Strong Cold Dead by Jon Land Read Free Book Online Page A

joined at the hip the way you are?”
    â€œWhat kind of trouble, ma’am?”
    â€œOil drilling crew being blocked from entering the rez by some young protesters who want to turn the Balcones into Wounded Knee. From what I hear, they just might get their wish.”
    â€œThanks for your time, Deputy Chief.”
    If Caitlin had her history straight, Spanish explorers had named the land northwest of what is now Austin “Balcones” because of its rolling, terraced hills. Those limestone hills and spring-fed canyons made up most of the sprawling, twenty-five-thousand-acre refuge, which had been formed in the early 1990s to protect some endangered bird species. But one hundred thirty years or so before that, a portion of the deeply bisected Edwards Plateau on its outskirts had been deeded to the Comanche as their rightful land, first under the auspices of Sam Houston and then confirmed by the U.S. government itself in the Medicine Lodge Treaty.
    The refuge, located off Route 183 through Lago Vista, was a majestically beautiful enclave of oak, elm, and cedar trees shading a lush countryside similarly rich in ground flora. All thanks to the waters of the massive Edwards Aquifer, which leached upward to keep the vegetation nourished, in stark contrast to the more barren, erosion-prone areas of the hill country. That same aquifer provided drinking water to a large number of Texans through springs that fed rivers flowing into the marshes, estuaries, and bays for miles and miles.
    The Comanche reservation had been carved out of the most fertile portion of the basin before the preserve itself was a thought in anyone’s mind. A large patch of prime land as lush and pretty as any that Texas had to offer, and upon which the Strong legend was born. Approaching the entrance to the reservation, Caitlin found herself searching her memory for the tale her grandfather had told her about his own grandfather, Steeldust Jack Strong, a Civil War hero who made his bones as a Texas Ranger on these very grounds.
    The actual entrance to the reservation was a wrought iron gate fastened to a high stone wall layered with what looked like mosaic tile. That wall and gate, rimmed by wildflowers and accessible only via a single flat but unpaved road off of RM 1431, had been erected a mere generation before. The twin sections of gate, which had settled into a permanently open position, were today replaced by a tight line of young-looking Comanche lined up arm-in-arm to block access to the reservation by a number of trucks. Those trucks were currently parked amid the tall grass bordering the road, lugging both light and heavy construction equipment. An equally long, straight line of sheriff’s deputies, Austin city cops, tribal policemen, and members of the highway patrol stood between the protesters and construction workers currently milling about, doing their best to keep the peace, while a grouping of spectators and media types watched from a makeshift gallery further back.
    Caitlin left her SUV in a makeshift lot of vehicles parked in no particular pattern and approached, figuring Dylan’s father, Cort Wesley Masters, wasn’t far behind after receiving her text message. More than one hundred forty years ago, Jack Strong had probably been one of the few white men to set foot on the land beyond, which was rich with oak-juniper woodlands, mesquite savannas, and riparian brush that rare bird species shared with gray foxes and white-tailed deer. The preserve stood pretty much unchanged and unspoiled from that day, a swath frozen in time, which seemed appropriate given that many of the young Comanche blocking the entrance were dressed in garb better fit for the nineteenth century.
    Caitlin could feel the building heat, the closer she got to the fracas, and not from either the sun or the camera lights. The bevy of construction workers looked none too happy about being denied entrance to the land on which their jobs rested, while