even gotten around to programming that feature, or else he had tried, failed, and given up.

G. W. Brannock wasn't the type who threw up his hands in surrender . . . unless it was to modern technology.

The phone was still ringing, so Kyle thumbed the Talk button and said, “Hello?”

“Kyle? This is Miranda Stephens.”

He felt a little thrill go through him when she spoke his name. She sounded excited. Not excited to be talking to him, surely, but maybe that meant she had good news.

“Is G.W. there?” she asked. “I tried calling his cell, but it went to his voice mail.”

“He's probably just out of reach of a tower,” Kyle said. “This ranch is pretty big. There are places out on the range where there's no coverage.”

“So he's not there?”

“Nope, afraid not.”

She laughed, and he could almost see her shaking her head.

“I thought he might stay close to home this morning and wait to hear from me, but I guess I should have known better. If there's work to be done, he's going to be out doing it, isn't he?”

“You're right about that,” Kyle said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I'm still in El Paso. I just wanted to tell him about my meeting with the judge.” Miranda paused, then went on. “I don't see any reason I can't tell you. She granted the injunction, Kyle. The IRS can't move to seize your grandfather's ranch until after his appeal has been heard. And I've got so much documentation lined up, I just know he's going to win that appeal.”

It was Kyle's turn to hesitate. He didn't want to spoil her sense of victory at getting the injunction by letting her know that it might be moot. The BLM might wind up crowding the IRS aside.

On the other hand, Miranda
was
G.W.'s attorney, and she couldn't do her job properly if she didn't have all the information about her client's problems.

“That's good,” Kyle told her, “but you'd better brace yourself. It looks like this whole mess is a long way from being over.”

F
or a long moment, there was silence from Miranda on the other end of the line. Then she said, “Something else has happened, hasn't it?” Quickly, she added, “Are you all right? Is G.W. all right?”

She asked about his welfare first, thought Kyle, but he put that out of his mind as he replied, “Yeah, we caught those guys who have been sneaking around the ranch for a while. They were from the Bureau of Land Management.”

“The BLM?” Miranda sounded surprised. “Why would the BLM be . . . wait . . . no, you don't mean . . .”

“They claim the ranch actually belongs to the federal government,” Kyle said. “They're going to take it away from him.”

“That's insane! The ranch has been in the Brannock family for well over a hundred years.”

“You're not telling me anything I don't already know,” Kyle replied heavily.

“But how can they even
make
such a claim?”

He told her what Finley and Todd had said about the Spanish land grant.

“I guess they're bound to have a copy of it,” he concluded. “Otherwise, they wouldn't come waltzing in saying they're gonna take over.”

“I'll have to see it,” Miranda said. Her voice fairly crackled with anger. “It has to be a fake. We'll find experts to examine it. This is blatant, outright theft they're trying to pull off, Kyle.”

“Again, I'm not the one you have to convince.”

She heaved a sigh over the phone line.

“I know, I know. I'm sorry if I yelled in your ear. You're not the one I'm mad at.”

“I know that,” he said.

“So, where is G. W. this morning?”

“I don't know. He was gone when I got up. I suppose he's out on the range somewhere, checking on the stock or doing something else that needs doing.”

“Listen, I'm on my way. I'm leaving El Paso now. I'll be there in a couple of hours, so if he comes in, keep him there until I get there.”

“That might be easier said than done,” Kyle told her.

“Well, try. We've got to sit down and discuss our strategy. We're not going to let those bastards get away with this.”

She hung up without saying good-bye. Kyle looked at the phone in his hand for a second before ending the connection on his end and replacing the phone in its base.

Miranda had sounded even more furious than he'd expected her to, as if the government's latest assault on G. W. was a personal attack on her, too. That thought put a faint smile on Kyle's face.

“She loves the old coot like he was
her
grandfather, too,” he said softly.

As long as that didn't make her regard him as a brother, because the feelings he was having for her weren't exactly brotherly.

He went back out onto the front porch and sat down in one of the rocking chairs again with the rifle across his knees. The women had finished picking vegetables and gone back inside the cabins. The ranch headquarters lay quiet and peaceful in the growing heat as the sun rose toward midday.

Naturally, that couldn't last very long.

Kyle's eyes narrowed as he spotted dust rising in the distance. The highway lay in that direction, and he knew from experience that such a dust cloud meant someone had turned off the pavement and was headed here on the narrow dirt road. The dust shimmered a little in the heat waves radiating from the ground.

Kyle supposed it could be G.W. coming in. His grandfather could have gone to town for some reason.

As the vehicle at the base of the dust cloud came into view, however, he saw that it wasn't G.W.'s pickup. It was a silver, late model sedan. A rental car, maybe?

That thought put a frown on Kyle's forehead. It wasn't a jeep this time, but this could be those two BLM agents coming back to try to throw their weight around some more.

Kyle stood up and moved to the top of the steps. He had the rifle tucked under his left arm where it was handy but not threatening.

He knew that if he had to, he could get his finger on the trigger pretty damn quick.

The car drove up in front of the ranch house and stopped. The engine continued to run, as if the driver didn't want to cut off the air-conditioning.

The man behind the wheel appeared to be alone. The car's windows were tinted, so Kyle couldn't see him very well. About all he could tell was that the man wore dark glasses.

Finally, the driver's door opened. The man left the car running as he stepped out. He was tall and wiry, Kyle saw, and wore an expensive suit. His hair was dark and sleek. He moved around the open door and smiled, revealing brilliant white teeth as he said, “Good morning!”

Kyle didn't think that smile was the least bit genuine or friendly. Somehow, it reminded him more of a shark than anything else.

He gave the stranger a curt nod and said, “Morning.”

He didn't add “Good,” because there was nothing good about this visit that he could see.

“I'm looking for G.W. Brannock,” the man said. “And I know you're not him.”

“I'm his grandson, Kyle. What can I do for you?”

“Grandson, eh? My name is Slade Grayson, Kyle. Maybe you wouldn't mind setting that rifle down? It's making me a little nervous.”

“It's not pointed at you, is it?”

“Well, no—”

“Then you don't have anything to worry about.” Kyle paused, then added, “Until it
is
pointed at you.”

“That would be worrisome indeed, for both of us. You see, Kyle—You don't mind if I call you Kyle, do you?”

Kyle shrugged. He didn't care what this man who reeked of trouble called him.

“You see, Kyle,” Grayson went on. “I work for the United States government. If you'll let me reach in my pocket, I have identification—”

Kyle interrupted him, saying, “I don't need to see any ID. I believe you're who you say you are, mister. What line of bullshit are you gonna throw out there next, that you're from the government and you're here to help us?”

Slade Grayson's sharklike smile never budged. In fact, he laughed, then said, “Oh, hell, no, kid. I'm here to kick your grandpappy's ancient ass off the government's land.”

T
he laugh, the smirk, the bald-faced arrogance of Slade Grayson made anger boil up inside Kyle. This might all be a joke to Grayson, just another instance of an all-powerful government running roughshod over its citizens, but to Kyle it was deadly serious.

“I reckon you'd better turn around and leave, Mr. Grayson,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice from trembling because of the depth of the outrage he felt. “You don't have any business here.”

“On the contrary,” Grayson said, and now a note of self-righteousness entered his voice as he went on. “I'm here on the people's business.”

Kyle let out a short, gruff bark of disdainful laughter.

“As far as I can see, it's been quite a while since the government of this country really represented the people's interests. Not since your party discovered how to buy votes and get dead people to show up at the polling places.”

Grayson shook his head and said, “See, there you're making a mistake. You're assuming that I'm a Democrat. I don't follow any party line. I'm just interested in getting the job done. If the Republicans were running things and told me to come out here and take this ranch, I'd do it.”

“So you're just vicious and power-hungry, is that it?”

Grayson took off his sunglasses, and for the first time Kyle saw how narrow and unfriendly the man's eyes were.

“You're starting to piss me off, kid,” Grayson said. He leaned over to reach back into the car.

Without hardly seeming to move, Kyle shifted his grip on the rifle so that the barrel pointed toward Grayson and his finger curled through the trigger guard.

“Unless you're getting back in there to leave, I think you'd better stay where I can see you, Mr. Grayson,” Kyle said quietly.

“Are you
threatening
me, Kyle?” Grayson asked, and now his voice was soft with menace, too.

“I'm just saying that as far as I know, you're trespassing on my grandfather's property, and I have a right to protect it however I see fit.”

“I told you—”

“You
told
me,” Kyle interrupted. “Those other two BLM flunkies told us a lot of bull, too. But so far I haven't
seen
anything that supports what any of you are saying.”

Grayson didn't like being referred to as a flunky. Kyle could tell that from the way the man's features tightened even more.

Kyle's heart was hammering now. He was well aware that he was pointing a gun at a federal agent, and that was a good way to wind up in deep, deep trouble.

But he was also convinced that he was in the right here—for whatever
that
was worth these days.

“That's what I was about to do,” Grayson said. “I have a copy of the land grant, as well as a duly authorized notice of seizure and forfeiture that gives me the right to claim your grandfather's ranch for the Bureau of Land Management. If you'll just look at them, you'll see that there's no point in putting up a fight. That won't accomplish anything except to get you hurt, and for no good reason.” Grayson inclined his head toward the car's interior and went on. “Now, can I get those documents out and show them to you?”

Kyle didn't see any way he could reasonably refuse, no matter how reluctant he was to cooperate with Grayson. He nodded and said, “Yeah, go ahead.”

He didn't relax as Grayson reached into the car and picked up a folder that was lying on the front passenger seat. The government man opened it, took out a piece of paper that he unfolded into a legal-size document.

“This is the land grant,” he said. “Do you read Spanish?”

“Some,” Kyle said.

“Well, then, come down here and take a look at it.”

Kyle shook his head and motioned with the rifle barrel.

“Bring it up here and set it on the porch,” he said. “Then back off until you're by the car again.”

“You're going to make me stand out here in the hot sun while you read that whole land grant? Really?”

“You're lucky I haven't taken any potshots at you.”

“No, you're the one who's lucky you haven't done that. All you've done so far is act like an asshole, and there's no law against that . . . yet.”

Grayson came closer to the porch and placed the document on the planks. He backed away until he was next to the car again. Kyle waited until then to walk over and pick up the long paper. He held the rifle one-handed, so that he could still fire it if he had to.

When he looked at the paper, he could tell it was a digital copy of a much older document, packed with dense, elaborate script. It reminded him of pictures he had seen of ancient manuscripts written by monks back in the Middle Ages, before the invention of the printing press. Even in this modern copy, the document had a sense of antiquity to it.

He recognized a few words here and there, but for the most part the land grant—if that's what it really was—was indecipherable to him.

He didn't really want to admit that to Grayson, so he just nodded sagely and set the document on one of the rocking chairs. Then he asked, “What's that other thing you were talking about?”

“A notice of seizure and forfeiture,” Grayson said. “It's like an injunction or a warrant signed by a judge. It gives me the right, acting on behalf of the Bureau of Land Management and the government of the United States, to notify your grandfather that the land formerly held by him is now in the possession of the Bureau of Land Management. It also gives him a period of sixty days to vacate said property. He can remove his personal belongings, including livestock, but any improvements to the land as of this date will remain in place.”

“So you get the ranch house that one of his ancestors built?” Kyle asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“And the barns and corrals and the cabins where the ranch hands live, water wells, windmills, fencing . . . Everything like that.”

“I suppose those other two fellas who have been sneaking around out here made an inventory.”

Grayson chuckled and said, “Among other things, yes, they did.”

“What the
hell
does the government want with this ranch? It's never done more than make a living for the family. It's not like the BLM can come in, run it as a ranch, and collect enough money to make a dent in the national debt or anything. Hell, the way you people have run it up over the past thirty years, that'll never go away.”

“The government's intentions for the property are none of your concern, Kyle. Or mine, either, for that matter. Now, I need to give you this document and get you to sign for it—”

The sound of a rifle's lever being worked interrupted Grayson. Kyle hadn't done that. His rifle already had a bullet in the chamber. He looked over at the corner of the house and saw G.W. standing there pointing a Winchester at Grayson.

The old rancher said, “No, what you need to do, mister, is get the hell off my land before I blow a hole right through you.”