Page 57 of Badlands

“I agree in principle, but let’s live in the real world. Nash’s a sketchy collector, and you manage the collections of an archaeological institute. The two don’t mix.” She hesitated. “He’s also… kind of weird.”

“I will choose my friends as I wish,” said Skip stiffly.

“And,” Nora plowed on determinedly, “he drinks too much. Just take it easy with all that expensive tequila. Okay, younger brother?”

Skip felt heat creep into his face. Nora was right, of course. But a few drinks now and then were definitely not a problem—he could manage that and stay in control. “Caveat noted,” he said, careful to moderate his tone.

“I’m going to text you every day, at least when I’m in range,” Nora said. “And I’ll call you when I get to San Luis.”

“Great. And don’t worry about me—just be sure to take care of yourself.”

They hugged. She gave Mitty, their golden retriever, a hug as well, and then she zipped up the duffel she’d just packed. Skip watched her head out to the Jeep and heave her duffel into the trunk, feeling more than a twinge of anxiety. Mitty stood next to him, looking worried, as he always did when anyone went away. Skip did not have a good feeling about this last-minute trip to Mexico. But… at least it freed him up.

As her vehicle disappeared down the street, he shook off the feeling of doom and pulled out his cell phone. “Hey, Edison. It’s Skip. Listen, the trip is on, and it’s onnow. Get your shit together—we’re heading to Gallina!”

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SKIP’S CAR WASa piece of crap, so he was glad Edison had offered his F-150 as their expedition vehicle. Gallina Canyon—where the heart of the Gallina ruins were hidden—was located within the Chama River Wilderness, which meant they could not simply drive to the spot and camp. A pack mule would be too much of a pain, so in the end they decided to backpack in. After poring over maps, they worked out the best route. But there was a hitch: to get as close as possible to the wilderness boundary before abandoning the pickup, they’d have to drive through the western portion of the San Juan Basin oil field, negotiating a warren of dirt roads built by the fracking companies leading to their wellheads and pump jacks. Those roads were out of bounds to all but oil field workers.

“The hell with those fracking bastards,” Edison had said, staring at the maps over glasses of tequila, neat. “It’s public land that belongs to the American people. We’ll sneak through.”

At the time, Skip had thought it a reasonable idea—but now, as they turned into the dirt road leading into the fracking badlands and were greeted with a huge, threateningNO TRESPASSINGsign, he wasn’t so sure. He’d recently had a disagreeable brush with the law, which had included an arrest, jailing, and a trial. He’d been resoundingly acquitted—but it had been a terrifying experience, and he really, really did not want to get into any kind of trouble again.

“Someone should unload a twelve-gauge into that sign,” said Edison, giving it the finger as he accelerated past.

They entered a maze of dirt tracks, Edison driving and Skip navigating, using his iPad and Google Earth. They were, he saw, already three-quarters of the way to their destination, if not more. A few miles on, as they wound among the dry washes, buttes, and arroyos of the terrain, a battery of giant fracking tanks, painted green, came into view in the middle of a large area bulldozed flat and surrounded by a dirt berm—a horrible excrescence on the landscape. Nobody seemed to be there.

“Look at that,” said Edison.

“Unbelievable.”

They drove past the tanks, where the dirt road divided yet again. Skip checked his iPad—there were no mapped roads here, but he could still guide them using GPS. “Take the right-hand road up that mesa.”

They climbed up a zig-zag cut into the mesa rim, and came out on a sagebrush-covered flat. There were views all around, and now the full extent of the fracking field could be seen: a plethora of dirt roads leading hither and yon in no discernable pattern, each terminating in a bulldozed flat with a well and a row of tanks containing fracking fluid. Piping coiled like snakes around each of the wellheads. The field extended westward as far as the eye could see.

“Disgusting,” said Edison. Skip viewed the expanse with anxiety: this was what they’d have to drive through. And hecould see three white pickups parked at a wellhead not far below the mesa—oil service vehicles. A bunch of roughnecks were there, working on something.

Skip looked at the GPS. “Um, it looks like our route goes past that.”

“Is there a way around?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll just speed past them.”

“They’ll see us coming.”

“Screw them. Weownthis land.”

Edison might be right, but the fact it was public land hadn’t stopped the oil companies from putting up a bunch ofNO TRESPASSINGsigns. Skip reminded himself that, Edison being a billionaire, he could buy his way out of all sorts of trouble. Wasn’t that what rich people did? Of course it was.

Edison drove to the far side of the mesa, where the road dipped down into the next valley. At the lip, Skip wondered if the workers would see their vehicle, now prominently outlined against the sky. And see them they did: several began pointing up, then running toward their trucks.

Edison accelerated, slewing around a couple of hairpin turns before they reached the bottom. The day was relatively cool, but the road was still parched and they were sending up a corkscrew of dust that could be seen for miles.

Once on the flat, Edison really opened it up. “Easy, now,” said Skip, gripping the door handle.

“We’ve gotta get past them before they can block the road.”

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