Fire - A Sam Maxwell Adventure

Stephanie’s nightgown tugged appealingly as she made her coffee. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Well, nothing, just right this second.” She granted the kiss I’d been fishing for, but nothing else. “First custom rig pulled into town.”

“Harvest season comes about the same time every year, Sheriff.” Her grin was hiding behind her curtain of auburn hair.

“You knew it was going to get here eventually.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to be happy to see it.”

“It’s the circle of life here, Sam.”

“It’s a week of abject misery. It’s nothing but barfights, speeders, and drunk and disorderlies.”

She turned and graced me with another kiss. “Poor baby.”

I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, exactly what was going to happen as soon as I touched her satin covered hips to pull her closer.

No question at all. . .

I was just superstitious enough to consider holding back, on the off chance it would ward off the inevitable, before I let my fingers caress the lovely curves.

“WNCH 393 base to Sheriff Maxwell."

Steph gave me a devilish smile before she disappeared into the living room to fire up the TV and start her own morning ritual.

I snapped my handheld radio loose from my belt and keyed it. “Go ahead.”

“We just got a report of a wildfire in Sheridan County. It’s not far from the county line. They’re predicting south winds today.”

Well, that sucks. “Show me 10-76 to county line for observation.”

“Roger that, Sheriff. Drive safe.”

“Will do. Maxwell clear.”

*****

Northwestern Kansas, and particularly Decatur County, was easy to get around. Two major highways bisected the county. Highway 83 ran north-to-south, and 36 east-to-west. 36 would take you to Denver if you followed it into the sunset.

From there, the county was subdivided into a one-mile square grid. Each square was commonly called a ‘section’, and each had a numerical designation. Quality varied, but the majority of section boundaries had at least a trail if not a decent gravel road. Frequent road signs also worked off the numerical grid, further simplifying navigation.

I decided to set off down Hollywood Boulevard, the gravel road that ran south a mile east of and parallel to 83. While I had somewhere to head, there was nowhere I needed to be, so steaming down the gravel gave me a chance to lollygag a bit and take in the sights.

The smaller farms were the best indicator that summer harvest truly was just around the corner. Combines were being greased, fueled, and panels were being closed and latched. Windows would be washed next. They’d be taking tests to town once the dew went off.

Wheat had to be a certain moisture percentage before it could be harvested and safely stored. The process happened quickly even under normal conditions, and this year’s La Niña hadn’t slowed things down. Harvest would come and go in a week or less if the weather held, which it was predicted to do.

I pulled into the Lewis place, mostly because I saw Norman walking toward his three ancient silver combines, parked military style in the grass in front of his shop. He had a roll of paper towels under his arm and a bottle of window cleaner in his hand, weapons of the trade for the coming battle.

The blast of cool air that came as I rolled down the window removed any trace of drowsiness from the night shift I’d already worked.

“What do you think, Norm?” I asked as I idled alongside him.

“It takes a big dog to weigh a ton.”

 “It takes a bigger dog to whoop its ass. You going to sample wheat today?”

“I ain’t going to call bingo to it.”

I chuckled. “You’re a grumpy old bugger. You know that, don’t you?”

“I hate harvest, Maxwell. You know I hate harvest, because I hated when I was twelve years old, I hated it the moment we met, and I still hate it now.”

“You farmers are supposed to look forward to this all year long.”

Norm nodded. “You do everything you’re supposed to?”

I thought back to Stephanie’s negligee tugging against her backside. “Not everything.”

“Anything I can do to help you, Sheriff?”

I pointed south. “Word has it there’s a fire down in Sheridan. Take a second and hook up a disc for me?”

“Will do,” Norm said.

“All right then,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything. We’ll see you Sunday morning.”

“Be safe, Sheriff.”

“Will do.” I backed through a turn and idled out of the yard, taking a right on the boulevard.

Kansas was one of the most unique places I’d ever been. The weather had nothing on the Sahara Desert – it’d freeze you in the morning and cook you for lunch. There were animals, things growing, and peace. From ripe fields of wheat to grazing cattle, there was more than a little to see as I trundled south toward the black smudge rising over the horizon.

I’d been around the area long enough to attach a dollar value to the scenery. An acre of wheat alone averaged around 300 dollars, and there were about 2,500 acres within easy eyeshot, landing just over three-quarters of a million dollars. Given the county’s 420,000 acres of farmland, that meant there was at least 42 million dollars of wheat out there waiting for harvest, and that said nothing of the higher-value crops like corn or beans.

The wall of dust kicked up by the south wind in front of me was blinding, but it opened my eyes to the real threat of a fire. It hadn’t rained for weeks. 

My county was a tinderbox, and someone had dropped a match just over the border.

***

Arresting, detaining, or even the appearance of harassing a resident of Sheridan County would bring a bunch of legal hassles for me, which I might survive if my cause was good enough. Any activity of the like also carried the unmitigated certainty of honking off Sheriff Bridges, which was beyond inadvisable.

With those limitations in mind, I could do whatever I wanted anywhere in the country. As the saying went, the terrorists hadn’t won yet, and Mike Bridges was as committed to keeping it that way as anyone else.

I’d have been surprised if I hadn’t found him somewhere around the skirmish line trying to hold the fire at bay. Covered in sweat and soot, it was obvious he’d been hard at it.

“Sheriff? Can I do anything for you?” I asked as I pulled alongside him.

He took a long pull from his water jug before answering, “Catch the bastard that did this before he does it to you."

“Arson?”

“Harvest always brings a fire or two, Sam. We’ve had sixteen today. south to north, more or less in a line. Someone’s driving around throwing shit out of a car doing this.” Bridges coughed and took another long belt of water. “Go catch ‘em before it happens to you.”

“Thanks, Matt.” I said just before I accelerated away.

Our counties were, to a certain degree, reversed. The bulk of Sheridan’s population was west. My county, Decatur, was the opposite. To a large degree, there was nothing but wide-open spaces off on the west side. Plenty of mischief could be caused, but there weren’t a lot of people around to see it happen.

Once I’d shouted at my phone to wake it up, I told it to call the Rex Dawson, of the volunteer fire department. He would answer a page from dispatch without hesitation, but I had no idea if he’d pick up his cell since he was prepping for harvest like everyone else. I didn’t want the whole county to hear what I was thinking over the radio.

“What’s up, Sam?”

“Rex, I was just down in Sheridan. Bridges thinks we’ve got an arsonist running around throwing matches.”

“Until they throw ‘em, aren’t they your problem?”

“I’m guessing they’ll hit out west, if we see anything.”

 “Well, I’d look out on the west side of the county, then,” Rex affirmed.

“You’re not going to put a truck or two out in the field until there’s a problem.” As soon as I said it, I realized it was not a question, and definitely the wrong thing to say. 

“Listen, Maxwell, my crews have real jobs. Do yours and stop this before we have to come clean up your mess.”

“Roger that. Thanks, Rex.”

***

Anyone causing problems would start out in the southwest corner of the county if my guess was right. Give or take, that represented 128,000 acres – way too much for me to effectively pattern search alone.

The last mile or so of the county along the west border was pretty barren. There was less continuous farmland through there, so that took a little off of it. It was also the height of summer. Dust from moving vehicles was visible for miles from the air.

There were a couple of things I could look for from the air. While it would be preferable to simply spot an asshole with a Molotov cocktail in his hand, I knew this was probably going to be a little harder.

The biggest thing was, specifically, a car. The stereotype that all farmers drive pickups might be the only one that was actually true. While a lot of families had a car, it was reserved for trips to town.

Clothes were another thing. Most guys were old guard, preferring denim jeans. You saw the occasional cargo shorts, but there was seldom any other variation.

Deciding that where I was held as much promise as anywhere else, I skidded to a stop right in the middle of the road and jumped out. I had a bunch of goodies under the bed cover on the back of my truck, including a military spec surveillance drone. It was the same sort of thing most people could buy in an electronics store but beefed up with longer range and a little more versatile camera.

It was early in terms of harvest. Dew set every night as the world cooled off. Even Western Kansas’s desert-like temperatures took a while to burn it off, and harvest wasn’t possible until it did. Things should still be pretty quiet.

The display built into the handheld control was plenty big enough that I could tell where the unit was relationally to myself. The one-mile grid that Kansas roads were built around was really helpful in keeping track of where I was.

Any movement around a combine was automatically ignored. Galen was washing the windows on his, and Mrs. Murtaugh was greasing her husband’s machine while Lawrence filled the fuel tank. It was all very normal Thursday morning activity.

I had plenty of battery left, but started to consider landing and calling my conspiracy-theorist hunch off. I’d been up all night – it was entirely possible that I was letting my imagination run away with itself. It wasn’t unheard of for one’s desire to protect to overrun the threat. . .

And then I found them.

Four guys, all dressed in cargo pants and button-down shirts. All four had short hair, neatly trimmed beards, and matching aviator sunglasses. I spun the drone slowly, making sure I knew where it was before I locked it into observation mode on their black sedan and jumped back in the pickup. The little craft would do what it could to hold its position relative to the car if they moved, and otherwise would return to the same location as its controller and land if the battery died.

The stretch of road they were on was effectively a dead end. My truck would have its trouble getting out the south side. I’d have them boxed in as long as I made the trip before they noticed the drone, spooked, and ran.

I was too busy trying to hang onto my truck over the gravel roads to glance at the drone’s display, but I wasn’t surprised to see they’d spooked by the time I got into the area. We hadn’t passed each other, so they were somewhere between me and the end of the road.

“Dispatch, I have a fire just off of the dead-end southeast of Bassettville Cemetary. Send backup and a full brush fire response,” I snapped into the radio as I saw the first whispers of smoke rising from the field in front of me and off to the left. Skidding to a halt next to the crackling fire, I took a second to push the ‘recall’ button on the drone’s remote, made my decision and jumped out of the pickup.