Chapter 4: State of Arizona - Northern Government
The caravan winds its way over through the desert, over and alongside the old highway, now in a state of disrepair this far west. The ranchers, gruff and hairy men, spit and sing and talk to each other, occasionally riding ahead in pairs to scout the road. Michael Ettinger, the head of this caravan, rides next to me as I sit in the lead wagon and tells me about this part of the state.
Well, you've got four main factions out in this part of the country - that's country as in countryside, though I suppose seein' as it's all part of Flagstaff in name at least, we're a sort of country in that way too.
First faction is us ranchers, proud an' free, right boys?
The riders in earshot whoop and whistle.
Most of us were only young bucks back in the Old World, some of us were getting ready to move on from the old ranch and head off for better prospects, but then it turns out the best prospect you can ask for in this day and age was the only source of fresh beef and clean water for miles around. None of us were about to leave after that.
Now things've had time to shake out and we're doing pretty well for ourselves, all the little ranches hereabouts are tied together by one thing or another, trade or marriage, I myself married Rancher Lake's oldest, that's my dear Jane.
[How are your relations with the capital?]
Well, I'd be lying if I said any of us were so fond of the tax man or the inspector, but they don't come around so much anymore. Flagstaff's too far away for all that, and besides, they're too busy with every other front - paving roads and digging wells out east, and sending prospectors into the big corpse city.
[Do you ever send people on salvage?]
Not particularly. A few folk'll join up with a salvage team for a season, bring back a little extra something, but for the most part we leave the ruins well enough alone. Too many raiders the further south and east you get, and we've only got a handful of workable trucks ourselves, maybe one to each ranch - and not much gas for any of them.
Anyways, the only time we see government officials is when we visit Flagstaff on a trade caravan, like we're doing now. Sold a bunch of cattle in Bullhead for salvaged gear, we'll trade that in Flagstaff for bullets - they've got their own munitions works there, and good mechanics. The taxman'll take his cut, but we'll make it a haggle. Why do you think we kept the goats?
He winks at me.
[What about the others?]
Right, the other three. Well, there's the Lake Mead Project. Big settlement and rebuilding program by the government, trying to keep Hoover Dam in shape and use the water to grow crops, set up their own little communities. Also a good base of operations on the upper Colorado. They do damn good work on the dam, we make sure to keep them supplied in beef while they bring the crops in, and unless there's a drought they'll keep the country watered.
There's the Indians, the Hualapai and Havasupai that live down in the canyon, they keep to themselves, and out of the way. They're poor but they have a bit to trade. Then there's the Mormons north of the canyon.
He spits.
You don't want to mess with them, trust me. The Indians have a little contact with them, and they don't like what they hear. I don't either.
[What's life like out here?]
Oh, it's all in the rhythm of the seasons nowadays. Winter, summer, rains, dry spells. We move the cattle between pastures and work on our gear, and once in a while there's some excitement. Cattle raids, just young bucks doing it to prove they can, but those don't lead to deaths. Not like the raiders.
We'll get a band out of Prescott once a year, mainly on foot, but once they sent a war rig, and at that point everyone had to band together just to drive em off.
He sighs.
It's getting harder to get our hands on Old World stuff. We picked over Kingman a long time ago, and most salvage goes to the big markets in Flagstaff or Bullhead City. A lot of our own old gear is breaking down, too, and we either gotta buy replacements, which are rarer than they used to be, or make do with what we can. Most of the men are in homespun and cured leather these days.
But. It beats being dead in Phoenix, or working on a line in Flagstaff. It's our own life, to do with as we please.
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LIVE! I COMMAND YOU TO LIVE!
