Point of Law by Clinton McKinzie Page B

though.”
    After another quiet minute in the darkness she glances up at me. “Stick around for the rally tomorrow, Anton. You’ll see what we’re up against. It’s going to get ugly.”

FIVE
    I WAKE UP even more thickheaded than usual, groggy and dry-mouthed.
    The sun is rising to the south of Wild Fire Peak, and the meadow is noisy with birds. My father is already sitting up in his bag. He’s gingerly touching his sunburned scalp with his calloused fingertips. The other campers and protesters, the “Wild Fire Tribe,” are still sleeping off the excesses of dope and rum that had been freely passed around the campfire. As I shed my bag, the sunlight touches my bare skin with a caress despite the cold night air that lingers in the valley. Oso rouses himself from a wool blanket by my side. He’d been curled on it in a huge, tight ball, with his nose a few inches shy of being able to bury itself in the stump of his tail.
    Dad and I shake the dew off our sleeping bags, then stretch them to dry on the Land Cruiser’s hood. I pull on a pair of shorts and a fleece vest. After taking care of some urgent morning business in the woods, I set up my tiny stove and spill a little gasoline on the primer. Nearby, Oso pees on the same tree where my father had just relieved himself.
    “Guess he’s showing me who’s top dog,” Dad grumbles.
    “I don’t think he liked being relegated to the backseat yesterday.”
    When I sleepily flick my lighter at the shallow pool of fuel I’d dribbled beneath the burner, flames shoot three feet in the air. I jerk backwards before my hair catches on fire. The sudden motion causes a heavy ache in my skull. The wine and the rum I’d helped myself to around the campfire last night feel as if they’re sloshing like mercury in my brain. For several years now, ever since my brother began his excessive experimentation with substance abuse, I haven’t been much of a drinker.
    I glance at my father when I think I hear a grunt or a chuckle from behind me. He’s frowning, but his blue eyes sparkle with amusement.
    “I think I’ll do the leading today,” he says. “You’re going to be useless.”
    “Bite me,” I say under my breath.
    According to my mother, the old man was a legendary drinker in the old days. It fitted with his wild-man image in the stories she told my brother and me. But these days he never drinks to the point that you could tell. The new Air Force frowns on excessive alcohol consumption. And I know that as Dad gets older he’s having a harder time keeping up with the young Pararescue soldiers he commands.
    We haven’t even finished our oatmeal when the first car rolls into the meadow from the Forest Service road. Soon it’s followed by several others. Most of them are muddy, oversized pickups with gun racks visible in the rear windows. I guess that they belong to the counter-protesters—I doubt many environmentalists would drive one these diesel-guzzling beasts. Some of the trucks are equipped with oversized tires that even at low speeds chew then spit out the meadow’s grass.
    The trucks park haphazardly in the clearing. Some of them appear aggressive in stopping very close to where the Tribe members are waking up and rubbing their eyes as they stare in confusion at the snarling engines. The people who get out of the trucks are, without exception, young to middle-aged men. I remember Kim’s warning from the night before—that things could get ugly—and think that the fact that no women or children have been brought along is a very bad sign. The men look tough when they get out of their trucks. Physical laborers, it appears from the broad forearms and sunburnt necks. Probably construction workers promised work on the new development in the valley.
    The majority of them wear what could be a uniform of jeans and work boots and baseball caps, the only concession to individualism in what tobacco or beer company logo is displayed on their T-shirts. They stare at the