Mitch grabbed his jeans, thrust his legs inside them, grabbed his draft card out of his wallet, and crawled out of his tent, hands raised.
A few rangers lined the guys up at the picnic table to check their IDs, draft cards, and frisk them, while others searched their tents. Mitch glanced around and saw that all of the crew were there now except Gridwall, who’d run into the forest to hide, and…
Megs.
She’d never been through one of these and might be afraid. Her tent was set apart from theirs, so maybe the rangers would leave her alone. One thing was certain. If he ran over to her tent to warn her, he would drag her into this.
“We know you guys have marijuana.” The ranger in charge had a crew cut, his jaw square enough to cut glass, a nightstick in his hand. “Families come to Yosemite. They don’t need you damned hippies hanging out, half-dressed, playing the devil’s music, and doing drugs in sight of their children. Shame on you!”
The devil’s music?
Accardo glared at him. “We’re not hippies. We’redirtbags.”
Some of the guys laughed, but the rangers didn’t find it funny.
“Tell that to the judge.” A ranger checked Accardo’s ID and his draft card. “You’re nineteen. Have you been called up?”
“No, sir.”
“Face the table and plant your feet wide apart.” The ranger frisked him, found nothing, then moved on to Cook, whose long ponytail he disliked. “Is this how you want the world to see you, with long hair like a girl?”
“Do girls have razor stubble?” Cook asked, baiting him.
The ranger ignored him and moved on to Yoder. “I recognize you.”
Yoder grinned. “I’ve got that kind of face.”
Mitch doubted they would have cause to arrest anyone today. After Yoder got busted with a joint last summer, the potheads in the group had started burying their stashes in old tin cans before they turned in each night just to be safe. Still, they went through this ritual every so often.
The ranger finished with Yoder and stepped in front of Mitch.
Mitch handed him both his draft card and driver’s license. “College deferments.”
“You think you’re smart?”
“Not particularly.”
“I guess not, given that you’re hanging with these jokers. Uncle Sam let you off the hook. Shouldn’t you pay him back by doing something meaningful with your life?”
What was Mitch supposed to say to that? “I love climbing.”
“Face the table.”
Mitch laced his fingers behind his head and did as he was asked, his gaze on Megs’ tent as the ranger patted him down. They hadn’t yet noticed her tent, so…
Jesus!
This pat-down had just gotten personal.
“What’s this in your jeans?” the ranger demanded.
“That’s my dick.”
The other dirtbags burst into laughter.
“That’s your penis. Okay. Sorry.”
Cook snorted. “Is that a foot-long in your pocket, Ahearn, or are you just happy to see the rangers?”
