The Triggerman Dance

John watched a raven shoot down toward the Big House, then bank up high again on a gust of wind, wings almost vertical, tail angled to catch the air.

"Too bad," said John.

"Brought it on ourselves," said Holt. "People like you and me."

"How so?"

"Didn't reproduce fast enough. Not enough of us. Too busy building cars and cities to get the numbers up. Need a good bench to play in this league. We made too much of everything but ourselves. Just aren't enough of us left. By the time I die, Liberty Ridge will be a little island in an ocean of people who won't understand its value. No concept of the value at all. Price, ye; Any yahoo with a calculator can figure price. But not value Asians, Latins, Blacks, Arabs. You name 'em. Got nothing against those people, but they didn't work for this. Isn't in the blood. Don't understand this land anymore than I could understand theirs. Say, Vietnam or Culiacan or Kathmandu. They can overrun it easy enough. Can buy it up lot by lot. Suck away the fruits. But they won't add to it. Only diminish. Only take. Like vampires. Not their fault, though. Human nature to take what good."

Holt stood for a moment and looked out toward the ocean John saw the proud set of his mouth and the hard, prying squint of his eyes.

"Well, I really didn't bring you up here for a lecture."

"Lecture on."

"I'm bored by my own ideas."

"I'm not."

"You've spent ten seconds with them. I've spent six decades."

"No, go on. Explain. Why do these new people have to diminish the land? Isn't that what the Juaneno Indians would say about you?"

"Reasonable question. So far as the Indians go, too bad they couldn't hold on to it. They got it. They understood. Had a totally different slant than us. But they were outnumbered, outpowered, outfoxed and outbred. Same thing that's happening us. Did we diminish it? Fuck yes, and that'll be the death of it. And us. But look at the Ridge. A little gem in the miserable flood of human progress. Beautiful fruit. Habitat for wildlife, plants, human beings. Clean air and a lake jumping with fish. Rich earth. I didn't diminish this, proud to say."

"Then why will the new barbarians diminish it?"

"Already told you. Because they don't understand it. Land makes people. The land shapes people. Forms them to its purpose. So people need to invest in their heritage. Never abandon it. Work their own dirt—it's what gave them life, isn't it? The need to protect and defend it. A land should never be sold. Conquered, maybe, as history proves. What do you think?"

"I think those are words well spoken."

"I didn't ask for a critique of my oratory. I asked you what you believe.

"In politics, you should always agree. Wayfarer may couch his pathology in politics, and he may couch his politics in pathology, so you must do the same. Never fawn; and rarely defer. Question his planks; but endorse his platform.

"I believe that what you say is self-evident. What it begs is the smaller personal question of whether to stick it out and watch things rot, or pack it up. I packed it up for Anza three months ago. But I'm not sure it was the right thing to do."

"I can guarantee you it was the wrong one."

"I feel the pull of the land, too, Mr. Holt. I grew up here, you know. I used to poach fish out of the lake, camp out in these hills, surf that ocean. Yeah, it was the wrong decision—to go. I knew that, not long after I'd left."

"Case closed. It's easy to sound like a racist crackpot sometimes. Hell. Maybe I am."

"Not at all. I think you're speaking for the way a lot of people feel but are afraid to admit."

"Probably. But you're wrong about either staying put and watching things rot, or heading out. Third option is the winner. That's to stay put and do something. Work. Fight. Create. Resist. Gather. Whatever you want to call it."

"That takes a person of capacity and vision. I'm not sure I have either."

Holt laughed then. "You certainly do. You proved that three days ago when life and death were at stake. Sometimes it takes special pressure to bring one's vision into focus."

"Well, that was an extreme circumstance, sir."

"Without extreme circumstances nothing very interesting gets done."

"You're right."

Holt stared at John then, his pale blue eyes steady behind the thick lenses of his glasses. His look suggested levels of assessment. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Well, sir. I would like to get a trailer set back up for myself."

"No. Not right now. The long run. For your life. What's your plan? I've watched you for three days now, and I know you're not stupid. You observe. You consider. You must have some inkling of what you want. How you can get it."