'Were You just kidding me about Sheriff Barnum?' Marybeth asked.
One of the ranch hands splayed in a nearby booth was ogling Marybeth, and McBride stared him down as he might a curious dog. 'There's a lot of bitter men out here,' he whispered. 'Under the surface, there is real anger. They see their whole way of life getting undermined and laughed at. It's a real culture war.'
Marybeth nodded.
'The Trust got started back in the Tom Horn days,' he said. 'That was the name of the group that hired Horn. They were all members of the Cattleman's Association, but kind of a splinter group. They all chipped in, hired Horn, and then let the man work his magic on the rustlers down around Cheyenne.'
Marybeth nodded, listening intently He liked that.
'After Tom Horn got hanged, the Stockman's Trust kept on as a group. But instead of a bunch of guys who had come together for one particular thing, the Trust became sort of a secret men's club. They elected officers and met semi regularly to discuss the matters of the day'
Rowdy paused and gestured at Marybeth's glass. 'D'you want another beer?'
Marybeth agreed. Anything to keep him talking.
Up until the 1940s, McBride said, the Stockman's Trust membership was exclusively ranchers. It was a secret society and new members swore an oath to keep it that way Although all of the members knew why the organization had been formed in the first place, the Trust became a kind of salon. Because so many legislators, judges, oilmen, lawyers, and doctors were also ranchers, the organization prided itself in its old fashioned exclusivity. It was an honor to be asked to become a member.
McBride's father had been a member, as had his grandfather. At one time his father had been vice- president.
The Stockman's Trust was financed by a voluntary levy by ranchers of a few pennies on every cow and by oilmen on barrels of oil they produced. Over time, quite a treasury was amassed. They used it to buy a discreet building in Cheyenne for a headquarters and to pay lobbyists to advance their agenda and protect their interests. The Stockman's Trust was as effective in its quiet way as Tom Horn had been with his Winchester.
'Is it possible that the Stockman's Trust has turned a culture war into a real one? That they've gone back to their roots?' Marybeth asked.
McBride pushed the fresh beer the bartender delivered toward Marybeth and drank a long pull from his bourbon.
'I wouldn't put it past them,' he declared. 'You've got to understand that the Stockman's Trust had completely changed even before I got out of it. It wasn't that old gentleman rancher's club anymore. Most of the new board members were out-of state absentee ranch owners. You know, the kind who likes to come out, put on his hat and boots, and play rancher a couple of times a year, so he can let it drop at cocktail parties in New York or L.A. that he owns a ranch in Wyoming. The old guys, like me, got pushed out. By the time I got out, I hardly knew any of them personally They did all of their meetings by conference call instead of at the headquarters in Cheyenne. These jokers called in from their private planes or from cell phones in limos. They bitched about the bad PR ranchers were getting because of loudmouth environmentalists. It was getting to be a joke. These guys weren't ranchers. They just owned ranches.'
'Did you quit?' she asked.
He stared into his drink. 'I said some things I shouldn't have said when I was drinking. Called a couple of 'em out-of-state cocksuckers, pardon my French. They rescinded my membership after I lost the ranch.'
'Why did those guys even want to be members?'
McBride was ready for that. 'I kind of wondered that myself at first. Then I realized they liked the idea of the exclusive club just like they liked the idea of owning a third-generation Wyoming or Montana ranch. It's the same impulse to be a local big dick and to call the shots. You know, like Jim Finotta.'
She nodded. She thought of what Ginger Finotta had been trying to tell her.
'He's a member, isn't he?' Marybeth asked.
'Shit,' McBride snorted. 'I wouldn't be surprised.'
***
At HOME, THERE WERE no messages from Joe. It was ten-thirty Trey Crump had called and said he would be leaving in the morning for the cabin, and he had asked Marybeth to fax him a copy of the map. If Joe was still missing in the morning, he would notify the County Sheriff to organize a search and rescue team.
Marybeth sat alone at the kitchen table. Her palms left a moist smear on the surface. She stared straight ahead and fought an urge to cry out of sheer frustration.
Suddenly she pushed away from the table and dug the slim Twelve Sleep County telephone book from a drawer. She looked up and dialed the number for the Finotta Ranch.
The phone rang eight times before it was picked up. The voice was cold and distant.
'Is this Jim Finotta?' She asked.
'Yes.'
'May I please speak to your wife, Ginger?'
'Who is this?'
She told him. There was a long pause.
'Ginger is in bed.'
'It's important.'
He hung up on her.
31
