“No, you’re a pretty big boy, boss. Hard not to notice.” And that was true. Hauptman, pure German, pure white-supremacist, was more like a comic book character; huge, broad shoulders, meaty as hell and no flab on him. The years he’d spent in the pen in San Diego, California, had bulked him up because he constantly worked out. For the size of his face, he had what Richfield thought of as “pig eyes,” very small, dark, and intense-looking. A killer’s eyes, which is why he had been in prison until he broke out and ran. But Hauptman missed little, and what he did miss, Richfield was very good at catching and bringing it quietly to his attention. He never put Hauptman into an embarrassing position where he’d feel that he’d screwed up. Richfield learned a long time ago to be politically astute and always take the blame himself, leaving his leader feeling good about himself—and him, as well. It was easy to play the fall guy and the fool.
Hauptman’s group of four other white males, all convicts with a record, had accepted Richfield as the leader’s right-hand man. They’d met up shortly after Brock had broken out of prison. Hauptman regrouped his men and they had held up three banks in the city, and then successfully avoided law enforcement, getting out of the state for good.
Knowing that he was the exact opposite, body-wise, to Hauptman, Richfield figured his wiry leanness was an asset. Never mind his muscles were like steel cords. He’d killed a Marine officer with his hands. At five-foot-ten-inches tall and barely one hundred and sixty pounds, he posed no outward threat to anyone—until it was too late. He got his name in the brig, Chameleon, the hard way; proving that messing with the narrow-faced white dude in the brig, surrounded by bulked-up prisoners, was a mistake. Everyone left him alone.
He was good at mimicking another person, getting them to like and trust him. Gaslighting others was his way of taking the offense. By then, he was using his vast manipulative skills he’d learned in early childhood in order to survive, and literally lead from the rear. Hauptman didn’t have a clue and Richfield wanted to keep it that way.
“Are they a married couple?” Hauptman groused.
Shrugging, Richfield said, “Dunno. Does it matter? You always see them coming outta the trailer together in the morning and going in at night.”
“Probably bought the place, you think?”
Preening silently, Richfield put on an I-don’t-know expression. “Could be.”
“It screws us royal,” Hauptman growled. “We used to be able to use our ATVs and cross that creek to get to fields high up on that other slope. We could steal from outlying ranches around here in the dead of night, escape across this highway, and hightail it onto the slope to our encampment.”
“We won’t be able to use this shortcut anymore,” Richfield said, shaking his head. “They’re living there full-time. And more and more other ranchers are visiting this place, bringing equipment and tools over to the Quonset hut. Looks like they’re gonna make it a garage of sorts for their stuff. They’re also building a large set of corrals, too. Not to mention pipe fencing on two pasture paddocks.”
Grunting, Hauptman said, “They plowed the fields right up to the slope. They’re planting that whole fifty acres.”
“Poppies, maybe?” Richfield chuckled darkly. “It was a great crop over in Afghanistan, and this place looks pretty fertile. They could be raised here, too.”
“Doubt it. Feds wouldn’t let ’em.” Hauptman made a gesture toward the dark rows of soil that had just been seeded with unknown crops. “I found out real early that the ranchers in this valley are tighter than fleas on a dog. They help each other out.”
“I’ve been watching them this past week,” Richfield agreed with a nod, “and I’ve counted at least ten other ranch pickups with different ranch names on their vehicles, coming and going. You’re right about that. Way too much activity for us.”
“Did you see that Mama’s Store truck out here two days ago? I’ll lay you odds this ranch is gonna start supplying fruit and vegetables to that store in town.”
“I was in Mama’s Store last week,” Richfield said, “and I was impressed. All organic. No GMO. Prices were decent, too, not ripping people off like other grocery chains do.”
“You were in there getting us vegetables and other things we needed,” Hauptman said.
Moving his slender but calloused fingers through his beard, which he’d grown after leaving California behind, Richfield said, “I like going into town. You can’t go because law enforcement probably would recognize and arrest you. I’m a prisoner on the run, just like you, but because of my size, no one pays any attention to me.”
“That’s good, because we always need stuff,” Hauptman said, nodding.
“Yeah, they don’t call me the Chameleon for nothing.” Richfield chuckled. “Besides, I get tired of living out in the wilds.”
“You’re a damn shadow,” Hauptman grumbled, but there was respect in his tone.
“Right. You won’t see me coming until it’s too late.” Richfield grinned wolfishly.
“Glad you’re on our side.”
“Me, too. I like that you’re working with that Guatemalan drug lord, Gonzalez. Him dropping off ten of his men, plowing up that slope area for growin’ marijuana, was a good plan. He trusts us.”
“Yeah, well, he put his money where his mouth is by joining forces with us. Just hope that damned sheriff here”—Hauptman made a gesture toward the town in the distance—“doesn’t get into using drones. He ever flies over that hidden meadow on that slope next to this ranch where they planted all that stuff, we’re DOA.”
“Well, your plan B is good if that happens, and now we have a backup place we can go and hopefully escape any law enforcement if they do find it.”
“Everything in life is risky, and I always have a plan B.”
“Too bad the ranch was bought. We’re gonna have to figure out a work-around. It takes us twice the time to get to that second slope meadow.”
Nodding, Richfield had been here long enough to see the trails created by his group in the thick of the forest. They had an encampment far above the working ranches down along the highway on the valley floor. They tried to plan if a nosy drone from law enforcement or the US Forest Service were flying over, they wouldn’t be able to locate the encampment.
Hauptman was an excellent strategist. But to get across the highway, up to the slope that was owned by the recently bought Wildflower Ranch, was another matter. Part of their need was to never be seen or recognized. There were white-nationalist groups all over the West who had gone into the mountains, gathering racist men and military weapons; and the leaders of each group talked regularly with one another via throwaway cell phones. They wanted to build an army and carve out fiefdoms, all the while doing it out of sight of the civilian populace. Several drug lords were working with groups in various other states. Hauptman had claimed the northwest corner of Wyoming into the Wind River mountain area and everyone agreed it was his turf.
“Did you see a dog around?” Hauptman wondered.
“No. That’s strange. Most of these ranches have a number of them.” Which made it hard for them to sneak into buildings and steal tools or other things they needed, carrying them out beneath the cover of darkness, often aided by bad weather to cover their tracks.