Durango (8 page)

He had never killed one and hoped he would never have to. Survival would be the only defense for doing so. And even then, being in the cat's territory might justify some punishment for his trespass.

Leonard Cloud might not know the exact location Sheridan's retreat, but he strongly suspected it would be a remote corner of the Weminuche. After a week or two had passed, Sheridan appeared on his doorstep outside Ignacio. Harv's son said you'd been up to see me, he said.

Cloud took him down the street to a small restaurant and they had a beer. Just wanted to see how you were doing, he said. I also wanted to see if I could help.

Sheridan said, Leonard, I guess I'm not surprised. If anyone around here had thought something along those lines, it would've been you. He looked his friend in the eye and said, I greatly appreciate it.

Way I see it, Cloud said, you've been accused and convicted of something you didn't do. It's not right. You've protected us—this tribe—as well as anyone around here. We've known each other since we were both boys, me younger than you, and there isn't a crooked bone in your body. Those two guys on the council are going to resign, whether they realize it yet or not, and if I have anything to do with it, they'll admit that they're thieves and liars. They got some money alright, but it wasn't from you.

Let it go, Leonard, Sheridan said. I don't want to cause anyone else any trouble. They did what they did, and we have to let it go. Everyone involved just followed the usual script: financial types, newspapers, politicians, people with old grudges, anyone with a Sheridan ax to grind, everyone was just playin' their role. Almost everyone.

Cloud studied him. I don't know Mrs. Chandler very well. But what I do know, I like. She is a real lady. She's spent a lot of time down here doing her painting. What Durango people don't know, maybe even you don't know, is that she has also spent a lot of time volunteering in the grade school and the medical clinic. Many hours, in fact. Many days.

Sheridan swallowed hard. I didn't know it. She's never said. He paused. But I'm not surprised.

It's none of my business, Dan, Cloud said, but I want to help out. You had some legal bills, I know. And you couldn't get your cows to market while all this stuff was going on. We Southern Utes are going to earn a lot of money, and I'd be honored if you'd be a kind of advisor or counselor to the tribal council.

Sheridan shook his head vigorously. Can't do it, Leonard. It wouldn't look right. And it would undoubtedly cause you more controversy and trouble. The press would want to look into it again and some in the tribe and the public would think there was something suspicious. He looked out the window for a time. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it, though, he said. It's a real gesture of friendship.

I'm not surprised, Cloud said. I pretty much suspected what you'd say. But I felt honor-bound to offer.

15.

The long stalemate over the Animas–La Plata project drove already bitter feelings even deeper throughout southwestern Colorado. Instead of seeking compromise, the positions of advocates and opponents alike hardened. Political leaders, long accustomed to addressing the matter with an “on the one hand we need the water, but on the other hand we can't keep building dams everywhere” approach, now found themselves with little if any middle ground to occupy. You were either with the advocates or with the opponents.

Calls for study didn't work anymore, either. The project had been studied to death, almost literally. Pro-development studies were denounced by environmental opponents as biased, and anti-development studies proved many times over that the project could not pay for itself, at least in terms of increased agricultural production.

Being civilized, the people of Durango, especially those who had taken hard stands on this divisive issue, by and large managed their relationships by agreeing to disagree. But from time to time bitterness would emerge, and the forums for this were both the regular city council and county commission meetings. Like the ancient Greek and Roman public forums from which they derived, these public meetings began to move from being a place for civil debate to a venue for airing personal and group grievances. As is usually the case, the most vocal were also the most hard-headed and illogical.

The Animas–La Plata water project as a public issue migrated from an issue for civil discourse, to disagreement, to a matter where minds hardened. And as animosities grew, hardened minds became hardened hearts. When communities fall out over such matters, antagonisms often last for lifetimes and beyond. Thus, what started out as a fairly modest proposal to develop water for farmers in the area became a larger undertaking with implications for energy development and tourism expansion, then migrated into a debate over winners and losers, and finally became a kind of metaphor for human values. What kind of a community do we want? What kind of a world do we want?

And, as with most undertakings of any consequences, two very distinct points of view emerged. What is enough? Haven't we got a pretty good life here already? Why do we want to jeopardize a kind of community Eden? That's all well and good, others would say, but a lot of us haven't made it yet. Why can't we have the same opportunities as you rich folks? What's wrong with letting this area grow and expand and bring in new money and new people? Isn't that the way to make everybody better off?

During this period, back in the day when Daniel Sheridan was still chairman of the county commission, the Monday and Friday coffee club was not immune.

By and large its regulars, who had distinctive points of view on the matters just like everyone else, kept the discussion on a friendly and even keel. Everyone understood where everyone else stood. But as the controversy intensified, subtle frictions emerged.

Mr. Murphy said, Look, this thing's going to be built. We all ought to figure out how we do it best.

Bill Van Ness laughed. As if we have anything to do with it. The big guys are going to build this thing. And they'll decide who gets what. The way it always happens.

The professor said, What “big guys”?

The big guys, Van Ness said. The government, the bankers, the big shots. They don't give a damn what people like us think.

What about all these meetings the city and the county have had over this? the professor asked. Dan and the other commissioners seem to take the opinions from around here pretty seriously.

Ha, Mr. Murphy snorted. Then what? I think Bill's right. The government and the banks are gonna do whatever they want. That's why I say just build the damn thing and let's get on with it. It's gonna happen anyway. So what's all the fuss about? I'm getting tired of all this political football! That's my opinion.

Sam Maynard had listened to all this. Then he said, You're all forgetting one thing: the Indians. They've got a stake in this. And all that energy they've got can't be developed without water. There are some experts now promoting a coal slurry technology.

What's that? someone asked.

You build a big pipeline, Sam said, holding his arms up to form a four- or five-foot diameter. You mine the coal and crush it. Then you mix it with water—a lot of water—and you pump it down the pipeline to where the power plants are. He pointed westward. Then they drain the water off at the power plant and burn the coal in the boilers. Electricity for Phoenix and Los Angeles.

Wait a minute, Bill Van Ness said. That's our water. What happens to the water?

Sam laughed. Bye, bye. You think those people in the desert are going to send it back to us? He laughed again at the thought.

None of this makes sense, the professor said. My conservation group and a lot of outdoors people and hunters and so forth are going to the town meeting tomorrow night with the senator and tell him to quit financing this project. He needs to hear from the other side, our side.

Why in hell would you do a thing like that? Mr. Murphy said. The thing is confused enough already. You'll just make a lot of the folks around here angry.

Tom, the professor said, people who're against the project are angry too. We think we're not being heard. All these big guys Bill's talking about are being heard. They pay these high-priced lobbyists back in Washington to bang on the doors all the time. And they make big contributions to campaigns. Why can't the rest of us go to a town meeting and speak up? I think this whole thing is nothing but a boondoggle for a bunch of fat cats. I like this place the way it is.

Dan Sheridan walked in as Mr. Murphy said, You see, that's what's wrong. A bunch of greenies show up here and start telling us how to run this town and what we can and can't do. That's what I object to. I care as much about this place as anybody. But I've got a business to run. My hardware store's not going to make it unless we get some more customers. I can't sell hardware to a bunch of river rafters and hippies.

I'm not a hippie, Tom, the professor said.

I didn't say you were, Mr. Murphy said. But a bunch of those people you're taking to the senator's town meeting will be. I guarantee it. And last time I checked they hadn't taken a bath in a while either.

Easy, Sheridan said as he placed his hot coffee on the table.

We're talking about the project, Bill Van Ness said.

So I gather, Sheridan said. What else is there these days?

We'd talk about sports, Sam said, except the Rockies are having a bad season and the Broncos don't look to do much better this fall. Anyway, we shouldn't pollute your coffee with a touchy subject you've got something to do with.

Why not? Sheridan said. Everybody else does. Can't walk down Main without getting stopped by one group or another wanting to shut the project down or start it up.

Mr. Murphy glowered. Well, if the professor here and his greenies keep trying to shut this community down it's going to get pretty nasty.

The professor, normally very placid, pushed his chair back. That's not true and you know it. And calling us a bunch of greenies is kind of demeaning, frankly. Not everyone has to agree with you on everything.

Sheridan held up his hand. Okay, now we're not going to let this thing destroy any friendships. At least not if I have anything to do with it. He gestured for the professor to sit down. Instead Smithson headed for the door.

Sam sighed. I don't like the way this thing is going, he said. Everybody can't get his way here. Either the dam will get built or it won't. Either way somebody's going to be disappointed. What I'm afraid of is that the disappointment will turn to anger instead of being forgotten. That's not a good thing.

Couldn't agree more, Sheridan said.

As they all left, Sheridan stopped Sam Maynard. I think it's time you and I talked to Leonard to see if the Utes might help us solve this.

16.

Twelve years later, the Animas–La Plata continued to occupy a kind of civil war status, and Patrick Carroll went to see Duane Smithson, his former history professor. He had a purpose.

Professor, he said as he settled into the worn chair in his mentor's small office, Mr. Sheridan has to be the key to this whole thing. And you're the one to talk to him about it. Why can't you just talk to him about civic duty like you do in your classes?

He doesn't need any lectures on civic duty, Patrick, the professor said.

All this stuff that happened years ago, Patrick said. It's old. Everyone's forgotten. Now's the time for him to pick up where he left off. When he was driven out.

He wasn't “driven out,” Smithson said sharply. He walked away. There's a big difference.

Okay, walked away, the young man said. Anyway, he still has a lot of respect in this town.

That he does, the professor said. But there are still those who think he brought it on himself. Or that he was trying to protect someone—

I know, “someone,” Patrick said.

—or that he should have been more careful. And so on and so on. The professor moved from behind his desk to occupy the other worn chair. In any case, Mr. Sheridan wishes to be left alone. Whatever the reason, I'm sure he still feels wounded.

Well, that's the thing, Patrick said. If he came back and settled this war, everyone would really respect him. They'd honor him. Besides, I don't know anyone else who can do it. From all I can tell, people around here are getting angrier and angrier at each other. I hear it all the time. Every time I try to cover a story it's “Animas” this and “Animas” that.

Smithson held up his hand. I know. I know. Even our little coffee group. We've been getting together for years. Mr. Murphy and I used to shout at each other. It may not be a war quite yet, but it's surely a kind of a battle. And it's been going on too long for anyone's good.

That's what I'm trying to say, Patrick said. You're one of the leaders of the opposition. And my father was one of the original creators of the Animas–La Plata. He got the whole thing going years ago when he was a member of Congress. Before he died, he was the biggest cheerleader for it.

After you'd been in my classes for a couple of years, the professor said, I began to wonder whether you were related, so I have to admit I looked it up in your files. You never mentioned it, as I recall.

He was what's usually called a colorful character, Patrick said ruefully. Not always easy to get along with as a father either. But I have to confess that my interest in the history of the Animas–La Plata began over the dinner table when I was a kid. That's all he ever talked about. It was his big purpose in life.

You did write your senior paper on that history, as I recall, the professor said.

Patrick shook his head. I practically had to. He insisted before…before he dropped dead.

In any case, it's hard to spend much time in these parts without being drawn into it one way or the other, Smithson said. I know that from personal experience.