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I give him a bedazzled smile and hold his brown eyes. “Bill, tell me how to fight and I’ll do it.”

“Create chaos,” he advises. “On the edge of chaos, that’s where change begins.”

I’m glad that I am close enough to get a good look. His eyes are at once vacant and hostile.

“Radical resistance comes in lots of ways,” he says. “Walk through these halls.” He indicates the booths for farm sanctuaries, and organizations that save ducks from having their livers turned into foie gras. “You’ll find your path.”

Not surprisingly, given his glib style, Bill Fontana has a handler, a pretty Asian woman in a nice suit, who maneuvers him toward a couple of print reporters who ask about the story in Willamette Weekly about corruption at the BLM.

“Our wild horses are not for sale for the personal profit of government drones,” Fontana says as their pens fly. “We refuse to allow free spirits of nature to become pawns in an elitist scheme to benefit the corporate ranching interests.”

Donnato must be watching, because my cell vibrates.

“Fontana’s on in fifteen minutes and the ballroom’s packed,” he reports.

“How’s the crowd?”

“Tense. Something’s up. I’m hearing Herbert Laumann from the BLM is going to show.”

“Why?”

“He wants to debate. About the wild horses.”

“That’s not smart.”

“Your hazelnut friends are in the food aisle,” Donnato says, and we click off.

In spite of myself, the fragrance of rice soup and fried lentil crackers draws me to the food concessions. Among them is a booth for Willamette Hazelnut Farm, and sitting at the table behind golden piles of hazelnut brittle is Megan Tewksbury, stacking flyers.

“Megan! It’s Darcy!”

She glances up and breaks into a smile. Then a big warm hug.

“You were awesome at Omar’s the other night,” she gushes. “That was thinking on your feet. You liberated over three hundred dollars.”

“Hey, the cash register was open.”

“The mustangs will benefit, I promise you that.”

“What are you doing?”

“Organizing. Julius is too impatient for this kind of stuff.”

Megan is more fluffed up than she was at the bar, wearing her business attire: a white shirt with an Indian vest embroidered with tiny mirrors, her hair loose and frizzy, lots of chunky silver jewelry.

I pick up a flyer. “Save Our Western Heritage” appears above a photograph of the most stirring animal I have ever seen, “Mesteno, legendary Kiger stallion.” His ears are erect, his neck strong, and he has a fine muzzle and intelligent eyes. He is dun-colored, with darker legs, and the musculature of his body is athletic. His long flying mane and tail remind me of a children’s book illustration.

“This is a mustang? He is stunningly beautiful.”

“That’s because he’s free.”

I have fallen in love with a horse. It is peculiar as hell.

“We’ve forgotten what freedom is,” Megan goes on. “Mesteno is saying, This is the way it’s supposed to be.”

Something inside me melts. “It breaks your heart,” I say, not quite understanding why.

“It softens your heart,” Megan replies, correcting me. Her moist green eyes hold mine. “Will you come to our rally? We want to call attention to the deputy state director of the BLM slaughtering these animals. And profiting from it.”

“Where?”

“At his son’s school. When all the kids are getting out.”

“I don’t know. What about the son?”

“Nothing to do with him—nobody wants to hurt a child. We’ve been tracking Laumann. We know his routine and when he’s there.”

“Okay, I’m in. Hey, Bill Fontana’s speaking. Are you going?”

“If Julius ever stops jabbering. He admires Fontana, and he wants to get over there. Just never ask him a question about the law.”

The big man is holding forth with another guy his age. He is wearing a fresh pinstriped shirt and jeans, the frayed red suspenders, and a beanie over his ponytail because of the air-conditioning. His pal has asked if the school can legally force his daughter to dissect a frog. Now he’s listening to Julius’s answer with acute concentration, arms crossed, one hand thoughtfully pressed against