Fire on the Mountain (17 page)

As Grandfather still made no answer or revealed any emotion, DeSalius hurried on:

“Now this testing program will become more active over the years. We don’t deny that. But it’s never likely to exceed, say, seven or eight days a month. Each time a firing is scheduled you will be given a forty-eight hours advance notice. You will never be required to leave this house for more than two or three days at a time, I can almost guarantee that, and if the house is ever damaged, which is highly unlikely—the odds against it are something like a thousand to one—you will be fully compensated, just as you have been compensated for the acquisition of your ranch lands and the auction of your cattle.

“As I may have mentioned, this agreement applies to the adjacent buildings also.” DeSalius twirled his hand in the general direction of the sheds, corral, windmill and tank. “They too will be retained in your possession, to use as you see fit. If you wish you are perfectly welcome to keep a few horses on the place. The Government would have no objection to that, although we could not assume responsibility for their safety during test periods. As I said, our only stipulation is that you agree to leave the premises and the test area
when a rocket firing is scheduled. In return for this minor concession the Government concedes to you the right to possess, live in and, as I said, enjoy the benefits of your family home for the remainder of your natural life, which, judging by your appearance, sir, should be for many years indeed.”

DeSalius finally stopped talking. You could see the effort it cost him—to stop talking. With firm resolution he shut his face for a minute and waited for a response from my grandfather.

But there was no response. The old man continued to gaze toward the mountains, his face calm, his hands still.

DeSalius waited, wiped the sweat from his brow and bald scalp, puffed on his cigarette, took a quick look at the mountains himself, rubbed his knee and rattled the papers in his hand. Finally, unable to wait any longer, he took a pen from his coat pocket and offered it, together with the papers, to the old man. “Well, sir, if you’ll sign this agreement now—there at the bottom, I’ve marked the place—we can conclude this discussion.”

The old man made no move. Hands reposed on the stock of the shotgun, he looked out over the desert toward the hills.

“Well, sir?” DeSalius said, holding pen and papers in the air.

At last the old man spoke. “No,” he said.

“Beg your pardon?”

“No.”

DeSalius very slowly withdrew his extended hands, putting the pen back in his coat pocket and the documents back in the briefcase. He left the briefcase open, however. Taking the new straw hat, which had been perched on one knee, the colonel fanned his heated face with one hand and poured himself another glassful of ice water with the other hand.

The ice jingled merrily, musically, as the chill water burbled through the spout of the pitcher. The pitcher
was covered with a cold dew. When DeSalius finished pouring I reached for the pitcher myself.

“Sir, this is absolutely our final offer,” DeSalius said, sounding like a pitchman for a used-car lot.

“No,” said my grandfather. His favorite word.

“Absolutely your last opportunity.” The colonel took a deep drink of water, cooling his mouth and throat and gut. I could feel another speech coming.

It came: “The Government has been very patient with you, Mr. Vogelin, very patient and very generous. Extremely generous. Though we easily could, we have not yet proceeded to take advantage of the fact that your intransigence constitutes not only a violation of the law but also, in this case, a
willful
and
deliberate obstruction
of the national defense effort. You, sir, are the only man in this entire area who has not been able to see that national security takes precedence over private property and private sentiments. Are you aware of that Mr. Vogelin?”

Grandfather did not reply.

DeSalius went on:

“All of your neighbors have long since conceded this point and have allowed the Government to proceed with its necessary functions, meaning, in this regard, the provision for the national defense and the security of all Americans, including, Mr. Vogelin, yourself. The Government has no concern more vital in these times than the protection of all of us, our families and ourselves, against the menace, the ever-present menace, if I may say so, of a Soviet attack.”

The pause. The silence. I sipped my ice water, listening and observing with every nerve.

“Now Mr. Vogelin,” DeSalius said, “you have had almost six months, sir,
six months
… to reflect on this matter. You have been most generously compensated in every way. Furthermore you have been treated courteously, patiently, and fairly, with an indulgence for your stubbornness that exceeds all precedent. You have abused and threatened our officers and we
have taken no legal action in reprisal. You have trespassed against Government property and we have chosen to disregard that. You have ignored and defied three court orders and we have even allowed that to pass. No other nation on earth, except one as great and powerful and humane as ours, could tolerate such insolent violations of legality. But Mr. Vogelin—” DeSalius stared earnestly at the old man “Mr. Vogelin, the time has come when this Government must act. This Government can no longer wait upon your pride and obstinacy. We have made this final generous offer, allowing you to live here subject only to the certain conditions I have mentioned. Now Mr. Vogelin, in the light of what I have said, I ask you to reconsider your decision. Will you accept our offer?”

Grandfather reconsidered. For about a minute. “I’m sure grateful for all you people have done for me.” He stopped at that.

“And about the offer?” DeSalius insisted.

“The offer. Yes, the offer.” The old man spoke softly and slowly. “Yes, Colonel, that’s a damn generous offer,” He stopped again.

DeSalius reached toward his pen and briefcase. “Then you accept?”

“No.”

“Mr. Vogelin, you must be reasonable. This is your last chance.”

“You said that before.”

“Sir, we’re not bluffing now, we’re not bluffing. We mean business. That you must understand.”

“Don’t fret, DeSalius, I believe you.”

“Will you reconsider?”

“No.”

DeSalius lapsed into stillness. He stared at the floor. The concavity of his chest, the slump of his shoulders, suggested a man driven beyond mere exasperation. “Mr. Vogelin,” he said, speaking slowly and quietly to the floor, “we have done everything we could to spare you embarrassment, to compensate you fully, to allow
you plenty of time, to help you under stand why this removal is necessary. You have refused to cooperate. Mr. Vogelin, we cannot permit you to defy the Court any longer. If you refuse this final offer, sir, the Government will have no recourse but to fall back upon the direct instruments of the law.”

“Direct instruments? That sounds like what I’ve been expecting,” the old man said. “You mean that marshal, I suppose. You better tell him, DeSalius, to bring plenty of help when he comes. He’ll need it”

“He will get all that he needs, sir. And I must warn you that not only will you be evicted by force, if necessary, but you will also be subject to such charges as contempt of court, resisting an officer of the law and trespassing on Government property. You must realize what that can mean. You’re rather old for prison life, sir, if I may say so.”

The old man smiled. “Don’t bother trying to scare me, Colonel. I’m too old for that too. No sir, we’ll settle the whole business right here under the trees. Send your marshal around. I’m ready.”

Again DeSalius fell silent, staring out of the verandah shade toward the awful brute glare of the desert. Far off on the shimmering waves of heat and light Thieves’ Mountain drifted to the north, fifty miles, apparently, from its usual anchorage.

“You know, Mr. Vogelin,” DeSalius said after a while, “this will be the first time in my career as a trial attorney for the Corps of Engineers that I will have had to resort to force to carry out legal procedures. Unless you change your mind. The first time in over fifteen years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

DeSalius shifted about in his chair. He finished his glass of ice water and put his hat on, picked up his briefcase and stood up. He held out his right hand to Grandfather; Grandfather ignored the gesture.

“I want to thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Vogelin. You’ve been kind. Thank you, Billy, for the ice
water, which was a great relief on a day like this. Sir,” he went on, addressing Grandfather, “I’ll see you again soon. Very soon. And under somewhat different conditions.”

“How soon?” Grandfather asked.

“I’m not prepared to reveal that, sir. But it will be soon. Very soon indeed. Perhaps within a few days. Perhaps within a few hours. The Government is going to take steps, sir, that you will be able to understand.”

“About time,” Grandfather said, not in mockery of the man but in genuine relief.

Suddenly DeSalius seemed on the verge of losing his temper. Maybe the heat was getting him. “Sir, don’t you—” he burst out, but he halted himself at once.

He turned sullenly away from us, stepped off the porch and out into the naked blaze of the sun, where his skin and straw hat withered perceptibly.

“Good God, this is a horrible place,” we heard him say, as he walked toward his car. He sounded half-delirious, muttering to himself as he shambled through the dust. I nearly pitied him—his beautiful new suit rumpled and stained with sweat, his hat wilting, his sharp shoes coated with dust, his shoulders rounded in defeat.

But when he reached the car, before getting in, he faced us with his old fake smile. “Goodbye, Mr. Vogelin. I’ve really enjoyed our little conversation. Goodbye, Billy. Be a good boy, help your grandfather all you can. See you again.”

He climbed with difficulty into the low-slung car, started the motor and drove violently away, sweeping in a wide U-turn around our pickup, under the trees and up the road past corral and barn and sheds toward the bluffs of clay that gleamed like fired iron under the sun.

When he was out of sight Grandfather and I stared at each other without speaking a word.

In the evening after supper came Lee Mackie with our mail, with fresh provisions, with news and advice and good cheer.

We celebrated—something. The rum gurgled from the gallon jug. The ice tinkled in the glasses. When the old man wasn’t looking, I sneaked some rum into my Coke, lacing it good.

We sat on the verandah and watched the spectacular death of a day in the sky beyond the mountain range: cloudy islands of auburn, purple and whisky-tinted snow, swan-necked birds with fiery wings as long as the mountains, golden lakes, seas of silver and green. Nighthawks plunged for supper in the foreground, black darts against the radiant light, the wind roaring through their wings. Bats flickered here and there, the horned owl sounded from his tree across the wash, and the horses stamped and shuffled at the water trough in the corral. From the mountains miles away came another sound which only I could hear—the scream of the lion.

“Now old horse, he’s right: it’s a fair offer; you should take it. It’s your last chance.”

Lee clutched his drink with his right hand and beat on the arm of his chair with the left. “Yes, John, you’re a fool to turn this down. Can’t you see it’s a victory for you? They’re giving in. They never made a deal like this with anyone else. You got ’em buffaloed, you old buzzard. If you turn this deal down, why I won’t know what to think. About you. Why I might begin to think you’re turning into a … a wild-eyed fanatic. Yeah, that’s the word, a fanatic. Would anything like this happen in Russia? Why they’d simply put a bullet through your neck. My God, John, you can’t expect the whole United States Government to give in to you completely. They’ve got face to save too.”

He stopped for a drink.

Grandfather, silent and unsmiling, highball in hand and the shotgun still on his lap, made no reply but continued to stare darkly into the west.

I saw a scorpion, stinger aloft, race across the boards and slip into a black crack.

Lee poured himself a fresh drink and rambled on, his face glowing with good humor and good intentions, his eyes bright with alcohol:

“I’ve talked this over with Annie, John, and she feels the same way I do. That this is a great offer, the best you’ll ever get, and you should accept it. In fact everybody in town has heard about it by now, don’t ask me how but you know how the word gets around, and they all think you’re a fool for turning it down. A fool—or something worse. I tell you, there’s not a man in New Mexico could agree with you now. If you reject this deal why there won’t be any sympathy for you at all any more. None at all.”

“I think Grandfather is right,” I said.

“You hush up,” Lee said, smiling briefly.

“Billy’s still with me,” Grandfather said. “You’re still with me, Lee.”

“That’s right, of course, we’re still with you. You can count on that. But my God—”

“As long as you two are with me I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks.”

“All right,” Lee said, “that makes three of us.” He drank, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and confronted us with his handsome, eager dark face. “Three of us against the whole United States Government and about a hundred and eighty million other Americans.”

“Three’s enough,” the old man said. “Might even be … too many. What do they say about three?”

“Now don’t talk that way. What do you mean?” Lee did not wait for an answer but rushed onward. “John, what more do you want? They’ll let you keep your house. You got that sixty-five thousand-dollar check waiting for you at District Court. Enough for a down payment on lots of far better cattle outfits than this ever was or ever could be.”

“I wouldn’t touch their money with a shovel.”

“You ought to think of other people, old horse. Think of your daughters. They could sure use some of that money. Think of the boy here. You could set him up good with a wad like that.”

“I wouldn’t touch it either,” I said.

“You keep out of this,” Grandfather said. Gently.