Page 17 of In Too Deep
His phone buzzed on the dash.He snatched it up and hit Speaker.“Hey, Virgil, thanks for calling back.”
“Noah, I’ve got five minutes before my meeting with the regional director.”Virgil’s voice crackled over the spotty phone signal.“What’s this about closing the North Rim?The cave incident was terrible, but you and I both know over three hundred people die in the national parks every year.It’s awful, but we can’t shut a park every time tragedy—or stupidity—strikes.I understand the gold has brought out the crazies, but the South Rim is handling it.Why can’t you?”
Noah swerved around a pothole, and the Jeep rattled.“With all due respect, sir, we have a significantly smaller staff than the South Rim.A fact that the treasure hunters seem to have picked up on.More are pouring in every day, ignoring closures, starting fights over nothing.The SAR teams are stretched thin, and our law-enforcement rangers are outnumbered.We need to shut it down—at least temporarily—until we can get more support.”
Virgil sighed.“Look, I get it.The Roosevelt gold’s appearance is a nightmare.But closing the park?That’s revenue suicide.Tourism is up twenty percent because of this mess—people coming to gawk, spending money.The higher-ups want us to manage it, not panic.Increase patrols.Post more signs.Coordinate with the county sheriff.”
“I am an outdoorsman, not a police officer.”
Virgil released a humorless laugh.“Well, you know the first national park rangers were hired more as a police force, keeping people from doing crazy things.Consider this getting back to the job’s roots.”
Noah wasn’t ready to concede yet, and his voice rose.“These aren’t tourists.They’re armed yahoos with shovels and delusions of striking it rich.We had a near-riot at the trailhead two days ago when we refused to let them take shovels and a pickax on the trail.If we don’t act?—”
A shout cut through the air just ahead—sharp and angry.
Noah’s attention snapped to the campground loop as he crested the hill.Two men were squared off near a cluster of weathered tents with their voices escalating.One was a burly biker type in a leather vest, arms covered in faded tattoos, fists clenched.The other looked like he’d crawled out of a survivalist catalog—cargo pants, tactical vest, wild beard.
A woman in a dusty SUV was trying to back out of a cramped campsite, her bumper scraping a wooden post.But the men blocked her path and were oblivious to her honking horn.
“Virgil, hold on.I’ve got a situation here.”Noah slammed the Jeep into park and hopped out with the phone still in hand.“I’m serious, we need to close this place before?—”
The mountain man yanked something from his pocket—a knife, the blade glinting in the sunlight.
Noah’s pulse spiked.“Call you back.”He ended the call without waiting, shoved the phone into his pocket, and hurried forward with his ranger cap pulled low.
This was exactly what he’d been warning about—gold fever turning people feral.
“Let’s calm down.”Noah raised his hands as he positioned himself with one man on his right and the other on his left.
They barely glanced at him, their eyes locked in mutual fury.
The biker snarled something about “my spot,” while the mountain man waved the knife—a short whittling blade with a worn wooden handle.
Around them, the campground buzzed with tension.Families peeked from RVs.A few treasure hunters smirked from their walk-in sites.Shovels and maps were scattered across picnic tables.
It wasn’t a vacation scene anymore.It was Gold Rush meets Mad Max.
Noah waved the SUV driver through.“Ma’am, go on—get clear.”
She nodded gratefully with wide eyes, then accelerated away.
“Put that away,” Noah’s ranger voice boomed.“Brandishing a weapon is grounds for eviction and charges.Stand down.Now.”
The biker’s eyes flicked to him—bloodshot and wild.“You ain’t no real ranger.Just another fool chasin’ gold, like him.”
Not a real ranger?
Maybe he needed to start wearing his starched uniform.He pulled out his badge.“I am a real ranger, and you need to put that down.”
When the biker’s gaze flicked to the badge, the mountain man saw the opening.He jabbed the knife toward the biker, who caught the movement and lunged aside.
When the mountain man lifted his arm again, time slowed.
Noah’s instincts kicked in—protect, de-escalate, intervene.
He thrust his arm out to block the jab.The knife sliced across his forearm in a burning line—white-hot pain followed by the warm rush of blood.
He ignored it, pushed through the shock, and shoved the mountain man back.The guy stumbled backward, his eyes widening at the blood welling up on Noah’s sleeve.
