Hidden Heritage by Charlotte Hinger Page B

the speaker as the undersheriff of Copeland County. He was supposed to be the interim sheriff after the death of Sheriff Irwin Deal whose death had been viewed as a blessing by most of the county.
    â€œThere’s no evidence of drug activity here.”
    â€œThey wouldn’t dare in Sam’s county,” someone said from the back of the room. There was a murmur of appreciation. Sam brushed the brim of his hat and smiled.
    â€œI do admit Sheriff Abbot has been quite efficient at handling problems in the past, whenever they came up. But times are changing. Methods have to change with the times.” There were enough nuances in Dimon’s voice to script a Shakespearian plot.
    I had told Keith about the proxy marriage debacle. He stared at Dimon. If he had had any doubts before that the agent intended to get rid of Sam, he didn’t now.
    â€œDo you mean to tell me that we come over here tonight to have you tell us you hope you will agree to getting rid of our jobs?”
    Oh boy. I swiveled to look at the speaker. Justin Harold is a tall, slim man whose big sunburned ears jutting from the side of his head make him look like a giant mouse. He was part-time law enforcement as were most of the men in the room. Part-time and overworked.
    Harold was the sole support of his aging mother and desperate to keep up his land payments. A fair man, he employed several Mexicans every year to help with the wheat harvest. Years ago, his uncle had married a Mexican woman, but nationality wouldn’t have mattered to Justin’s family. The question was—could they work? Ability to work was the biggest issue. Probably the most prized trait in Western Kansas.
    â€œAnd you’re telling us that you think the murder of a fine man should take second place to bringing in some Hollywood sheriffs to take the place of men who know what they are doing? We give people jobs out here. Real work.”
    â€œGentlemen, it’s not like we aren’t doing anything at all about the Diaz murder. It’s just that, right now, we’re coming out here too often. This has involved a special task force, which we don’t usually form unless there’s organized crime involved. Like illegal drugs. Illegal immigration. Border crossing. That sort of thing.”
    â€œWell now ain’t that a shame?” Harold said softly. “We’re not bad enough.”
    Condemnation of the government was so thick you could feel judgment flap into the room like an attacking falcon. A massive force of condemnation. I could feel it, taste it. Dimon had aroused the whacky Kansas sense of unity against outsiders. The zeal for justice.
    We were the state that had the strongest network of underground railroad organizations that helped runaway slaves make it to Canada before the Civil War. We were the state that later attracted African American immigrants and offered them free land through the Homestead Act. We were the state that just purely admired women like Carry Nation who smashed saloons with an axe. We didn’t hold with people who drank. Unless it was us.
    I stared at Dimon with wonderment. He had achieved a miracle. United the room against him in just a few sentences. He knew that. He was no dummy. That didn’t mean they all agreed with one another, of course. The simply didn’t like him.
    Justin put his hands on his hips and addressed the room. “This man has already said there’s no drug gangs here in this county. He’s not interested in a little murder unless drug lords are involved. And there’s no border to cross into Kansas. He just wants to take away our jobs.”
    â€œAh Christ, Justin, ain’t no drug lords out here anyway. That’s in Eye-rack and Afghanistan. A few gangs back in Eastern Kansas, maybe.”
    â€œPoint is, we do a pretty good job of solving our own problems out here.”
    â€œLike, hell.” I didn’t recognize the speaker. “The KBI