High Plains Tango (21 page)

He hadn’t known what to do about those Indian mounds, but it occurred to him there was a way they could be used to make a buck, and the Avenue of the High Plains had given him an idea. He would get the ground rezoned for commercial activity and put up a theme park he would call Indian Mysteryland. Excavate some of the mounds, build a little museum to house the artifacts, and hire a curator to conduct tours and tell ghost stories. Hook the tourists off the new highway to stop and look at bones and pots and hear the ghost stories, and while they were doing that, they could eat at the restaurant he would build and put their kiddies on the rides Ray Dargen would have waiting for them.

A big outfit in the East was already designing the carnival rides and had sent him proposed names for them: Buffalo Hunt, War Party, Pow Wow, and Bad Medicine. He liked the names, along with two other suggestions the consultants made, namely Mysteryland Maze: Fun for All Ages, and the Pioneer Chapel, where quickie marriages might be arranged if certain state laws could be tweaked a bit. The possibilities stretched before him like the high plains themselves, including stagecoach rides with mock Indian attacks and the construction of a motel on the site. Call it the Wigwam Motel. The units would be made of poured concrete and shaped like tepees. He’d construct an underground restaurant and name it the Ceremonial Chamber. Motel logo: “Stay in a Tepee, Eat Underground.”

It was all coming together. A gift shop called Geronimo’s Hideout—Jewelry and Moccasins for the Entire Family. One of his associates reminded him that Geronimo was an Apache, not a Sioux, and operated in the Southwest.

Dargen looked at him, chafing with impatience at such details, and said, “Well, what the hell, we’ll call it something different, then. Doesn’t matter. Think the tourists’ll know any different or give a crap, anyway?”

There was more. Ray Dargen had discovered that a robust trade in Indian artifacts existed, illicitly gained or otherwise, and was in contact with certain museums and private collectors, all of whom were interested in discreetly purchasing artifacts from Dargen’s excavations. The artifacts plus the theme park plus the land he and his associates were secretly picking up along the route would turn the Avenue of the High Plains into his personal mother lode after all. As always, he would bend things to the will of his avarice. It was that kind of bold thinking that had made this country what it was and is. That’s how Ray Dargen saw it.

And then,
then,
just when it looked as if there were a different kind of gold in that property, some outside agitator named McMillan had come along and with a couple of others was fighting the highway. Dargen’s first stop was to see Ralph Geigle, president of Twin Buttes Community College.

“Ralph, this biology teacher of yours, or whatever he is—Moore, I think that’s his name—has got to get his mind right on this highway thing. Tell him there’re lots of birds in the world for him to look at. You can also tell him I’m on the board of directors at the bank where he’s trying to get a personal loan, something about getting his mother into a nursing home. Be sure and tell him that, Ralph. Hey, it’s about time for your fund drive for that new building, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, Ray. In fact, I wanted to talk with you about the fund-raising drive. And don’t worry, I’ll have a friendly chat with Moore. Besides, the faculty here doesn’t have tenure like at the state universities.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you, Ralph. If our wives keep going down to the capital and buying those expensive dresses for bridge tournaments, we’ve got to have a little more economic development around here. A man’s got to cover his expenses, right?”

Ray Dargen stood up and shook Ralph Geigle’s hand. “Let me know what you need for your fund drive, and I’ll have my secretary put a check in the mail.”

WHEN SENATOR
Harlan Sterk arrived in Falls City two days later for his monthly Listening Post Weekend with his constituents, most of it was spent with a constituent named Ray Dargen.

“Calm down, Ray. These things take time. There are such matters as law and procedure, you know.”

“Senator, I’m not interested in law, and I’m not interested in procedure. What I’m interested in is business. You have any idea how much money I got tied up in properties along this highway that’s supposed to be built? Enough to keep you in office for a long while. My contribution to your last campaign was somewhere over twenty thousand, and I don’t give that kind of money simply because I’m interested in making democracy work better. You know that, I know that. Now our pal Bill Flanigan over there at High Plains Development tells me that Senator Jack Wheems, who’s spearheading this thing, has engineers looking to see if the highway route can be changed to miss those tweety birds. Harlan, I want you to guarantee me that’s not going to happen. I expect to hear from you early next week on this.”

THE CHIEF
engineer had studied Wheems’s request carefully for a possible rerouting of the highway. “Senator Wheems, we’ve taken another look at the route for the Avenue of the High Plains. As it turns out, we can miss the area where the birds are causing a problem. But a big road is a system, change one part and a lot of other things have to change. It’ll mean moving the highway about forty miles west of Livermore and Falls City, which, incidentally, our original calculations indicated would be a more efficient route anyhow, both in terms of construction costs and vehicle travel time, since the current route requires what amounts to a detour just to include Falls City and Livermore. Shall we go ahead and work up the alternative that misses the birds?”

“No. My good friend Senator Sterk has real problems with a route change. Let it go for now.” Jack Wheems put the phone back in its cradle and turned to an aide. “Get Harlan Sterk on the phone.”

“Senator Sterk is in Florida. He left a number, but he said he might be hard to reach. Want me to try?”

“No. I’ll talk with Cal Akers over at the Chamber.”

Akers came on the line. “Good afternoon, Senator. What’s up?”

“I can’t raise Harlan, so I’m talking to you. You can tell your pals out in High Plains Hickup that we’ve dropped the idea for a route change in the Avenue. But I also want you to tell them the funding for this highway was delicate to start with, and some members of the House Public Works and Transportation Committee are beginning to get shaky in their support of it, and if your pals aren’t careful, we’re not going to get any highway at all.”

“Okay. I just talked to Bill Flanigan at High Plains Development. Seems there’s been some violence or threats of violence involving this fellow Carlisle McMillan. Flanigan’s trying to find out what’s going on.”

“For the love of Christ, Cal, don’t those people know how to do anything right? No wonder they’re falling apart.”

“Tighten your seat belt, Senator. It gets even more interesting, if that’s the right word. Ever hear of an outfit named EWU? It’s pronounced ‘E-wuu,’ stands for Earth Warriors United or something like that. Well, neither did I until Flanigan called. It’s a radical environmental group from somewhere out west, and they’re itching to get into this. Three of them rolled into Salamander in an old van two days ago and started poking around. Rumor is they’re going to blow up the Salamander water tower if the highway goes through the T-hawk habitat, and that’s just for starters. I hear one of them said they might do it anyway, just to get people’s attention focused on what’s happening out there.

“The leader of this outfit supposedly is a guy named Riddick who’s suspected of wheeling barrels of used motor oil into a Texas oil company executive’s house last year while the executive was floating around in his swimming pool. When that little evening concluded, there was oil all over everything, including the executive and his wife. Riddick’s not here with the EWU people in Yerkes County, however, not right now, at least. From what I hear, he’s been involved in some other mischief as well. Word is he’s a real bad fellow.”

“Well, if that sort of thing starts happening along with the birds and Dargen’s shenanigans, I can just about guarantee the works committee’s going to think about sending this road money elsewhere, and there’ll be nothing I can do about it. I’ll get the G-men over at the Bureau on this EWU outfit. When does the public information meeting on the highway come up in Yerkes County?”

“Mid-February. It’s in Livermore. Flanigan expects McMillan to cause trouble at the Livermore meeting.”

“Who the hell are we dealing with, Cal? Who exactly is this McMillan, anyway?”

“Flanigan says he’s really tough, Senator. He’s quiet, smart, believes in what he’s doing, and does his homework.”

“Can’t we squeeze him somehow? Financially, maybe? How’s he earn his living? Who’s he got his loans with?”

“We’re thinking along the same lines, Senator. I asked Flanigan just that. Flanigan looked into it, says McMillan’s debt-free except for a little money he owes on his property, a thousand or two. He’s a builder—master carpenter, they say. It’s hard to boycott him because he’s too damn good at what he does, and he works for himself. The doctors and lawyers in Falls City want the work on their places done just so, and they think he’s the only one around who can do it. He’s out of the normal economic channels, in other words.

“Now listen to this, Senator. You know about this guy Ray Dargen. Well, Flanigan says the standard joke about him out there is that Dargen wasn’t born, he rode in on an oil slick, full-grown and waving contracts. Apparently that’s easy to believe. Not only has Dargen been buying up land along the highway route for more than a year, using inside information he has access to as a member of the State Highway Commission, but apparently he also used some heavy-handed tactics on a guy who has been helping McMillan, some community college teacher.

“You know what happened? McMillan drove over to Dargen’s office in Falls City a few days ago, walked in, leaned on his desk, and said real softly, so quietly that only Dargen’s secretary heard it, ‘Mr. Dargen, I know the fix is on, and before this is over, you’ll be looking at five to ten in the slammer. You’ve laid out the game rules, no questions asked, no quarter given. Fair enough, padre, we’ll play by your rules.’

“No kidding, Senator, that’s what he said. And you know what? Ray Dargen’s been pretty quiet since that happened, according to Flanigan. Apparently McMillan has suspicions about what’s going on with the juggling of the highway route and Dargen using inside information to make land purchases along the route that benefit him and his partners, and he’s going to push it hard, maybe right up all our asses.”

“For God’s sake, Cal.” The senator turned quiet for a moment, thinking. “You know, in any other circumstances, I think I could grow to like this McMillan. As it stands right now, we’ve got to nail him good or shut him down. And the best way to do that is simply to get the highway built as fast as possible, then everybody’ll forget about birds and Dargen and McMillan and go back to work.”

When Jack Wheems finished talking to Cal Akers, he glanced at the calendar—six days to the end of January—and walked over to his window in the Senate Office Building, staring at the traffic below. Rush hour was almost over. He wondered what a carpenter named Carlisle McMillan was doing out in the high plains at that time of day.

WHAT CARLISLE
was doing was reading a letter from Governor Jerry Gravatt.

Dear Mr. McMillan:

Let me begin by assuring you that I share your concern for a healthy environment where all of us can live in harmony with nature and build a prosperous high plains economy at the same time. I should very much like to discuss our mutual concerns. Therefore, at the suggestion of Mr. Ray Dargen, State Highway Commissioner, I’ve asked my secretary to contact you to set up an appointment where we can all sit down and reach a happy compromise on an issue that needs to be resolved. If we can just get together, I’m hopeful there is cause for optimism.

Yours truly,
Jerry
Hon. Jerry Gravatt, Governor

Dumptruck turned his head and watched with considerable interest as the crumpled letter flew toward Carlisle McMillan’s kitchen wastebasket. Earlier that day, a group of men had disturbed the big tomcat when they rapped on the door. Carlisle had stepped out on the porch and looked at the four-member delegation from the Livermore Civic Boosters Club.

They shuffled their feet and got around to introducing themselves, one of them acting as spokesman.

“Mr. McMillan, you’re a businessman, just like we are, and this highway will mean a lot of carpentry work because of economic growth. Don’t you think you’re being just a little unreasonable?”

Carlisle stared at them, couldn’t believe their navet. Were they really this dumb about what he was doing, about what was going on with the T-hawks? Obviously, they were, and Carlisle felt sorry for them, in a way. He breathed twice, looked at the sky, then back at the overcoats and said, “No.” After that, he nodded politely and closed the door.

As Governor Gravett’s letter hit the wastebasket rim and balanced there for an instant before dropping in, Carlisle heard the sound of breaking glass in his greenhouse. At first he thought a squirrel had nose-dived through it. Then he heard a rifle shot and went to the floor, crawling rapidly and dragging a frightened and confused Dumptruck from the windowsill. He held the squirming cat and stayed low as a third shot hit the greenhouse. After that it was silent, but Carlisle stayed on the floor for another few minutes before lifting himself up to look out a corner of the window. Nothing.

The professor at Stanford had said it would get rough, maybe an R rating. He had been right. After looking at the damage and carrying in plants, Carlisle shut the greenhouse door and sat by his woodstove, wondering whether or not it was worth his effort to repair the greenhouse. Dumptruck jumped onto his lap and settled down, purring.

The following day, a Yerkes County sheriff’s deputy examined Carlisle’s greenhouse. “Looks like someone fired rifle shots from the road. The shell casings in the ditch are from a .30-06, fairly potent weapon. I’d say they hit what they were aiming for. The boys around here are pretty fair country marksmen, and if they’d been shooting at you, we probably wouldn’t be talking right now. We’ll look into it, but at the moment, you’re more than a little unpopular in these parts, Mr. McMillan, and I’d watch my step if I were you.”