Durango (19 page)

He turned, took her wrist and pulled her into his arms, and kissed her for a considerable length of time.

Well, she said, that's a little more like it. Now I know you are glad to see me.

He poured the whiskey neat into two water glasses and added a couple of cubes of ice to hers. They touched glasses and drank.

She gave him a report on her painting excursions and announced that this was a celebration. The fine arts gallery in town had bought a half dozen of her paintings and were going to exhibit them the coming weekend. He toasted her success and congratulated her. She brought in the bundle and untied it. She had another four paintings, like the others, roughly two feet by a foot and a half in dimension.

They're beautiful, he said studying them one by one, just like always. This one, he held up a study of a doe and twin fawns against an aspen grove, it's spectacular. Look at those trees. The sunlight on those leaves is just real. And those deer are going to jump off that canvas. How do you do that? It's amazing. You're just getting better and better. No wonder those art folks scoop these up. You're going to be a famous artist. Fancy dealers from the city are going to be after you.

She shook her head, but he continued with a long face. Then, I know what'll happen. You'll be hobnobbing with those arty people in New York and San Francisco and all your small-town cowboy friends will be forgotten. He pulled a large red handkerchief from the back pocket of his worn jeans and put it to his eye.

She laughed out loud. Oh, now look at him. Weeping in his beer at his lost love. She took his face in her hands and now gave him a long, soft kiss. Poor cowboy, she said. Poor, sad cowboy. Taking all this drama in, Toby stood up in the doorway and barked.

They both laughed and sipped their whiskey. I mean it about these pictures, he said. Lord knows I don't understand art. But as the fella said, I know what I like.

Take your pick, she said.

Oh, I couldn't do that, missy, he said. These are much too valuable to be tossing around like that. Though I would like to put this one with the deer and aspen trees up on that wall in there, gesturing toward the dining room, where folks could see it.

Folks? she laughed. What folks? If you have folks in here, it's sure not when I'm around. She turned her mouth down. Unless…

Unless what? he said.

Unless, you know, some other cowgirl's taking my place.

Now, missy, you're risking a swat on the behind for talking like that.

What is it with my behind, mister? she said. You seem to have it on your mind.

Because I haven't seen it in too long, he said. He refilled the glasses and turned on the low fire under the elk steaks.

He told her about his recent meeting with Leonard Cloud, Sam Maynard, and the council members and the scheme they had come up with to reorganize a coalition to get the Animas–La Plata finally constructed.

She clapped her hands. I knew it. I knew it. I knew if you got into this that you'd figure it out. I knew it. She then asked a number of questions, including about the federal money for construction, repayment contracts for all the users, whether current feasibility studies could be used to avoid more delays, and a variety of other issues that revealed her considerable knowledge about the project. He emphasized that it was not a done deal, that concurrence would have to be established with the other users and political approval achieved in Denver and in Washington.

During this discussion he finished cooking dinner and served it at the kitchen table. He opened the sensible red wine she had brought, noting with pleasure that there were two bottles.

They were into the second bottle, and dishes of ice cream, when she asked, Did you see Two Hawks when you were down there…in case it's any of my business?

He nodded, slightly uncomfortable at the inquiry. For him, the visits with the ancient holy man were about as close to confession, therapy, and meditation as he would ever get. It was a measure of his trust in her that he even let her know of his friendship with the old man.

I did, he said. As I've told you before, it always makes me feel better…cleaner, somehow. It's a strange thing, but I gave up trying to figure it out a long time ago. He talked to me about the cougar up above—he gestured to the northeast and the Weminuche—and how the cat was thinking. He paused, then said, I don't think any of us, white folks, non-Indians, whatever, will ever come close to the understanding of nature and the wild creature that the Indians have. It's just so natural, I guess you'd have to say, for them. It's their culture and their history and even their blood that gives them the wisdom they have about these things, things we either take for granted or try to use or kill.

She held his hand as he talked. I'll tell you something I've never told anyone else, he continued. After I've seen the holy man, I think a lot about what he says and about his prayers and it gets to me—he pointed to his heart—here. I came back that day and Toby and I walked up the trail to the cattle grazing meadow and I sat down there and I…I…I guess I cried.

By now Caroline had tears in her eyes. She stood up, took his hand, and led him upstairs.

37.

She awoke before dawn that Saturday morning, before Sheridan for a change. She slipped from bed and smiled as he snored, then wrapped herself in his old robe.

Downstairs, she let Toby out and put coffee on. She poured orange juice and lit the fire under a large skillet. She had put strips of bacon in the skillet and stirred up the eggs when he appeared on the stairs.

Well, now, isn't this something, he said. If it hadn't been for the bacon smell I'd probably still be asleep. Did you slip something in my whiskey last night?

The elixir of love, she said. Works every time.

I'd have to say it works just about every time where you're concerned, he said as he kissed the back of her neck.

Where I'm concerned? she murmured. And what about those other cowgirls we were talking about last night? Works with them too? He started to smack her behind and she winced, There you go again. The old rump fixation.

The sun was now emerging over the ridge line that divided the Sheridan land from the Waldron place. They finished the bacon and eggs and toast, and she poured a second cup of coffee.

I had a glass of wine with Frances Farnsworth a couple of evenings ago, she said. She had some interesting information. Her enterprising reporter, young mister Carroll, tracked down my former husband.

Sheridan's jaw dropped, and he put his coffee cup down heavily. He did what? Why in hell would he go and do a thing like that?

Well, he did. He's obsessed with that business years ago, as you know. And he apparently had the notion he could unwrap the mystery and straighten things out by talking to what's-his-name.

Russell is his name, as I recall, Sheridan said evenly.

I do recall that was his name. I guess it still is. Nevertheless, the young sleuth found him in Kansas City of all places and confronted him.

That would have been worth the price of admission, Sheridan said.

I suppose, Caroline said. In any case, Patrick Carroll trapped Russell into admitting—finally—that he wrote the letter.

With all due respect, Sheridan said, if you don't mind my saying so, my recollection of Russell was that he was not the sharpest tool in the box. But how in the world did the kid trap him, as you put it?

According to what he told Frances, Patrick told him he knew the letter was handwritten and he'd verified that it was Russell's handwriting.

No one except the Farnsworths ever saw the letter, according to what I heard, Sheridan said. It was marked personal and Murray opened it, and they printed parts of it but never showed it to anyone else. How in God's name would the kid have known it was handwritten?

He didn't, Caroline said. He was bluffing. Poor Russell bit and said he knew it wasn't handwritten, that he wasn't that dumb. Then he threw Patrick out.

Sheridan shook his head. Now what? What is Frances going to do now? If she brings all that old garbage up again, you might want to consider joining that art colony out in San Francisco.

What about you? Caroline asked.

Me? I'll pack up what I need in the panniers and Red and Toby and me will head for the Weminuche and stay for a good long while.

Daniel, wait a minute, she said. The fact that a jealous husband wrote an anonymous, libelous letter years ago will prove to the few remaining doubters in this town that you were wronged. It will set things right.

Caroline, you don't understand, he said. I don't have to prove anything to anyone, especially not this many years later. I don't care what people think. I found out a long time ago that people will believe what they want to regardless. So, the price required—digging up all the old garbage—is too high for the reward, some kind of reinstatement that I don't need and don't care about.

She touched his unshaven face. Well, my dear cowboy, it may not be your decision, or our decision, to make. Young Carroll is hardly the soul of discretion, and our friend Frances is still in the newspaper business, at least the last time I checked.

38.

Leonard Cloud and a delegation of the Southern Ute tribal council welcomed Patrick Carroll and former mayor Walter Hurley and thanked Daniel Sheridan for bringing them to the monthly council meeting. A number of tribal members were in attendance to see if any new tribal business would affect their livelihood. As usual, the setting was informal.

Sheridan explained that the mayor, at Mr. Carroll's urging, had offered their services to the Utes and the Durango community to try to resolve differences that were becoming sharper over the Animas–La Plata water project. He said that he knew the tribal elders remembered with fondness when Mr. Hurley had been mayor those years ago and how, like his friend Congressman Patrick Carroll Sr., this young man's father, he had always supported efforts to develop water for the region.

Sheridan did not say, nor did the tribe's memory require it, that during those Hurley-Carroll years, the proposed dam and water project had been primarily for businesses and farms in the Durango area north of the tribe's reservation.

Patrick Carroll thanked the tribal leadership for the opportunity to express his interest in being of service in any way that would benefit them. He pointed out his position at the
Durango Herald
and how the newspaper over the years had both championed the water project, properly designed, and urged that the two Ute tribes should receive a fair share of the stored water in the reservoir to be built.

Sheridan had explained to Leonard beforehand the clumsy behind-the-scenes maneuvering that had brought both the mayor and young Carroll to his doorstep. And this scene at the council meeting, therefore, was political theater on a small scale. After many decades, the Indians had become accustomed to accommodating the machinations of the white man's politics. Sheridan had explained that the older man and the younger man had conspired to get him involved as a peacemaker, that he had demurred and urged them both, given their histories, to undertake the mission themselves, and that he had on his own already decided to try for a political solution to the dilemma that he had in fact discussed with Leonard and Sam a few days before.

Leonard Cloud managed his role with considerable aplomb, applauding both Carroll and Hurley for their concern and their support. He reiterated the tribe's position as one of accommodation and conciliation. He urged the two men and their friend Mr. Sheridan to do all they could in the Durango community to reawaken public support for construction of the Animas–La Plata facilities, despite the fact that it had metamorphosed into what was basically now a project designed to provide municipal and industrial water for the two Ute tribes.

The former mayor responded for them both, in rotund oratory of a century before, promising utmost effort to heal the ancient wounds caused by contentious debate over the project over all these years and pointing out to one and all that a developing Southern Ute Tribe, particularly one developing needed energy supplies, was not only in the interest of Durango, but also in the interest of Colorado and the entire United States.

Patrick Carroll concluded with his commitment to do his best to see that the
Herald
continued to provide public encouragement for water for the region and for tribal projects.

Sheridan stayed behind to thank Leonard Cloud for managing the play so effectively. Leonard said, It is my pleasure. Part of modern-day politics. Thanks for bringing them around. Believe it or not, they can help out with the public relations with the old and with the young. It is funny, though, he continued, they thought they brought you here and you thought you brought them here. So now you are all happy.

Sheridan thanked him again and said, Of course they don't know I've been trying to work behind the scenes all along and as far as I'm concerned, we'll leave it at that. The tribal chairman nodded in agreement.

39.

Sheridan and Red, with Toby's help, were working his small cattle herd down from their high summer grazing area on the north end of the Sheridan ranch property, which bordered the southern end of the San Juan National Forest and on which the Sheridan family had had grazing rights for several decades.

Sheridan had found it hard to get the cougar out of his mind. The previous night, and several nights before that, he had seen those wide yellow eyes, clear, unblinking, knowing, in his dreams. They were a profound mystery. How could a creature of nature, though a proud and noble one at that, possess a look so much more powerful than any human he knew?

As he worked Red behind the herd, he wondered what the cat had been thinking and reflected on Two Hawks' remarks. He had been in the creature's territory. Quite possibly it had considered the area of the hidden lake part of its hunting range for some time. And quite possibly it had observed him on more than one occasion, including when he had taken Caroline with him, on his trips to the lake.