On Deadly Ground Read Free Page A

the Suburban wasn’t far away. His path, however, wouldn’t take him as the crow flies. Instead, the single-track trail meandered down the mountain, traversing a maze of switchbacks and depressions, until it finally brought him out on an old dirt road about a quarter mile away. He increased his pace, eager to feel the blast of cool air that awaited him from the truck’s air conditioner. When he reached the Suburban, he slipped off the backpack and began rummaging through its side pocket for the keys.
    For an instant, Greenbriar had the unnerving feeling that someone or something was watching him. He stood up and looked around. Above him to the west, something reflected off the sun. He hesitated, trying to decide what he was looking at. The report of the rifle echoed throughout the canyon at the precise moment Greenbriar realized that he was staring into the barrel of a gun. The bullet struck him in the chest, ripped through his heart, exited out his back, and struck the rear passenger door of the Suburban, showering it with blood and tissue. The force of the blast slammed his body back into the side of the truck. Greenbriar’s legs buckled and his head slumped forward onto his chest as though he were taking an afternoon nap. The vermilion sandstone under him turned a dark shade of crimson as he quickly bled out.
    ***
    Books rose early Monday morning, showered, put on his new BLM uniform, and headed into town. The BLM office was located in the old junior high school. The red brick building was flanked by two side-by-side portable offices, testimony to the growing number of federal employees assigned to the Kanab field office.
    He had an eight o’clock meeting with his new boss, Alexis Runyon, and then planned to head into the field for his first full day on the job. Since they had never met, he felt uneasy. She probably felt the same. He’d been hired by BLM law enforcement managers in the Salt Lake City regional office, not by Runyon.
    Books arrived a few minutes ahead of his scheduled meeting. As he pulled into the gravel parking lot, he saw six sign-toting picketers marching in a small circle across the street from the BLM office. The messages on the signs struck a similar theme: eliminate mining, logging, and livestock grazing from all public lands. On another corner, a couple of hecklers watched with mild disinterest and barked an occasional insult. One of them waved a sign that read, “Eliminate tree-huggers, not cattle ranchers.”
    Alexis Runyon was not what Books had expected. Her small office could only be described as austere. She sat behind an old metal desk in a decrepit chair that must have knocked around government offices for years. One wall displayed a framed aerial photograph of the Grand Canyon. Other than that, the surfaces were bare. No diplomas, training certificates, or awards. Whatever ego she might possess wasn’t on display in her office.
    Runyon stood, introduced herself, and invited Books to sit in one of three metal folding chairs lined up in front of her desk. Dressed in work-casual blue jeans, a red-checkered chambray shirt, and hiking boots, she looked to be in her late thirties. Short, dark hair showed flecks of gray around the temples, and a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. So far she seemed a very unpretentious lady—a good quality, thought Books.
    â€œHope you enjoyed the welcoming committee across the street?” She smiled.
    Books smiled back. “They needn’t have gone to all that trouble on my account.”
    â€œTrust me, they didn’t. They do this sort of thing on a semi-regular basis. And sometimes the local ranchers mount a counter-demonstration, the Eddins brothers and their Citizens for a Free West, the CFW. If you haven’t heard of them, you will.”
    â€œI know the Eddins family. Don’t forget, I grew up here.”
    â€œThe good news is that the two groups don’t often