Free Tortoise Soup by Jessica Speart

have nothing better to do. But since you’re new to this state, let me explain a few things.”
    I had become mesmerized by the tiny, coarse black hairs that poked their way out from beneath his shirt, and snapped my attention back up to his face. “Explain away. I’m always happy to learn something new.”
    “Everything pertaining to wildlife and the mines goes through this office. That means me.” Harris hawked up a wad of phlegm, holding it in his mouth while he unzipped another pocket on his belt. Pulling out a wrinkled handkerchief, he spat into the fabric, wadded it up, and stuffed it back in its lair.
    “What that means is that any bird or critter turning up dead is held for my agents.” Harris leaned forward. “We’re the only ones who do autopsies on dead wildlife for the mines. That’s the rule.
Comprende?
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    I shifted in my chair, noticing the scorpion embedded in a glass paperweight that held down a pile of documents. “Do you happen to have a list of dead wildlife turned over by Golden Shaft to your agents in the past year?”
    Harris’s eyes narrowed and his nose flared, exposing tiny hairs that bristled like miniature porcupines on alert for attack. “There were none.”
    “So what this amounts to is nothing more than a crank call?” I persisted.
    “That’s right. That’s just what it was,” Harris replied. His sunglasses resembled two large, impenetrable black holes.
    All my senses told me to stop right there. Which is exactly what made me barge ahead. “Would you happen to know how much NDOW has received in donations from Golden Shaft in the past two years?”
    Monty’s jaw hooked forward and the corners of his mouth curled tightly down. “You’re treading on dangerous ground here. Let me tell you something, girlie girl. You ain’t home. What you’re up against is history. Mining is what built Nevada. It’s what built the West.”
    I looked past the sunglasses into his eyes, and knew I should consider this a warning. I hate warnings. They’re an unspoken challenge begging to be answered.
    “In other words, don’t bite the hand that feeds you?” I asked as innocently as possible.
    Harris stared at me darkly. “Not unless you’re prepared to be bit back.”
    I heard the mine before I actually saw it. The roar of trucks carrying one hundred ninety tons of ore apiece filled the air like thunder. I parked on top of a butte and pulled out a pair of binoculars to survey the scene below.
    Long gone are the days of the small independent miner with pickax and shovel. Mines are now run by multi-million-dollar corporations complete with high-tech computers, earth moving equipment, and an arsenal of chemicals, all in search of microscopic flecks of gold.
    For a while I watched the steady stream of trucks carried on tires that stand twelve feet in diameter, running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, their engines never dying. The shrill wail of a siren periodically pierced the low, steady rumble. Getting back in the Blazer, I wended my way down to the mine.
    The closer I got, the more I realized that I was approaching a fortress that appeared to be more military installation than gold mine. Razor-sharp barbed wire surrounded the compound’s perimeter, with guards carrying M-16 rifles posted at intervals. From the security alone, it appeared to be the mother of all mother lodes. The Fort Knox of the West. A posted sign appeared near the mine’s entrance, warning “Use of Deadly Force Authorized.” They needn’t have worried. I had already taken it for granted that the armed guards were there for more than show. Still, it was nice to know they at least had the courtesy to inform me that I stood a good chance of being blown away if I made the wrong move.
    I drove up to the front gate, where I was stopped by an unsmiling guard cradling an M-16 in his arms. I stated my business and waited expectantly for the guard to wave me inside.
    “Are