Read Online Point of Law by Clinton McKinzie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clinton McKinzie
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
his friends are. Then he glances at Oso, who places himself between the truck and our camp, and wisely decides to pull to another part of the meadow.
My dad touches my shoulder.
“There’s nothing you can do, Antonio,” he says gently. “We’re in Colorado. Your badge isn’t any good here.”
I answer without looking at him and try to make a joke of my own. “Badges? Don’t need no stinking badges.”
My father clips his rock shoes and chalk bag to a small pack. He shakes his head at me before he walks into the forest and heads in the direction of the canyon. He’s going bouldering, I guess. He’s too cautious these days to solo on the steep canyon walls.
David Fast and his hirelings don’t outnumber the Tribe’s mostly youthful protesters, but they certainly outdo them in intimidation. Their physical presence is bigger. Harder. More confident. After disassembling the stove and washing the dishes in the stream, I walk among the pickup trucks and SUVs with my steaming coffee mug and observe the bumper stickers that attest to membership in antienvironmental organizations such as Wise Use and the Rocky Mountain Legal Foundation. Some are even amusing, saying things such as “Are You an Environmentalist or Do You Work for a Living?” and “The Only Good Trees Are Stumps.” My favorite reads, “Hungry and Out-of-Work? Eat an Environmentalist.”
While the newly arrived men mill around, shaking hands, slapping backs, and trying to get a look at the young hippie girls writhing out of their sleeping bags and putting on their clothes, Kim directs a few of her followers in stringing some sheets between trees. Painted on the sheets are slogans like “Save Wild Fire Valley” and “Stop the Development.” The banners are arranged around a prominent stump that I suppose will act as a speaker’s platform.
As I amble I receive suspicious looks from both sides. None of the environmentalists seem to recognize me from the campfire meeting the night before. Without obvious tattoos and facial piercings, I probably look more like one of Fast’s men, except that I wear sandals, shorts, and a purple fleece vest instead of boots, jeans, and a Jack Daniel’s T-shirt.
I’m wandering near Kim, drawn to her as I had been the night before, and wondering if I should offer to help, when a large white van from a Denver television station bounces up the dirt road and into the meadow. At a gesture from Burgermeister, the construction workers eye the people inside with what can only be taken for menace. They shift themselves slightly to be in the way as much as possible. Slowly, the van works itself through the human obstacle course and stops at the small stage-area Kim is arranging. A middle-aged woman climbs out as Kim hurries forward to greet her.
“Kim!” I hear the woman say as they embrace. “So good to see you again!”
The construction workers snicker and I hear one say something about lesbians.
While glaring at the men nearby, the Denver reporter tells Kim, “They put a couple of logs across the road, trying to stop us from coming in. While we were trying to get around them, some thugs in boots and cowboy hats had a talk with the guys from the Durango station, and they turned back.”
“Damn,” I hear Kim say. She joins her friend in glaring at the counter-protesters. One of the men waggles his tongue at her, then toasts her with a coffee mug, to the amusement of his colleagues. Kim catches sight of me watching them and nods slightly.
See
, her look says,
I told you it was going to get ugly
. Then the two women turn, walking back toward the stage.
It’s evident that Kim is too busy to talk to me, so I walk back over to the Land Cruiser and sit down in my father’s soot-stained camp chair. I watch as Kim continues to organize the small rally. It doesn’t appear that it’s going to be much of a protest—with the road blocked down-valley, Kim is stuck with just the thirty or so protesters already in the
My dad touches my shoulder.
“There’s nothing you can do, Antonio,” he says gently. “We’re in Colorado. Your badge isn’t any good here.”
I answer without looking at him and try to make a joke of my own. “Badges? Don’t need no stinking badges.”
My father clips his rock shoes and chalk bag to a small pack. He shakes his head at me before he walks into the forest and heads in the direction of the canyon. He’s going bouldering, I guess. He’s too cautious these days to solo on the steep canyon walls.
David Fast and his hirelings don’t outnumber the Tribe’s mostly youthful protesters, but they certainly outdo them in intimidation. Their physical presence is bigger. Harder. More confident. After disassembling the stove and washing the dishes in the stream, I walk among the pickup trucks and SUVs with my steaming coffee mug and observe the bumper stickers that attest to membership in antienvironmental organizations such as Wise Use and the Rocky Mountain Legal Foundation. Some are even amusing, saying things such as “Are You an Environmentalist or Do You Work for a Living?” and “The Only Good Trees Are Stumps.” My favorite reads, “Hungry and Out-of-Work? Eat an Environmentalist.”
While the newly arrived men mill around, shaking hands, slapping backs, and trying to get a look at the young hippie girls writhing out of their sleeping bags and putting on their clothes, Kim directs a few of her followers in stringing some sheets between trees. Painted on the sheets are slogans like “Save Wild Fire Valley” and “Stop the Development.” The banners are arranged around a prominent stump that I suppose will act as a speaker’s platform.
As I amble I receive suspicious looks from both sides. None of the environmentalists seem to recognize me from the campfire meeting the night before. Without obvious tattoos and facial piercings, I probably look more like one of Fast’s men, except that I wear sandals, shorts, and a purple fleece vest instead of boots, jeans, and a Jack Daniel’s T-shirt.
I’m wandering near Kim, drawn to her as I had been the night before, and wondering if I should offer to help, when a large white van from a Denver television station bounces up the dirt road and into the meadow. At a gesture from Burgermeister, the construction workers eye the people inside with what can only be taken for menace. They shift themselves slightly to be in the way as much as possible. Slowly, the van works itself through the human obstacle course and stops at the small stage-area Kim is arranging. A middle-aged woman climbs out as Kim hurries forward to greet her.
“Kim!” I hear the woman say as they embrace. “So good to see you again!”
The construction workers snicker and I hear one say something about lesbians.
While glaring at the men nearby, the Denver reporter tells Kim, “They put a couple of logs across the road, trying to stop us from coming in. While we were trying to get around them, some thugs in boots and cowboy hats had a talk with the guys from the Durango station, and they turned back.”
“Damn,” I hear Kim say. She joins her friend in glaring at the counter-protesters. One of the men waggles his tongue at her, then toasts her with a coffee mug, to the amusement of his colleagues. Kim catches sight of me watching them and nods slightly.
See
, her look says,
I told you it was going to get ugly
. Then the two women turn, walking back toward the stage.
It’s evident that Kim is too busy to talk to me, so I walk back over to the Land Cruiser and sit down in my father’s soot-stained camp chair. I watch as Kim continues to organize the small rally. It doesn’t appear that it’s going to be much of a protest—with the road blocked down-valley, Kim is stuck with just the thirty or so protesters already in the
Similar Books
