Durango (4 page)

Stone said, Exactly. But that's why we thought having you open the door might make a big difference. We've done a good deal of homework, “due diligence” we call it, and we know of your extraordinary position with the tribe, Mr. Sheridan.

Shaking his head, Sheridan said, I don't have any “position,” let alone an “extraordinary” one. They were my father's friends, and my grandfather's before him, and so they're my friends too. Nothing extraordinary about it. He paused. And by the way, I don't trade on friendships, extraordinary or not.

Oh, no, no, no, Stone said quickly. Nothing of the kind. Both men shook their heads vigorously. We simply meant that a call from you to Chairman Cloud, or better yet, if you came along with us, would offer a kind of…credibility, if I may use that word, that we might not otherwise have and others certainly would not have.

By credibility, Sheridan said, I gather you mean a head start, an advantage. Over the “others.” He pushed his unfinished lunch back and leaned back in his chair. Let's see if I understand what's going on here. Your investment fund—what do you call it?

Nature's Capital, young Palmer offered helpfully, pulling a business card from his pocket.

Sheridan said, I see. Nature's Capital wants to help the Utes develop their resources—methane coal gas right now, and oil and natural gas to come—so that they can, what did you say, “provide a better life for those too long left out of modern” something.

Advancement, young Palmer said eagerly.

Advancement, Sheridan repeated. And you need my help to do that.

Not exactly “need,” Stone interrupted. Would like to have, is a better way of putting it. He now pushed his card across the table at Sheridan. A kind of partnership. Win-win-win. We win by financing Ute energy projects. The Utes win by finally enjoying the benefits of the resources God gave them. And you win—

It wasn't God, Sheridan interrupted.

What? Stone asked, I thought—

It was good old Uncle Sam, Sheridan said, a note of keen intensity in his voice. God didn't put the Utes down there in that wind-blasted desert. Uncle Sam did. The US government did. We did, he said, pointing at Stone, young Palmer, and himself. We put them there about a hundred and thirty years ago. And you know what? We left them there. We forgot about them. We couldn't have cared less. And then, guess what, the Arabs decided they didn't want us to get their oil for fifty cents a barrel and shut the valves. All of a sudden, “we” needed to find oil fast. Guess where “we” looked? On their land. And “we” found oil and gas there. And you know what happened next? The good old US Department of the Interior, Bureau of goddamn Indian Affairs, leased the rights to the oil and gas to major oil companies—he dropped his voice to a whisper—and gave the Utes spare change. A pittance. A fraction of the profits. Embarrassingly little.

Though he had not raised his voice, Sheridan's face had darkened. Under the table, his hands shook with anger. He now spoke between set teeth. If I were you, I wouldn't go down there with your money and talk about what God gave them. If anything, God played a trick on Uncle Sam. He said to Himself, Let's see, the white men are putting the red men in the corner of a desert, more or less to get rid of them, while the land they roamed is taken from them. But these same white men, God says to Himself, are putting oil in cars and burning it up real fast. So, let's even things out. I've put a lot of that oil under the land used to corral the red men and now we'll see what happens when the white men need it.

Sheridan leaned across the table. Some people call that Divine Justice. Me? I don't know whether it's divine or not. But it sure as hell is justice.

Both men were now still. They both shook their heads slowly. Young Palmer's eyes were wide and apprehensive. Stone then nodded thoughtfully, as if viewing a particularly complex balance sheet. I see, he said. Good advice. Very good advice. Thank you for that. We'll be, shall I say, careful in that regard.

You don't have to worry about Chairman Cloud, Sheridan said. He's served in the US Air Force and even did a few years at the BIA—Bureau of Indian Affairs—so he knows what's going on. And you'll find him much less, what should I say, intense on this subject than I am. He's a very smart man and I'm sure he'll listen politely to what you have to say. He has quite a number of new friends these days, especially in your line of work.

Which brings us back, Stone said, to the matter of your…involvement. We really do value your advice and, as we have said, think having you on our side would make a great deal of difference in our success with the Southern Ute Tribe. They will, after all, need financing to develop their resources, that is if the courts confirm that those resources are theirs. I mentioned win-win. You would win, possibly big, as well.

We'll see what the courts do pretty quickly, Sheridan said. The Utes have Sammy Maynard, and he's one of the best. Been with them since Chairman Cloud became leader in the sixties. He paused and looked out of the partially opened window at the street below. You have the wrong man, Sheridan said, where “winning” is concerned. I don't have much beside my own land, my family's land, and I never will. And if I haven't already made it clear, then I will. I don't trade in friendships. If you're talking about some sort of reward for joining your team, what do you call yourselves?

Nature's Capital, young Palmer said quietly.

Nature's Capital, Sheridan repeated. Anyway, I'll just say no thanks. It's not how I do business.

At that point Stone lowered his voice, scanned the room, and said, Mr. Sheridan, there is considerable talk around here, and I gather in other parts of Colorado, that you might be interested in seeking a statewide office. Some even say the governorship.

Sheridan stared at him, eyes narrowed.

I have no idea, Stone continued, whether that is true or not true. But what I do know is that seeking public office these days, what with media and consultants and whatnot, is very costly. Now, you yourself have said that you are not a man of means. So, if you have an interest in serving in a higher capacity, and I have no doubt you would do so with great skill and integrity—I've seen how you handle yourself in the county commissioners' meetings—you'll need financial resources. A rather large amount of financial resources.

Sheridan's gaze narrowed, disconcertingly, further.

Let's just say that we at Nature's Capital—and by the way, we are a subsidiary of one of the largest investment banks in the country—would do all we could to see that you had the resources necessary to carry out those ambitions.

Sheridan was silent. He pushed his unfinished lunch plate away farther. Then he pushed their respective business cards back toward them. He stood and said, Gentlemen, whether I do or do not seek another public office should have nothing to do with your efforts to make money off the Utes, and it won't. If I were to run for higher office, in fact, it would be specifically to prevent that kind of corruption. You do whatever you wish with the Utes. They're smart enough to know who to trust and who not to. They've had a lot of experience in that regard. Just don't use my name in any of your dealings with them.

That all happened some years ago. But what transpired thereafter would become part of the Sheridan legend in those parts.

7.

After his Monday coffee with his local Monday and Friday group and then another cup with Ms. Chandler, Sheridan walked across the street to his pickup. Near the vehicle stood a tall, angular young man in standard student wear: jeans and a work shirt.

Mr. Sheridan? the young man asked. Sheridan nodded. May I speak with you?

Sheridan nodded again. Surely. About what?

The young man coughed. My name is Pat Carroll. I was a student of Professor Smithson, you know, Duane Smithson. Sheridan nodded again, and Carroll continued, I studied history with him and I may go on and get a graduate degree at Boulder or somewhere in modern history and teach. Right now I'm interning at the
Durango Herald,
at least through the summer.

Where you from? Sheridan asked.

Well, my dad was involved in government, the young man said, and I've lived here, studied at Fort Lewis, for most of my life. He paused. I like it here. A lot.

Sheridan nodded again. What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Carroll?

Pat—Patrick, the young man said. I was wondering if I could talk to you about a story. For the paper. The
Herald.

What kind of story? Sheridan asked warily.

It's a kind of, I guess you'd say, a kind of profile, the young man said.

Profile of what? Sheridan asked.

The young man avoided Sheridan's steady gaze. Well, it's…it's about…what I had in mind was to write something about…you.

Sheridan shook his head. I don't think so, but I appreciate the interest, he said. He turned to open the pickup door.

The young man said, But Mr. Sheridan, I've read all the stories in our paper—

Sheridan said, Well, as newspapers go, the
Herald
's not bad. But I'd encourage you not to believe everything you read. Ink and paper don't make it so.

I don't mean to be pushy, Mr. Sheridan, the young man stuttered. But you're interesting. You've had an interesting life. You've come up in conversations with Professor Smithson. You've had a really interesting life…but most people around here think you're kind of a…a mystery of some kind. So, I thought—

Let's leave it a mystery, shall we? Sheridan said as he got in the truck. I like it that way.

That Friday, he joined the group at the coffee shop, and after the usual survey of current gossip and world events, the professor took him aside. Dan, he said, I think you met my student, Patrick Carroll.

I did indeed, Sheridan said. Was this “profile” idea his or yours?

His, the professor said. All his. He's very bright. Straight As. Besides, he's actually the late Congressman Carroll's son. And he's quickly tired of covering the garden clubs and weddings and writing the obituaries. And he's picked a few things up and—

Sheridan shook his head vigorously. I liked old Congressman Carroll, and I was wondering if the young man might be junior. But even so, we don't want to do that, Duane. Not now. Not never. You've got to tell him it's just not going to happen. You understand. I know you understand.

What if he stayed away from…you know…the bad part? the professor said.

There's no “bad part,” Sheridan said. There's a complicated part. And for my money, it'll stay complicated well after I'm six feet under up at the end of Florida Road. And then no one reading the
Durango Herald
or anything else is going to give a good damn. Matter of fact, they don't give a good damn now. And you have to tell this young man, Mr. Carroll, that that's a fact.

He's read all the old stories already, the professor said. You know, he went back into the
Herald
morgue—

That's the right name, Sheridan interrupted. Right where these old stories should stay.

—and he says the stories at the time don't make sense. He says that the whole thing stinks. Smithson studied Sheridan's face. He says what happened was not right. It was unfair. I think Patrick even said it was unjust.

Well, Duane—Sheridan looked away—stink or no stink, I'm not talking about it. That's just the way it is…and that's the way it's gonna be. Why in the world would you or anyone else think I want to talk to some college kid years later about that nightmare?

I know, the professor said. I know. I told him that, but he's got a burr under his saddle about it and he's damned determined. I can't talk him out of it.

He's gonna have to get rid of that burr on his own. 'Cause he's not talking to me. Sheridan looked at his friend. There's other people involved here, and even if I wanted to stir up that whole nasty business, I don't have the right to do that to them. You know that.

The professor had known Sheridan since his first campaign for county commissioner, and Sheridan occasionally had a quiet dinner with the Smithson family. Smithson had witnessed the events that brought upheaval to Sheridan's life, though he had never known, and would never ask about, details that had never come to light.

If I didn't know you better, Duane, I'd think you might have put this young man up to this. Sheridan looked at him steadily. But I know you'd never do that.

The professor shook his head forcefully. Dan, I'd never do that. You know that.

I do, Duane, I do. But I'm gonna have to ask you to call young Mr. Carroll off. Give him a new project. Have him do one of these profile things on Mr. Cloud. He's a lot more interesting—and important—than I ever was.

Actually, that's the project I proposed to Pat. He was doing his research for a long story on Leonard, and he found your tracks all over the place. But the more he tried to put the pieces together, the less sense he could make of it all.

He wouldn't be the first, now would he? Sheridan asked.

He's not my student anymore, Dan, the professor said. I'll do what I can to call him off. But he's not necessarily going to do what I ask him.

He can do what he wants, Sheridan said. But he's not getting any help from me. You do what you can to help him understand that. And, by the way, I can say with authority that there's one or two other people he hadn't ought to be talking to either.

The professor watched Sheridan retreating down Main Avenue and knew very well he meant Caroline Chandler.

8.

The following Saturday night, Caroline looked out her kitchen window and saw Sheridan's dusty red pickup truck even before she heard it coming up her road. Like Sheridan, she had a gate, and the locals by custom honored the privacy those gates requested.