Cold Wind

“You’re at it early.”

“I’m up to my ass in alligators, that’s why,” Rulon said, motioning Joe to an empty chair across from his desk. “What the hell brings you down here into the heart of darkness?”

Joe sat down and nodded his appreciation when Rulon poured him a cup of coffee from a Mr. Coffee set on a credenza. “I’m here to interview a prisoner,” Joe said. “Orin Smith. He’s in federal lockup. The FBI and our friend Chuck Coon put him there. I happened to see you, so I thought I’d say howdy.”

“Howdy,” Rulon said sourly. “I hope this won’t take long. I’m here early these days because Eastern Time is two hours ahead of us, which means those bastards in Washington have a two-hour jump on us in their never-ending effort to screw us or tell us how to live our lives. I need the extra time just to chew out federal asses. I can’t afford to do it for just six hours a day anymore.”

He flashed his teeth in a poor excuse for a smile to show he was kidding—sort of. “When the people of this state hired me, it was to go to work for them, not our federal overlords in D.C. But that’s how it’s turned out, and I’m getting damn sick and tired of it.”

“Okay,” Joe said. He’d heard Rulon on the subject several times before. Everybody had. It was one of the reasons the governor’s popularity remained at record-level highs in Wyoming. That, and his penchant for challenging federal officials to bare-knuckle fights or shooting contests to resolve disputes.

“And you caught me on a particularly bad day,” Rulon said. “A whole shitload of new federal rules just came down on our heads about set-asides and minority hiring and environmental crap. I’ve got to get on the phone and start yelling at these bastards.”

“I understand,” Joe said.

“I just want to govern my state,” Rulon said. “I don’t want to spend all my time yelling at those knuckleheads and suing them. Hell, I know what a minority is—they don’t need to tell me. A minority is being a Democrat governor in Wyoming, goddamit! So why are they making my life a living hell?”

Joe chuckled, despite himself.

“Now what do you want?” Rulon said. “You know I didn’t like how that deal went down last year with those brothers in the mountains. You know I didn’t like how you handled that.”

“I know,” Joe said. “I did the best I could, given the circumstances.”

“I know you think you did,” Rulon said. “But it wasn’t how I wanted it.” Then, with a wave of his beefy hand, he dismissed the issue. “I need more yes-men,” he said. “I deserve more yes-men.” He grinned. “And fewer independent thinkers like you. Hell, I’m the governor.”

He looked to the ceiling and opened his arms: “Where, Lord, are my sycophants? Do I need to run for U.S. Senate to get some?”

Joe snorted.

“You’re going to have a new director at the Game and Fish soon,” Rulon said, as always changing subjects with the lightning speed of a television remote control. “I hope you can get along with him. Or her. They may not allow you to operate with the kind of autonomy you seem to have. I mean, it’s Tuesday morning and you’re in Cheyenne. Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I just worked the whole three-day weekend,” Joe said. “Last time I checked, the state owes me twenty-five comp days.”

“That you’ll never take,” Rulon said.

“Except today and maybe a few more this week. I’m following up on something else right now.”

“Right,” Rulon said. “You’re here for a reason. What is it?”

“Wind,” Joe said. “What’s the inside story?”

Rulon snorted and rolled his eyes. He said, “They’re everywhere, aren’t they? Those wind farms? I’m not against the idea in principle, and there are a few locations where they can actually be cost-effective and productive. But the wind energy people have got to play on a level field with everybody else. A lot of those guys are a thorn in my side, as if I need more trouble. They want to throw up those turbines on top of every hill and ridge as far as the eye can see. But they’ve got to slow the hell down,” he said, “until we can get a handle on it.” He shook his head.

“We used to think we were cursed with Class Five, Six, and Seven wind in this state,” he said, “and now we find out we’re blessed with it. But for Christ’s sake, we’ve got to get some control. Not everybody wants to look out their window and see those things. In the last few years, we’ve all learned the word ‘viewshed.’ But what I need to be made to understand is why it is we’re putting up all those turbines when right underneath them is all the oil, gas, coal, and uranium we’ll ever need but we aren’t allowed to get. If the reasons these windmills are going up is based on wishful thinking and policy and not need, what the hell are we doing?”

Joe shrugged his I’m-just-a-game-warden shrug.

“Is that what you want to know?” Rulon asked.

“Partly,” Joe said. “But specifically I was wondering about the Rope the Wind project up in my neck of the woods.”

Rulon sat back in his chair and laced his fingers across his belly, which was much bigger than the last time Joe had seen it. Rulon said, “Now I get it. This is about your father-in-law.”

“Partly,” Joe said.

“He was really chained from the blade of a turbine?”

“Yup. I found the body.”

“Jesus,” Rulon said, reacting as if a chill were coursing through him. “What a way to go. I hope it doesn’t start a trend.”