Durango (5 page)

He took off his hat and grinned as he set the quart whiskey bottle down. You got ice, he asked, or is your freezer broken again?

She started past him, and he firmly grasped her wrist. She looked at him at close range, then gave him a lingering kiss on the lips.

Well, doesn't that ever heal a broken day, he said.

Your day broken? she asked as she poured the drinks.

Not now it isn't, he said.

Well, then, she said, that just makes my job that much easier.

No job from me, he chuckled, unless you're lookin' for one.

She waved him to the corner kitchen table and set the drinks down. Sheridan scratched her frisky Irish setter pup behind the ear as it sniffed Toby's scent on his Levis. What're you up to nowadays? he asked.

Just waitin' for little chicks to hatch, she said over the top of her glass, and prayin' for sinners.

Sheridan laughed. Well, now, that's a full-time job all by itself. Any particular sinners, or you prayin' for all of us?

Just you, Daniel. She smiled warmly. You require about all the prayers I've got.

Let me ask you something, Ms. Caroline. They tapped glasses, and he took a hefty sip and said, Ahhh. Do you think Leonard and the Utes are doing the right thing with this trust fund they've set up? Like any big family that's just won the lottery, they're beginning to fall out amongst themselves over what to take and what to save. I'd hate to see a donnybrook down there over all this money.

She thought, then said, I believe he knows exactly what he's doing, and he's brought in some sound advisors, from what I can tell.

In her earlier years, first in New York, then in Denver, she had been a rising star in the investment banking community and was known to have done some creative investment deals and made a very comfortable income in the process.

As you advised, she continued, I did get on my horse and go see Leonard. We had a long talk and he laid out the structure of the tribal trust and the conditions on its use he got the tribal council to adopt. It's a pretty solid arrangement and should carry them for a couple of generations or more. I suggested some provisions for individuals to cash out at current dollar terms. But if they do, they forfeit participation in the future proceeds. A few of them, a couple of the young hotheads, are taking off. But it looks like the large majority are sitting tight.

He nodded. That's what I'd hoped. It'd be a shame if they fell apart and started quarreling.

She took a drink of the Jameson and said, You been down to see Two Hawks lately? She knew that he did so from time to time, and there were very few secrets on the reservation. I hear he's still very respected, even among the younger ones.

He nodded again. Yeah, I dropped in on him. But we didn't get into the money stuff.

She waited.

His large glass was now half empty, the ice melting quickly. It's strange, he said finally. After I've spent an hour or so with him, I'm kinda lighthearted, or as much so as I ever was. And I have a—don't laugh, now—I have a really powerful feeling about the spirits at work in the natural world. He's got some strong medicine inside him. Sheridan gestured toward his heart. I've never understood it, but it's always like that. Far be it from me to declare who's holy and who's not. But if anyone is, that old man is.

She got up, looked in the oven, and brought the whiskey bottle back to the table. She poured the width of a finger or two in each. This was the hour she treasured with Sheridan. Presently, she said, I went to see him too, Daniel.

He looked surprised.

I have a number of times, she continued. Pretty much for the same reason as you. It's very hard to explain and I'd never even try with anyone but you. Don't worry, she said, we don't talk about you.

This was largely, but not totally, true. She and Two Hawks never discussed Sheridan by name. But they both referred to “our friend” from time to time and walked carefully around his soul.

Caroline got up and brought plates and old silver to the table. He is holy somehow, she said. You couldn't explain this to anyone who hadn't known him a long time. It just sounds like some kind of Hollywood Indian talk. But he is. I'm pretty much awestruck when I'm with him. And like you just said, you come away better and…I guess…healthier, somehow.

You're the healthiest person I know, Sheridan said. She laughed. He said, No, I really mean it. You're always on an even keel. I haven't seen you mad in…well, a pretty long time. You seem content with what you've got. He smiled, Am I wrong?

She shook her head. No, you're not wrong. I've been luckier than most. Ingratitude is a sin, and not one I'm about to commit. She took a large sip of whiskey and looked evenly at him. She stood up again and said, I save my sins for other things. She removed a baked chicken from the oven and brought it and a pan of roasted potatoes to the table. This going to be enough? she asked.

Beggars can't be choosers, Sheridan said. Well, now Ms. Missionary Lady, we going to have a prayer meeting or should I carve this bird? He started carving without waiting for a response.

Didn't mean to wander off into theology, Caroline said. It's just that I'm grateful for all that I have… She hesitated, then laid a hand on his arm. Including you here tonight, she said. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Me too, he said softly.

Early the next morning, she awoke with a start. The bedroom was cold, the windows customarily open. Though she knew what she would not find, she reached across the bed. His place was still warm. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She turned over and slept until the sun came through the window to wake her again.

She went downstairs and foggily started to make coffee. Then she realized he had started it before leaving. She smiled and shook her head. She watched jays razzing each other over the bird feeder outside the kitchen window. Then she poured the strong coffee into a thick, worn mug and went to the table.

There sat an object wrapped in plain brown paper. It was a foot or so tall, and she knew immediately what it was. She held the object and hesitated. Finally, she tore away the string and paper. It was another carving for her collection. She probably had a half dozen or more. This was an Indian figure holding what appeared to be a bird, a raptor, probably a hawk, to his chest.

She held it against her breast. A single tear made its way down her cheek.

9.

A few evenings later, another dinner took place on the outskirts of Durango. After the dessert dishes were cleared, Mrs. Farnsworth took her young guest into the comfortable sitting room.

Patrick, she began, I'll tell you most of what I know. It is certainly not everything that happened. Probably no more than two people know all that happened then. And I'm not one of them. But as a newspaperwoman, I'm going to do so on ground rules I don't like and I'd advise you never to use. When you interview someone, particularly a public official, they should always be on the record. Don't let anyone give you this “off the record” stuff.

Patrick Carroll said, But Mrs. Farnsworth, this is about a public official. So, shouldn't even what
you
say be quotable?

No, she insisted, it shouldn't. At least not in this case. Most of what I'll tell you is already public record. Whether it is
accurate
public record is another matter, and you'll have to decide that. He nodded.

But there is one other thing, Patrick, she continued. Even if you solve the mystery, as you see it, I cannot guarantee I'll run your profile. That's for me, and me alone, to decide. In fact, I'll tell you right now, I probably
won't
run it.

He frowned. Then he said, Could we leave that decision until you see what I come up with?

She didn't respond. Here's what happened, at least as I remember it, she said. Fifteen or more years ago, there was a terrific struggle going on over the degree to which the Indian tribes had the legal right to develop their own resources. The Southern Utes were in some respects in the lead. Up to that point, the Bureau of Indian Affairs negotiated leases with major energy companies and paid the tribes a pretty small royalty. Certainly nothing like what the resources were worth. The matter was brought to a head both by the foreign oil embargoes in the 1970s and, consequently, by the sharp rise in oil prices. Suddenly lots of money was at stake, and several lawsuits were filed against the US government and the oil companies to test the issue of whether the natural resources on tribal lands—reservations—belonged to the US government or to the respective tribes.

Patrick was writing all this down, or trying to. She waved a hand at him. You can find all this on the Internet and in quite a number of books and articles from that period. Ultimately, one of the cases—not the Southern Utes' case—got to the Supreme Court, as it was almost bound to. This was a landmark issue. When the tribes got parked on reservations after the Civil War, everyone just took for granted that they were poor and would always stay poor. And likewise that anything valuable on those reservations belonged to us—she gestured at herself and Patrick—us white people.

Even better than the Internet, she continued, if this interests you, go see Sam Maynard and his partners. They've been up to their eyeballs in this from the beginning. The basic point is that the Indians, the Utes particularly, were now recognized to have, for the first time in their troubled history, real wealth. It was already established that there was oil and gas and some coal and even uranium on the Southern Utes' land. And you don't have to be as old as I am to know what happened next. The vultures filled the skies around here.

What were they after? Patrick looked puzzled. The vultures…?

Frances Farnsworth laughed. Money vultures, Patrick. Money vultures. People who called themselves investment bankers. They were all over the Utes like a massive blanket. Here were a bunch of unsophisticated, only partially educated people, and they needed financial “advisors,” people who would tell them how to manage their resources and new wealth. For fees, of course. Very large fees.

Patrick held up his hand. And Mr. Sheridan was still a county commissioner then?

He was, she said. And very close to Leonard Cloud and his lawyer, Sam Maynard. The New York money people figured that out pretty quickly. They're not rich by accident. So Daniel—Mr. Sheridan—was a popular fellow in those days.

I know for a fact he chased one of the first groups away, she continued. And, from what I heard, they were not amused. He was pretty…what should I say…
direct
with them. Word soon got around in those circles that Mr. Sheridan was a tough cookie. Nevertheless, efforts continued to be made by several of these…interest groups, shall we say, to enlist his services. All on behalf of the benighted Indians, of course. But this was always accompanied by mention of handsome fees for his service in intermediating with the tribe. She rose and filled their coffee cups.

So, how did all the trouble start? Patrick asked.

The trouble had already started when Mr. Sheridan walked away—stalked away would probably be a better description—from the first investors. They called themselves Nature's Capital or some such, but that was just a new smokescreen created by a giant financial conglomerate. She laughed. We taxpayers had to bail them out a year or so ago and they still collapsed.

Patrick said, This is where the trail gets confused. So, what happened then?

What happened then, she said, looking at the ceiling of her Victorian sitting room, was that the knives came out for Mr. Sheridan. As you know, he had earned a statewide reputation for helping work out a compromise on the Animas–La Plata project, with recognition of the interests of the Utes, and he had been called in to arbitrate a series of long-standing water disputes around the state. He had made himself something of an expert by then and was getting all kinds of invitations to speak at water congresses and other such events where crowds of one kind or another were conferencing. In those days he was—for that matter still is—a pretty impressive figure. He didn't sound like a politician—still doesn't—primarily because he wasn't one.

She studied her hands, remembering. He was the best we had produced for a long time, she said quietly.

And people back then were beginning to talk about him for some office, Patrick said. I gather governor or something.

Indeed, Mrs. Farnsworth said. And a committee was formed here to begin to organize support around the state. Mr. Maynard, Mr. Murphy, your professor Smithson, and a number of other people signed up. Mr. Sheridan didn't encourage them. But he didn't exactly discourage them either. As I recall, he treated it with considerable amusement.

Mrs. Farnsworth sipped her coffee and retreated into memory. She and her late husband, Murray, had moved to Durango almost forty years before. They were both from prominent New York families but decided the haute society was not for them. They bought the
Durango Herald
—they had always wanted to run a newspaper—and raised their children in southwestern Colorado. “Pillars of the community” was, in their case, an apt description. They were sophisticated easterners who very shortly let their hair down and became down-to-earth fixtures in the community, on a first-name basis with all. Though old-style moderate Republicans, they pitched their editorials, each taking turns, right down the middle, which was where most southwestern Coloradans liked their political pitches. Anyone who felt the need or had the use for a firearm should be able to own one, or several. And most did. But any woman in need of an abortion should be able to have one also. And occasionally, she chuckled to herself, they even weighed in on the need for arms control agreements between the US and the Soviet Union in the old Cold War days, giving vent to what the Farnsworths called, between themselves, the Republic of Durango's foreign policy.