Malta, Montana knew it was just a matter of time before another batch of slick outsiders showed up.
You could mark it on the calendar.
They’d fly up from Dallas into the Bozeman-Yellowstone International Airport.
During the flight, they stared down at BLM land with undisguised avarice. Then they would land, slip on their deceptive masks and get to work.
They would sweet talk and smile. At kitchen tables and in pool halls, they would urge the locals to sign a few papers and make a fortune.
Malta, Montana had them all figured out, oilmen sailing in on private jets that burn through a few hundred gallons of aviation fuel every hour.
