The Weight of Gravity (29 page)

“Any problem with us driving up to the lake?”

“Are you kidding?  Not you, ever.  And, hell, he has a birth right to be here, doesn’t he?”  He motioned at Max.  “You being a local boy and all?  Knew your daddy, Max.  He fished here.”

Mel smiled at Max.

“Be safe, honey bear.” George stepped back from the truck.

“We’ll just be an hour or so.”

“No problem, Mel.  We’ll probably catch you coming out.  Radio us if you see any green dudes poking around up there.  I’d like to bust their asses.”

“You got it, George.  See you soon.”  She turned to Max.  “Let’s go, driver.  We got a couple more miles to go.”

Max pulled away.  “I’d bet those poachers would be in a world of hurt if George and his Wonder Dog find them.”

“They’d be lucky if George found them first,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Teenagers in Cottonwood, like Erika’s son,
have little to keep them entertained.  The movie theater in town plays classics for the older crowd, and walking around the mall gets stale fast.  But the lack of entertainment for young Apaches is even more critical here on the reservation.  The young braves don’t follow the way of their elders.  They don’t attend tribal council and they wander these hills looking for unsuspecting tourists. It’s the reason many locals carry guns in their cabs.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Can be.  They’ll steal you blind, rough you up pretty good, and make you walk out of the hills on crutches, if you’re smart enough to find your way out.”

The road widened into a clearing, in the middle of which was a shallow lake about twenty acres across.  Max parked close to the waters edge.  He followed as she climbed out of the truck, took poles and tackle from the back, and began to walk around the shoreline.  She stayed a few feet ahead, picking her way over stones half buried in the mud.  They’d nearly reached the far side of the lake when she turned away from the water and toward an enormous tree.

“This is an ancient oak, a Live Oak … probably the oldest tree on this mountain.”  She rubbed the trunk.  “It marks the line to Postal Rock, where the lake gets its name.  First, you have to look up there,” she pointed, “in the space between those two large branches.”

Max squinted,
but he couldn’t see whatever it was she wanted him to see.

“Here, try these.” Erika handed him a pair of pocket binoculars.  “The only other option is
to climb the tree and I don’t see you doing that.”

Max focu
sed the glasses on a dark patch where the bark had been cleared away.  “Is that writing?”

“Yes.  What do you see?” she asked.

“Looks like initials.”  He focused the lens tighter on the spot.  Then lowered the glasses and stared at her.  “MMK?”

“My initials.  My daddy, while showing off for my mother, climbed up there when he was a young man and
carved my initials.  Of course that was a long time ago when I was just a baby, and grandma Dot said he didn’t have to do a lot of climbing considering the tree was a lot smaller then.”

They walked further along the shoreline to an outcropping of boulders that formed a cove.  She sat on a flat granite rock, placed the tackle on one side and the poles on the other. 

“Let’s go, Max.  Pretty soon it’ll be too warm for the fish to bite.  ‘You don’t catch, you don’t eat,’ my daddy use to say.” 

             
He sat next to her and followed her lead as she reached into a box that resembled the food cartons from the Chinese restaurant on Eighty-second Street.  She pulled out a worm and began to bait her hook.  He did the same with the spare pole.

             
“Give me that,” she finally said, taking the hook and worm from him.  “Didn’t Nathan teach you how to bait a hook?”

             
“Mel, he never did anything with me.”

             
“You mean
you
never did anything with him.”

             
“Same thing.”

             
“You know it isn’t.  You’ve been in the city too long.  It’s time you learned how to catch big mouth bass and, if we’re lucky, a rainbow … trout, that is.  They taste the best.”

             
She showed him how to cast his line into the water, and then she did the same with her pole.  Max thought he felt several sharp tugs on his line, but Mel assured him his hook was snagging on reeds that grew on the bottom of the lake.

             
“Why’d you bring me up here, Mel.”

             
“This is a favorite spot of mine.  I wanted to share it with you before you left.  I also wanted to talk to you about your newspaper article.”

             
“You said it’d raise eyebrows.  I already heard the bad boys didn’t care for it.”

             
“I thought it was a good article, but it didn’t go far enough.  You point the finger at the problem and the problem makers, but you don’t offer any solutions.  That’s why I brought you up here.”

             
“You’re suggesting this place is alternative property for the developers, I’m thinking?”

“That can’t happen.  This is reservation land.  The only major construction going on her
e are ski resorts and casinos owned by the Apaches.  But there’s hundreds, maybe thousands of acres bordering the reservation.  It’s farther out from Cottonwood and a little more expensive, but it’s choice property.  Some of this land has unobstructed views of the mountains and it will stay that way forever, or as the Native Americans say, ‘for as long as the grass grows and the rivers flow,’ or something like that.”

Erika reeled her
line in slowly, tugging it gently several times.  She fished like a pro, he thought, so he mimicked her as best he could. Shortly after she cast her line back into the water, he did the same.  At first he couldn’t see the appeal of fishing, but he thought perhaps that the purpose wasn’t all about catching fish, but also about enjoying the scenery and the camaraderie of fellow anglers.  There was also something symbiotic and mystical about holding a pole attached to a thin line of monofilament extending fifty feet out from, and below, the surface of the water.  All of this with the anticipation of catching a fish, but not really knowing what he would do or feel if that actually happened.  He liked it.

“Why isn’t your company out here?”
he asked, tugging gently on his line.

“We are, or will be soon.  You need to offer this perspective in your editorials.”

“I’m not planning to write any more letters, Mel.  I won’t be here long enough.”

             
“I understand.  Not your fight.”

             
“It’s not that …”

             
They both heard a cracking sound echo through the trees surrounding the lake.  It wasn’t rolling thunder like they’d heard at Winberg Wells.  This sound was sharper, higher pitched and man-made.

             
“What was that?” he asked.

             
“High powered rifle.  I think we found George’s poachers.”

             
The sound came again, closer now.

             
“Come on, Max.  We need to let George know.”  She began reeling in her line and Max did the same.  Before they reached the truck they heard two more gunshots.

             
“Getting closer,” he said as Mel opened the truck door and reached for the CB radio microphone.

             
“George, you on?  George, are you there?  Come back.”

             
“What’s up, honey bear.  Come back.”

             
“I think we found your poachers, George. Come back.”

             
“Nah, I found those clowns out by the highway.  You must have come onto a new group.  What are they doing?  Come back.”

             
“We just hear their rifles, pretty close, too.  Come back.”

             
Neither Max nor Mel had time to react before the bullet hit the roof support of the truck.  They both hit the ground, Mel still holding the microphone, the cord stretching through the door.

             
“Shit!  George, they’re firing so wildly they just hit my truck.  Come back.”

             
“You and Max get the hell out of there, pronto!  Let me and Jessie handle it.  I’m on my way … bringing the posse.  Out.”

             
A second bullet hit the truck as they jumped up and into the cab.  Mel got behind the wheel.  “George, they hit us again and we’re moving.”

             
The truck fishtailed several times as they raced down the mountain, but Mel kept it on the gravel.  George’s SUV, lights blazing, raced past them in the opposite direction.

             
When they turned onto the highway Mel slowed to the posted speed limit and they cruised down the mountain, through Tularosa and into the outskirts of Cottonwood.

             
“Max, I want to pull over at the
Horseshoe Diner
and check the damage.  We can get some lunch, too.”  She pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant.  The architecture resembled an oversized railroad dining car.  Max walked around the truck where Mel was inspecting two bullet holes.

             
“Damn it,” she said, poking her index finger into one of the holes.  “I hope George catches those Rexall Rangers.  They buy all the gear and the most expensive rifle they can find, then tramp off into the hills … in the off season … on restricted land, and shoot anything that breathes.  Assholes.”

             
They went into the diner and ordered lunch.  Max was surprised at the size of the hamburgers and the generous complement of tomato, lettuce, onion and fries.  The tall bottomless soda tasted wonderful.  Amazing how a near death experience can give you a hearty appetite, he thought.

             
Max paid the check, but let Mel leave the tip.  “Good burger, Mel.  It’s a shame the day started out so bad.”  He followed her to the parking lot.

             
“Day started fine, Max.  Just wish we hadn’t run into those hunters.”

             
“Some of your work crew?” Max asked, gesturing toward the four men standing next to her truck.

             
“Not my men, Max.  Can I help you?” she asked as they approached.

             
“Wanted to have a word with the novelist,” one of them said, then stepped up and hit Max full force across the face.  Max fell backward onto the pavement.  It felt like his face was on fire.  Mel lunged and grabbed Max’s attacker by the throat but another brute pulled her back.  Two men raised Max from the ground and another punched him in the stomach and then again in the face.  Max felt his knees buckle and they dropped him.  He rolled onto his back and saw someone motion to the bullet holes in Mel’s truck.

“Those were just warning shots.  I won’t miss the next time.”

“You’re the one who put holes in my truck?  You shit!”  She kicked wildly, but couldn’t break free from the grip of the man holding her.

“Better in your truck than in his head, don’t you think?”

Through blurry eyes Max saw someone rush in and knock Mel and the man holding her forward onto the ground.  There was a flurry of boots shuffling around his head as the fighting continued.  Then he saw Clay and Mel in the middle of the four men.  Two of the men were swinging wildly at Clay, while Mel jumped onto the back of the third man, striking his head repeatedly.  Max rolled on his side in time to see the fourth man draw back his boot to kick him.  He tightened his muscles, anticipating the blow.

What sounded like a cannon being fired made everyone freeze.  Max opened one eye.  George Molina was standing next to Mel’s truck with his shotgun pointed in the air.  He lowered the barrel.

“Back up, dudes, or the next time I pull this trigger it’s gonna cost somebody a knee cap.”

Jessie was barking wildly in the back of the SUV.  Another reservation officer, handgun drawn, was standing nearby.  Max was having trouble breathing.  Mel helped him to his feet.  There was blood on his lips and his head felt like it was swelling.

“Bobby, put some restraints on these jokers, will ya?”

Max saw the junior officer holster his gun and begin to line the attackers up against the window
s of the diner.  Within minutes more officers arrived from the Cottonwood police force. 

Max pulled away from Mel and stumbled to where Clay was talking to a police officer.  He grabbed his arm and spun him around.  “I thought you were on their side.”

“Than you thought wrong.  I heard men talking on the job site yesterday and I figured they might try something like this.  Friendship runs deeper than the almighty dollar, Max.  You know that.  Ain’t that right, Forrest,” he asked the officer.

Max put a hand on Clay shoulder.  “Thanks.”