Durango (21 page)

The professor slurped coffee to conceal his amusement. It is certainly to be hoped, he said. It is well known that the Utes hold him in high regard. I have no doubt that they will pay very close attention to what he has to say to them, if he chooses to say anything.

The day before, the professor had encountered Sam Maynard on Main Avenue and learned that there had been a quiet, closed-door strategy session involving Sheridan at the tribal headquarters. Maynard had told him that Sheridan may have come up with a water allocation formula acceptable to the tribes that would cause them to approve the propose project if the state and federal water authorities accepted the distribution proposal. Smithson had been sworn to secrecy. And the last person he would share this very significant intelligence with was the former mayor, who broadcast more widely than the Durango radio station.

It was certainly clever of you and Patrick Carroll to come up with the scheme to bring Dan Sheridan into the negotiations, the professor said.

No, the mayor said, you get the credit, Professor. You and Patrick came to me. I was just playing the role that was written for me.

You played it superbly, Mayor, as always, Smithson said. Let's hope our reclusive friend Mr. Sheridan will play his as well. But I must tell you, he said as they left, if he does, I doubt that we will ever know about it.

42.

Norton Biggs, the chairman of the La Plata County Commission, rapped his gavel and said, Let's come to order. This commission's now in session, and Mr. Maynard, the floor is yours for your report.

Sam Maynard walked to the slender podium facing the horseshoe-shaped commissioners' table and began. I may have some good news, Commissioners, and no one is happier for it than I am.

He then gave a ten-minute history of the Animas–La Plata water project from its inception in 1968 to the current date. He used a slide projector and screens visible to the commission and to the large audience. Word had circulated that this was not going to be a normal commission meeting, and there was very little standing room at the back and sides of the chamber.

That brings us to today, Maynard said, and the dilemma we face. As you all know, the project as currently designed is principally intended to provide municipal and industrial water to satisfy the historic rights—it was noted by a few lawyers in attendance that he did not say “claims”—of the Ute Mountain Ute and Southern Ute Tribes. And both tribes have agreed to forgo any judicial process to perfect those rights, but only on the condition that the project be built and they receive the water they've been promised.

He continued, But the project has not been built, and we're in kind of a political cul-de-sac where the federal government has not guaranteed the money necessary to build the project and the Ute tribes have indicated that they may abrogate their agreements unless it does. I don't need to tell this commission that the longer this stalemate continues, the more friction grows between pro- and anti-project sides in the Durango area and between the majority community and the tribes. There is too much resentment in this town and this area and—he looked around—I suspect also in this room. There were murmurs and restlessness around the room.

Alright, he said, we're here to discuss a way out, and that's my purpose this evening. In recent days there have been lengthy discussions with the Ute tribes at Ignacio and Mancos. Community leaders from here in Durango and on the reservations and yours truly have considered a wide variety of solutions, some old, some new. And here's the best idea we've come up with.

Maynard pressed a control and a slide appeared showing the water apportioned to the two tribes under previous agreements but also the distribution of additional reserved water supplies to the Navajo Nation downstream in New Mexico and the several state and local water conservancy districts. As he read off the numbers, people in the crowd leaned forward and made comment to their neighbors, and the
Durango Herald
reporter wrote furiously.

This is not rocket science, Maynard said. But it is a demonstration of goodwill by the principal users, the Ute tribes, and a pretty innovative, if I may say so, effort to bring other beneficiaries into the bargain. If we can get agreement from all concerned that they will support this formula—and both Ute tribes have already agreed—then we can take this proposal to state officials in Denver, to our congressional delegation, and to the Department of the Interior and Bureau of Reclamation.

The chairman interrupted him. Mr. Maynard, if what you say can be made to happen, it is certainly very good news for all of us. But doesn't the final word rest with the powers that be in Washington? They've got the purse strings.

Mr. Chairman, Maynard said, that is indeed true. But part of the reason our congressmen and senators have not been able to pass the appropriations is that their colleagues know, or have been told, that the Indians are not on board and that there is only mediocre support in this area. The approach I've outlined here this evening—and it is only an outline, with lots of footnotes and nuances not included—promises to bring full-fledged support from the tribes in addition to bringing Indian and non-Indian support from New Mexico, which we haven't had.

So, the chairman said, you're saying this county and the city of Durango and the state of Colorado and the water conservancy districts we represent all have to step up now and commit to this project along the lines you've suggested here this evening?

That's pretty much it, Mr. Chairman, Sam Maynard said. And it begins right here. There is every reason to believe that if the La Plata County Commission—you folks at this table—pass a resolution of support, certainly the San Juan Conservancy District, then the Durango City Council, and then the governor of Colorado will sign up as well.

Maynard smiled and said, Just between you and me…and these three or four hundred people behind me—there was laughter from the crowd—I've talked with everyone of those folks and they've all said if this county commission approves, they will approve.

The commissioners looked at each other up and down the table. Then the chairman said, Mr. Maynard, thank you for your time and considerable effort on this project over many years, and thank you for your presentation. We will now hear from anyone in this audience—within reason—who wishes to be heard, and we will take it under advisement.

Maynard started to turn away, then stepped back and said, Chairman, with all due respect, I cannot guarantee this coalition we've hammered together will stay hammered for long. I urge your speediest consideration—even a vote on the resolution I've presented this very evening if at all possible.

A dozen or more people queued up at the microphone, and Sam Maynard excused himself, shaking hands and receiving pats on the back as he left.

The record of the evening's proceedings did not show any reference to Daniel Sheridan. And no one was more pleased by that than Sheridan himself. Sam Maynard had told him after the Friday coffee roundtable that morning that he would propose a resolution to the county commission that evening and had invited him to come, knowing full well that the invitation would not be accepted.

Instead, Sheridan had dinner at Caroline's modest ranch house northwest of town. After he told her about Sam Maynard's scheduled appearance before the county commission, she set down her cocktail glass and said, To hell with these pork chops. Let's go down there.

He shook his head. Not on your life. Sammy will put on a show and work his magic, and if God is in His Heaven and all is right with the world, the commission may endorse this idea and we'll be on our way.

Don't you want to be there? she asked. It's historic, and you did it. You've got to be there. Despite her enthusiasm, she did not expect a positive response.

Now, missy, he said, touching glasses with her. Let's toast Sam's success and the Utes' success and leave it at that. In case you haven't noticed, I haven't been much for crowds in quite a while, and I don't see this crowd as being much different. Frankly, given a choice between a county commission crowd, particularly tonight, and that cougar up there—he gestured toward the Weminuche to the northeast—I'd take the cougar any day and twice on Sunday.

She got up to get the pork chops, kissed his cheek, and said, My dear Mr. Sheridan, you are a nineteenth-century caution.

43.

Just when you think you've seen it all, Frances Farnsworth thought to herself, something like this comes along.

Two days earlier she had received a call from Russell Chandler requesting—then demanding—a meeting with her. She wished to know the purpose and he said, You know very well the purpose. You sent that young punk reporter of yours to waylay me in my office and to accuse me of just outright unbelievable things. And I suppose you intend to print his lies without even talking to me.

She was silent on the phone for a moment, then said evenly, Mr. Chandler, what I intend to do is of interest to you only if I do it. If there is something you think I should know, I am perfectly happy to have it. But you might save yourself a trip by just sending me a letter or telling me what you wish to tell me right now.

You're damn right there are things you need to know, Chandler blustered. And I intend to say them to you directly.

Fine, I'll be in my office this Friday at noon, Mrs. Farnsworth said, then hung up.

He's here, her assistant said midday that Friday. Frances asked that he be shown in.

She did not offer her hand, nor did he. What's on your mind? she asked.

What's on my mind? he said, his face deep red. He clearly had been gathering steam for some time. What's on my mind is the scurrilous accusation of this punk you sent to see me.

Mr. Chandler, she said. I didn't send him. He went on his own. I didn't know he had gone to see you until afterward.

Well, what did he tell you when he came back? That I had written some letter accusing one of your local hotshots of something? That maybe he was fooling around with my wife?

Did you write the letter, Mr. Chandler? she asked.

You're damn right I didn't write it, he shouted.

How did you know it was not handwritten? she asked.

Did I say that? he shouted. I couldn't have said that because how would I know? Whatever that kid told you was a lie.

Mr. Chandler, she said as she produced an official-looking paper from her desk, here is an affidavit, sworn to by Mr. Patrick Carroll before a local magistrate just last week. It says that, in his brief conversation with you, noting time and date, he asked if you knew that the letter had been confirmed as being in your handwriting and you said, and I quote from the affidavit, “…it was typed. I'm not that stupid…” and then you cursed him and threw him out.

She put the document down. Now, I've checked with the magistrate, and he is in his office two blocks away. You and I—she stood up—can go to his office now and you may swear, under oath, that Mr. Carroll is lying and that you did not say to him what his statement says you said. But you, being a man of business affairs, would know full well that the penalty for perjury in the state of Colorado is…let's see—she consulted a thick legal volume on her desk—two to eight with a half-million-dollar fine. Ready to go?

Now, just wait a minute, he said. I'm not getting involved in any “he said, I said” nonsense with some kid. I'm telling you I did not write that letter. He looked down. Even though I know full well this guy was fooling around with my wife. And if he got run out of town, as I heard, then he deserves what he got.

Mr. Chandler, she said evenly. It has been a busy period for magistrates around these parts this week. She tapped another official document. Your former wife has sworn, again under oath, that she did not have an affair or any intimate relations with Mr. Daniel Sheridan during a period from—she put on her glasses and consulted the document—the time you both arrived here in Durango and the time you personally left…rather abruptly, as I recall. What was all that about, I wonder?

Her lips were smiling, but her voice was icy. Now you have two statements you may swear to before the magistrate. That is, if you are inclined to do so.

Chandler's face was now so red she feared he might have a heart attack and collapse on her new carpet. Listen, he said, you print that kid's story, whatever he's made up, and say good-bye to your precious newspaper. I've consulted the best libel lawyers in Kansas City. In fact, they have prepared papers to get an injunction against this paper to prevent you from publishing his fictions.

Have they, now? she said, her smile still fixed. They clearly have consulted neither Colorado nor federal laws that will see their motion for an injunction in one door and out the other of any courtroom in America in less than five minutes. It's called “prior restraint,” Mr. Chandler, and it violates the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America. If you don't believe me, there is a Supreme Court case involving the government of the United States, in the form of President Richard Nixon as I recall, against
The New York Times
regarding publication of the Pentagon Papers. Mr. Nixon lost that one. And you'll lose yours. Now, I suggest in the interest of my time, if not also of yours, that we trot right down to the local magistrate so you can swear that Mr. Carroll and your former wife are lying—and you're not—or turn your legal eagles loose on me. Either way, I'll see you in court. It will be interesting at the very least. Perhaps even fun.

He started for the door and brushed copies of that day's
Herald
from her table. So be it, he said through gritted teeth. If that's the way you want it.

Just as he opened her office door, she said quietly, By the way, Mr. Chandler, what's all this about the arrangement your bank here made with the investment group…now let's see, what was it called?…something like Nature's Capital, some years ago, just before you fled town or around that time?