The Fence My Father Built

by Linda S. Clare

  At the bottom of the box lay a few photos of Indian artifacts, arrowheads and potsherds, mostly, but also a few ceremonial beads, a grinding stone, and a smooth stick with a pointed end. Beneath each object my father had written a title and its use. One caption read, The “kap’n,” or pointed stick, was used by tribes such as the Warm Springs and Paiute for digging roots.

  I brushed my fingers across the faded words. Warm Springs? Paiute? Dad was a member of the Nez Perce. I knew their range had been mainly in Montana, Idaho, and Eastern Oregon. The Nez Perce reservation was located in Idaho. I stared at the photo. Where had these artifacts come from and where were they now?

  The urge came over me to sit on what I’d come to think of as Joseph Pond's mound. I need to examine that spot by the creek more closely. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I found anything like an arrowhead. I thought about taking it to be analyzed by an expert, but out of respect for my father and his people, I’d probably just set it back where it belonged.

  I shoved the papers back into the boot box and then changed from my ratty shorts into a pair of khakis and a blouse with colors that flattered my winter-pale complexion. I twisted my hair up into a large claw clip and spritzed on a pear-scented body spray. Gathering up the box, I headed for Rubin's place once again.

  The sign on his door said he was out on a call. I tore off a scrap from a blank page of Dad's journal and penned a short note asking Rubin to get in touch. As I wedged the note into the corner of the screen, the inner door suddenly opened. Startled, I dropped the box and then knelt down to pick up the papers before they blew away.

  “May I help you?” A willowy woman stood there. She was maybe thirty, with reddish hair cut boy-short and big lips, the plumped-up kind people pay for. I thought I’d met every single person in Murkee, but I was wrong.

  “I was leaving a note for Rub—I mean the doctor,” I said, suddenly much too warm. “Will you see that he gets this?” The faint sound of a computer printer hummed in the background.

  “Of course,” she said, smiling without showing her teeth. “He’ll be a while. An emergency came up. Ed Johnson's mare got into trouble early this morning.”

  “I thought I’d met everybody around here,” I said, hoping I sounded casual. “I’m Muri. I live next door.”

  She ran her hand through her hair the way my daughter would. In fact, on closer inspection, this woman couldn’t be much older than Nova. “I’m Kristin. I come up here from Prineville once a month to make some sense out of Rubin's books. He's way disorganized, you know?”

  “Will you let him know I’m down at the creek? He’ll know where I’m talking about.” This time I smiled.

  Kristin shrugged. “If he gets back any time soon, I’ll let him know.” The screen door creaked closed, and she disappeared into a back room. I was relieved that she was from Prineville and told myself that pouty, collagen lips weren’t that attractive.

  The stream would be a good place to study the journal and photos in Dad's box, as well as check out the land better. After all, when Rubin and I slogged over there I’d been more interested in the ecosystem and watching out for stray cattle. This time I tramped through the grasses and sagebrush, eager to explore.

  I climbed back onto the dirt mound near a cottonwood, close as I could to the bank without getting soaked. The trickling water soothed me. I could see where Rubin had planted native vegetation. The barbwire fence separating his land from Linc's drooped in spots and leaned inward in others. It definitely was not as sturdy as oven doors. The muddied, trampled grass proved livestock had forged paths down to the water from Linc's place.

  At a sandy spot on the bank I kicked off my shoes and then dipped my toes in the clear, cold shallows, running the bottoms of my feet over smooth stones. Shy fingerlings darted into crevices as I disturbed the silt. Just like in songs and old corny poems, the stream spoke and sang, and I closed my eyes to hear what it was saying.

  The power is in the water. I’d heard this once in a documentary about the Colorado River. Here in Murkee, Oregon, on a forgotten strip of land, it seemed all too true. Linc Jackson's motive must be power in the form of antiquities that would make him a wealthy man. And my father had refused to hand over his creek and its artifacts.

  And yet, if power was in the water, wisdom must be there too. Chief Joseph: the only thing I knew about the great Nez Perce chief was his famous line, “From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.” I knew my father's side of the family had Nez Perce blood and held sacred all ruins and archaeological sites. Dad also had the unfortunate alcohol addiction that stereotypes many Native people.

  Linc was a bigot and a bully … and maybe a thief. But Joseph Pond had met his enemies with the same passive resistance as his ancestors. If my daddy was anything like Chief Joseph, it might make up for other things—like dying before I had a chance to meet him. If power was in the water, I certainly didn’t feel much of it just then.

  “Too late, is more like it,” I said to the minnows that nibbled at my red toenail polish. “Guess he can’t call to say he's coming home.”

  Feeling powerless, I sat stock-still. Somehow in searching for my roots I’d discovered myself as a single mom, a rural librarian, and an unlikely protector of this creek cutting through the desert. How could I do it all? For an instant I wished I had some of Aunt Lutie's faith. She seemed to think God gave her enough strength to face anything. But I quickly shoved those thoughts aside. The weeks since I’d left Portland had proven that in this life, you were on your own.

  Tumbling over boulders and fallen logs, the water had power; it seemed to disagree with my spiritual views. There was something more, the ripples insisted. “God is everything,” I thought I heard it whisper. “These banks are sacred, like a watered garden.”

  I drew a deep breath, held it briefly, and then sighed. The last words sounded familiar, yet I had no idea where I’d heard them before. Besides, what was sacred about trout habitat and dirt mounds? Snowy puffs from the cottonwood trees blew across my vision, but no answers came as I watched them bounce along in the breeze.

  I thumbed once again through the photos in the shoebox. On the back of the first one, my father had scrawled additional notes: kap’n stick, found April 2005, burial mound on east side of creek. The other photo, showing three arrowheads, was dog-eared and creased. I turned it over. In the same shaky hand it read, University guy says one of these may be pre-Clovis.

  I stared at the photo and tried to remember what I knew about ancient peoples. Clovis referred to Clovis, New Mexico, where some of the oldest North American ruins had been discovered. I vaguely recalled reading about an archaeological find in Oregon, a site that was more than ten thousand years old. If Dad had found artifacts that predated any Northwestern Indian tribe, they had to be rare and priceless. Although Lutie suspected Linc was after the creek's water rights, I was convinced our neighbor was more interested in selling what he’d stolen from the stream's banks.

  I stood up and brushed off the seat of my pants. Maybe I hadn’t been paying attention to the right things. I stepped off the mound and scanned the red ground, looking for what I didn’t know. I’d know it when I saw it though.

  Moments later, I caught a glint. What looked like a shiny tapered rock protruded from the soil near the mound's base. I plucked the object from the dirt and sucked in my breath. In my palm I held a reddish, pointed rock, with delicate fluted edges.

  “He found a burial site and tried to keep it sacred,” I murmured. The rock looked hand hewn; it had to be an arrowhead.

  The water seemed to flow a bit faster then, sparkling light dancing its way past me as I stood in this peaceful place. Like a watered garden. Just like this stream, things were becoming clear. I wrapped the arrowhead in a napkin from Dad's box and nestled it under his journal.

  My pulse raced. First, I’d need to prove that Linc had removed artifacts from the site. What was he doing with them? Selling them on the black market? If I could locate even one st
olen or illegally traded artifact, his argument about being away less than five full years wouldn’t hold so much as a capful of water. I stuffed everything back into the box, cradled it under one arm, and jammed my still-wet feet into my shoes. I was excited and anxious all at once, thinking of settling this matter for good. Too bad I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. Before I knew it, I came face-to-face with one of Linc's fence crashers.

  Cows don’t usually scare me, but this one caught me off guard. Plus, she had foot-long horns and was no doubt really thirsty. A calf bawled beside her. Mama made for the stream, checking me out the way cows will, one eye at a time. Her baby trotted at her side.

  I reacted like a city girl. I couldn’t shinny up a tree, but I knew enough to hide behind a scrubby bush. I watched them approach the water with true bovine grace, trampling bushes and crushing wildflowers. The bank crumbled under their hooves as they drank, and the mama left a fresh cow pie as well.

  Now I could see why Rubin was so mad. I came out from behind the bush, hollering and waving my arms, yelling inane things like “Shoo!” “Get lost!” and “Go home, Elsie.”

  “Elsie” looked at me over her massive shoulder and lowed. The calf edged closer to her side, and then they both went back to drinking. Cattle are not known for their smarts, and these seemed slower-witted than most.

  I tried again to divert the cattle back across the divide to Linc's property, but all I got were more stares and a couple of bored moos. I finally picked up the boot box and started back to Rubin's at a slow jog. I’d let him know I’d caught Linc's cows red-handed. Finally, Linc's motives seemed crystal clear.

  This fight wasn’t over water. It was about the priceless things buried near the water. My father knew it. Linc knew it. Even those dumb cows must know it. I tripped on a gnarled manzanita branch and fell to my knees. Somehow the box stayed upright. Burrs, seedpods, and mud clung to what had been brand new khaki pants just a few hours ago. The branch had ripped through the fabric and left an angry scratch on my shin. Out of breath, I slowed down and walked.

  I imagined Joseph Pond striding across his own land, although the photos showed him sort of short and bowlegged. He’d have looked out across the horizon to the creek, toward the distant pinkish hills, and he would have longed for me to be there, too, or at least come to visit two weeks out of the year. He would have shown me how to repair a stove and described his future plans. And he would have told me over and over how much he loved his only daughter.

  “What happened to you?” Rubin was getting out of his truck as I hobbled toward him. My shin had bled more than I realized and stained the khakis, which were now a lost cause. He looked puzzled but smiled as he hauled his medical supplies from the pickup bed, which smelled of straw and manure and some kind of antiseptic.

  “I fell.” I pulled up my pant leg, and he insisted on tending to the scratch. I tried not to wince. “It's Linc. I mean his cows. I tried to get them back on the other side, but they won’t budge. They’re eating up the camas you put in.”

  “Confounded cattle.” Rubin flung down a pile of used gauze, crusty with blood. He strode over near the emu pen and entered a small shed, leaving me to wonder what I’d started. When he emerged he was carrying a shotgun.

  I laid the box on the hood of his truck and quickly caught up with him, already headed toward the stream. “Is that really necessary?” My stomach dropped as I saw his expression. “They’re only dumb animals, Rubin. Please.” I huffed and puffed as I tried to keep pace; the cut on my leg throbbed. I shuddered. What if he’d lied about accidentally shooting Jim?

  He just kept going. Finally he spoke. “You think I enjoy this? I’m a vet, remember? Anyway, I’m only going to fire into the air to scare them off.”

  “Well, that's good. If you’re shooting cows, you’re liable to scare me off.”

  Rubin smiled wide, melting my suspicions. “Don’t want that,” he said. “Definitely don’t want that.”

  When we got there Elsie and her youngster were grazing just inside Linc's side of the property. Apparently, they knew enough to get back to home base or else they were simply finished mauling the stream. After much waving and yelling and Rubin's ear-splitting whistle, they meandered off. I was thankful that no shots had been fired.

  Rubin was less enthusiastic. “Fence is trashed,” he said, pulling a downed post to its upright position. “Got a mind to string razor wire this time. See how Linc likes that.” He let go, and the stake nearly touched the ground, held back only by drooping cross wires.

  I pointed downstream. “Maybe you should get some used oven doors yourself. It would take a bulldozer to tear down those things.”

  “Or a bull,” Rubin said.

  “Good grief, he doesn’t have bulls wandering around does he?”

  Rubin turned his attention to the stream, and I nodded sympathetically as he vented about the damage. The camas lilies were broken off at ground level. Places where he’d worked to keep the bank from crumbling wore telltale hoof marks. I sat down by the cottonwood again. The mound had become a friend. The air hung still and heavy, busy with the drone of insects and the gurgle of the stream.

  “What do we do now?” I asked. He was knee deep in creek water, shoring up the bank with his bare hands.

  These were the same hands that earlier in the day had no doubt helped deliver a foal, saving its mother from something awful. He’d probably been up since before dawn, and now the long shadows of late afternoon shaded his face. Suddenly, he looked very tired and beaten.

  I stood up and waded out into the water. “Show me what to do.” He smiled at me, and I knew I’d said the right thing.

  We piled up river rocks and scooped gravel. I slid a piece of bark under the still-moist cow pie and dumped it on Linc's side. I felt better putting his mess back where it belonged. The mosquitoes came out and feasted on my arms, but I was happy anyway. I heaved a bowling ball-sized stone into the water, just to hear the belly flop sound it made. The water smelled muddy but refreshing.

  “Ever get tired of all the hassles?” I asked him, thinking of the ongoing argument with Linc and of my own troubles that threatened to wash me away. “Some days I think I’m drowning.”

  Rubin stopped and rinsed off his arms. We stood next to my cottonwood tree. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been close to throwing in the towel.”

  “Over cows?” I gathered some flat stones and tried to skip one across a still pool in the water. The pebble sank.

  He smiled. “If cows were my biggest problem, I’d be lucky. Here,” he said, picking up another rock, “hold it flat like this.” He sailed a pebble out and it danced on the surface.

  “I thought I was coming to Murkee to think and get my dad's affairs in order—a couple of weeks, a month tops. But the way things are going, I’m stuck here.” I hurled another stone. This one skipped perfectly to the other side. “Linc ever say anything about selling or collecting Indian artifacts?” I studied Rubin's expression for a reaction.

  He seemed genuinely surprised. “No, he never mentioned anything, but I’ve heard talk. One of my clients claims she saw a ton of stuff in one room of his house.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, chuckling. “Is the client Frieda Long?”

  Rubin nodded. “That Frieda, she's an original. We never know what to believe. But what makes you think Jackson's moving Native American relics?” Rubin eyed me as if he thought I’d done something wrong.

  “Just a feeling,” I said. “And don’t worry; I haven’t broken into his place. But I am checking into it. I’m not sure, of course.” I blew out my breath. “I’m not sure about a lot of things anymore.” I bent and scooped up a few more pebbles from the bank. In the shallows, a smooth heart-shaped, palm-sized rock caught my eye. “This one's lovely.” I rinsed off the silt and held it out for him to see.

  He turned the heart stone over in his hand and pointed to a crease that formed the top “vee” of the heart. “The tribes would look for this sort of rock. See
how the edges look worn?” He ran his fingers over the crease. “This notch might anchor a haft of some sort. Tie it to a stick and voila! You have yourself a fine ax.”

  “Do you think this could be an actual artifact?”

  Rubin weighed the piece in his hand. “Hard to say. It's a little small, but maybe.” He handed it back. “I’m no expert.”

  I was no expert, either. “Should I even remove a rock from this place?”

  Rubin shrugged. “Maybe you could have somebody look at it.”

  “Great idea.” I pocketed my treasure. “Know anybody?” Later, I’d put it in the box with the arrowhead.

  Rubin squinted into the sun. “Denny Moses. You met him and Gwen on the Fourth.”

  “Think he’d be willing?”

  “Denny? He's Warm Springs himself, remember? He’ll jump at the chance. Especially when I tell him how Linc is out to get the both of us.”

  “And ruin my father's reputation in the process,” I said. “But Linc doesn’t know who he's dealing with.”

  Rubin tossed a pebble into the water. “At least we have something in common. That goat isn’t used to anyone standing up to him, and Joseph knew how to get him going.”

  “How well did you know him? Joseph, I mean?” It felt odd to say my father's name. I wanted to know everything about him, but I got the feeling I’d learn something I didn’t want to know.

  Rubin moved a little closer. My heart jackhammered. I didn’t know what he’d say.

  “Your old man was a piece of work,” he began, closing his eyes briefly, as if to conjure up Dad's image. “I never knew anyone who could fix things like he could—refrigerators, toasters, any appliance really. He kept my GMC running. Wouldn’t ever take a dime.”

  “Aunt Lutie says he couldn’t say no, either.” Tears stung my eyes.

  “Well, temperance wasn’t one of his virtues. But the man had a heart of gold, and he loved to talk about Christ. Everybody said so.”

  I listened for my father's voice, but I only heard cows lowing.