The Drowning Man (6 page)

“Amos wants you to get his grandson out of prison, right?” The secretary was staring at the scribbled words. “Poor man. Never could face the fact that Travis is a murderer. What're you gonna do, Vicky?” She looked up, curiosity flickering in her brown eyes.

“I'm not sure,” Vicky said. “See if you can get the transcript.” She slipped the slim briefcase under her arm and started for the door. Then she turned back. “Were you on the rez when Raymond Trublood was shot?”

The secretary nodded. “Oh, yeah. I'll never forget it. Moccasin telegraph was so full, it's a wonder it didn't break down. Everybody had an opinion about why Travis Birdsong went and killed his best friend. Didn't help Amos any, with everybody saying Travis was guilty even before he was tried. It was like the trial was just some kind of formality. They could've just dumped Travis in prison without bothering to wait for the jury to find him guilty, and nobody would've cared. Everybody was so upset about Raymond Trublood getting killed. It was just Amos that kept saying Travis didn't do it. And Travis, I guess. He kept saying he was innocent; somebody set him up.”

Annie paused. The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Guess they all say that, don't they? Murderers, I mean. They all say they're innocent.”

“I guess so,” Vicky said. She turned back to the door and let herself out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind her, the secretary's words ringing in her head.
They all say they're innocent. And so do the people who love them,
she thought.

“THERE YOU ARE.”
Adam Lone Eagle jumped up from the chair at the table near the front of the tribal chambers the instant that Vicky stepped through the door. The table faced the raised dais where the members of the Joint Arapaho and Shoshone Business Council sat behind a long table—Arapahos on the right, Shoshones on the left. An executive session, Vicky knew. Called to discuss sensitive matters. There was no one else in the chambers. The brown eyes of the councilmen followed her as she made her way past the empty rows of spectator chairs to the table where Adam had pulled out the chair next to him.

“Sorry I'm late,” Vicky said, directing the apology to Norman Yellow Hawk, seated at the center of the table on the dais, which meant that it was the Arapaho chairman's turn to conduct a joint meeting. She nodded to the others, letting them know they were included in the apology. Next to Norman was Herbert Stockham, who headed the Shoshone Business Council. The other council members—men, all of them—looked older, with gray-tipped black hair, unreadable expressions in their brown, leathery faces, and steady gazes no longer capable of surprise. Vicky knew them all. Members of families she'd known all her life. She'd gone to school with their kids and younger sisters and brothers. She'd watched them dance at the powwows, ride the broncos in the rodeos. They were her people, the leaders of the two tribes on the Wind River Reservation.

Both chairmen were younger. Norman, an Arapaho with rounded, powerful-looking shoulders, who probably tipped the scales at 200, and Herbert, a Shoshone, rail thin with black hair slicked behind his ears. They dressed nearly the same in light-colored plaid short-sleeve shirts with bolo ties that hung below opened collars, one with what looked like the silver head of a bull, the other with a silver bronco. She sat down, squared the legal pad in front of her, and extracted a pen from her briefcase. Light from the ceiling fixtures glistened like streams of water running across the polished table.

Adam was still on his feet, the sleeves of his blue shirt rolled almost to his elbows, the way he always rolled his sleeves, as if cuffs were too confining, too bothersome. So many things were familiar about him now that he was part of her life, Vicky thought. They'd been law partners for three months, lovers for even longer. When he left her apartment this morning with sleeves down, cuffs buttoned, she knew that by the time he got to the office, the sleeves would be rolled up. She watched the muscles flex in his forearm as he flipped the pages of the large white tablet propped on an easel at the corner of the table. His long, brown fingers flattened the cushion of papers beneath a map of the Wind River Range on the western border of the reservation. The Shoshone Forest was a splash of green and bronze.

“Just to bring you up to speed,” Adam said, tossing an impatient glance her way. The meeting had been scheduled for four o'clock, and Adam liked to start on time. A white habit, he called it, that he'd picked up in law school and at white firms in Denver and Casper. It made no difference that everyone in the chambers was Indian, and the Indian way was to start when the time was ready, which meant when everybody had arrived. Yet the Joint Council had voted to go into executive session, and they had started without her.

“I'd appreciate it.” Vicky scribbled the date across the top of the yellow pad. She wondered if Adam, eager to hurry the meeting along, hadn't assured the council members that it was fine to start without her.

“The Forest Service has opened this area to logging,” Adam was saying, and Vicky looked up. His black hair was combed back, close to his head, which gave his handsome, sculptured features an austere look that emphasized the small red scar on his cheek. The hint of impatience was still there in the way that he ran an index finger along the spine of green mountains.

A guffaw erupted from Norman Yellow Hawk, as if he'd found it necessary to clear his throat. “They want to clear out the underbrush and the dead trees to prevent fires, that's what the Forest Service says. What they're really up to is giving those lumber companies what they've been after for years—rights to cut down the big ponderosas.”

“We fought the decision.” This from a Shoshone councilman, who had leaned forward and was clasping and unclasping rough-looking rancher's hands. “Shoshones and Arapahos got together, told the BLM director we didn't want trucks and heavy equipment traveling across the rez to get to Red Cliff Canyon. Didn't do any good. BLM's gonna let all them trucks up into the canyon, right through
poha kahni.
The house of power. A sacred place.”

One of the Arapaho councilmen leaned over the table and cleared his throat. The others drew back, giving him all the space and time he needed. “Problem is,” he said, “canyon's on BLM land, leads right into the national forest, so they can run trucks there if they want. They said they did an environmental study. What it was, was a bunch of their scientists saying no problem. They had a public meeting, and we were the only ones that showed up to comment. Bottom line is, logging companies had already made up their minds to widen the road so they can haul heavy equipment and timber. Better road will also bring in a lot more outsiders than the handful of tourists that drive up to the dude ranch every summer.” He paused, as if to allow time for a new thought forming in his mind. “Now we got another petroglyph stolen, and that fool Duncan Barnes runs the antiques place out on the highway told the newspaper it's worth a quarter of a million dollars. Lots of folks could get the idea to come into the canyon and help themselves to the rock art.”

Norman set his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. “Couldn't come at a worse time,” he said, peering over the bulging knobs of his knuckles. “Archeologist and some students been working in the canyon the last couple summers, trying to date the petroglyphs. They were planning to finish the project this summer, but there won't be enough time if road construction starts.”

He paused. Behind the gripped hands, Norman's lips were set in a tight line. “They've been doing radiocarbon dating of the patina on the rocks,” he said. “Also excavated a couple of mounds beneath the images. Found all kinds of artifacts—arrowheads, bones, carved tools used for chipping rocks. Said that by dating the artifacts, they could corroborate the radiocarbon dating.” He drew in a long breath and shook his head. “Construction is gonna stir up big clouds of dust and create a lot of noise. Vibrations might damage the rock art images, and the dust…well, the dust could pollute the patina and throw off the radiocarbon dating by hundreds of years.”

“The spirits will abandon the canyon,” Stockham said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the emotional charge in the room. He had turned slightly in his chair and was staring at the small window that interrupted the wall running the length of the chambers, as if he were witnessing the exodus of the spirits. The late-afternoon sun was intense; an oblong splash of orange-red light lay across the gray carpet. “They'll go where there's peace and quiet. The images will disappear. Maybe the spirits will carve new images of themselves in some other place; maybe not.”

No one spoke. A sense of hopelessness, unseen, yet as real as a spirit, moved through the quiet. This was what it was about, Vicky was thinking. The total lack of respect for the beliefs of her people, the beliefs of everyone in the room. The engineers and surveyors who came to widen the road, the truckers who would haul the equipment into the forest and haul out the logs—they would scoff at the idea that the petroglyphs were more than ancient pictures carved into rocks. Scoff at the idea they were the spirits themselves who dwelled in the canyon, the spirits who
showed
their images. The canyon was a sacred place. They had to protect it.

“Adam and I have been discussing the options,” Vicky said. They'd spent part of the morning going over them. It had been comfortable talking with Adam. He was Lakota. He hadn't scoffed when she'd said they had to find a way to protect the spirits. She glanced up at him now, expecting him to explain.

Instead, he lifted one hand, another impatient gesture, and motioned her to her feet. Then he stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. Vicky went over to the map. It was a moment before her index finger found the tiny red line, almost invisible, that marked the dirt road running from Highway 287 into the mountains of the Shoshone National Forest. The road was about two miles south of Red Cliff Canyon. “We suggest that the tribes propose an alternate road to the BLM,” she said, glancing along the row of brown faces on the dais above her.

Stockham was shaking his head. “Shoshones won't go for it,” he said. “We got a couple families living up there off that road.”

“But the homes aren't right on the road,” Adam said, and Vicky felt a wave of gratitude that he'd jumped in on her side.
We're a good team, Vicky.
She could hear his voice in her head. He was right. They were stronger together than either had been alone. Then another voice in her head—her own.
Maybe I am kidding myself. Maybe I am the one who is stronger with Adam at my side.

“You've thought about everything.” Norman gave Adam a look of approval. “The homes and barns are a mile or so south of the road.” Glancing sideways at the Shoshones, he said, “That a fact?”

Stockham shrugged and lifted his eyebrows, a gesture that said, “Could be.” The other Shoshone councilmen gave almost imperceptible nods. Stockham went on, “Why would the BLM go for a road that's not much more than two tracks through the brush?”

“The logging companies will have to improve either road,” Vicky said. “There are advantages to the alternate road. It leaves the highway and crosses a mile and a half of flats before starting the climb into the mountains. And it's a gentler climb with fewer curves than Red Cliff Canyon, which would make it easier for the trucks hauling heavy equipment and logs to negotiate. We can make a strong case that it would be in the best interests of the logging companies to use this road.”

The room was quiet a moment; then Stockham said, “That fails, we can always go to the
Gazette.
Looks like that hotshot young reporter—what's her name? Aileen Harrison?—is real interested in petroglyphs. Couldn't wait to write the article about the Drowning Man, tell the world where the glyphs are. Well, maybe she'd like to tell the world about how the logging companies are going to destroy them. Get public opinion riled up enough, it'll force the BLM to use the other road.”

“Too big a risk,” Adam said. It was an option she had brought up this morning, Vicky was thinking, but Adam had waved it away. “The petroglyphs are too vulnerable,” he went on. “Even the article about the stolen glyph is bound to bring more people into the canyon. People who'd never even heard about the petroglyphs will be hiking all over the mountain looking for rock art.”

Adam stepped over to the map. “Looks to me like we're walking a fine line here,” he continued. “We want people to appreciate the art carved into rocks a thousand, two thousand years ago. What we don't want are curiosity seekers tromping over the mountain, thinking, ‘Gee, rock art is valuable,' and wondering how they might steal it.”

The two tribal chairmen exchanged a quick glance. Then Norman said, “Natural resources director for the tribes, Mona Ledger, is going to be in the canyon for a while with some of her staff. They're photographing and cataloging the rest of the glyphs. They know to keep their eyes open for anybody looking suspicious. But they can't stay there forever. We have to count on the public having a memory of about five minutes and forgetting the glyphs are there. No sense in stirring up the newspapers about the dangers of a new road. Only calls attention to the petroglyphs.”

“I'm not sure I agree.” Vicky tossed a glance at Adam. “I think you have a good point, Herb,” she said to the Shoshone. “If the BLM thought the public was on our side, they might back off.” She'd made the same point to Adam this morning, a point that he'd ignored. She hurried on, looking past the irritation in Adam's expression, directing her comments now to the men on the dais. “I don't think the BLM wants to be perceived as an agency that destroys sacred places.”

Norman shrugged. “Couple of other things,” he said, making a tipi with his hands. “Not for publication, you understand?”

“We're your lawyers, Norman,” Adam said.

“Herb and me”—a glance at the Shoshone next to him—“rest of the Joint Councilmen, the fed, and Father John, we're the only ones know what's coming down.”

“Father John,” Vicky said, his name escaping her lips as if it had been there all the time, on the tip of her tongue. Of course he would be involved in whatever Norman was about to tell her. He'd become part of the lives of her people, just as he'd become part of hers.

“The thief sent a message to Father John,” Norman said. “We come up with the money, we might get the Drowning Man back.”

“How much money?” Vicky heard herself asking.

“Same as what the newspaper says. Quarter million. Last time a glyph was stolen, the thief wanted two hundred thousand.”

“Wait a minute.” Vicky took her seat and locked eyes with the Arapaho chairman. “You were contacted seven years ago?”

“Thought we had a deal,” Norman said. “Then Travis Birdsong went crazy, killed his partner. There was all kinds of publicity, and the contact went away. We don't want that to happen again, ruin our chance to get the glyph back.”