I paced back and forth, leaving my footprints on the damp floor. “Aunt Lutie, I’m sure you mean well. But religion won’t solve these problems with Linc. Prayers can’t bring my father back. How can God help bring my daughter home?”
“Have you given him a chance?”
“I’m out of chances.”
Lutie sighed. “Maybe you’re not ready. But don’t count the good Lord out.”
“I’d make a lousy church person.”
“I don’t give a frosted belly button if you go to church,” she said. “I’m sorry if you think that's all there is to it.” She clasped her hands together, and I was afraid she’d start praying right then and there. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“I shouldn’t have bit your head off. Sorry.”
Lutie got up and engulfed me in a hug. “Joseph loved you more than anything, sweet pea. And he wanted you to know God loves you too.” She looked away. “But maybe you have to find that out for yourself.”
“Oh, Aunt Lutie, I’m sorry about all of this. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to Murkee.” I wiped away tears. “I guess I’m stubborn.”
“Just like your daddy.” She smiled.
I rolled the chair into a corner; it belonged to Dove. Then I carefully peeled the Murkee Public Library sign from the door and tucked it beneath my arm.
On Tuesday I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, not even Rubin. This time I wore my own rubber boots to the mound down by the creek and brought along an old stadium pillow to keep my jeans and favorite blue sweater from getting muddy. The heart rock and arrowhead were tucked into my pocket. I loved this spot as much as anybody now, and I justified the time I spent there by thinking of myself as shepherdess of the stream, or guardian angel of the stream, depending on how spiritual I felt. Any cow that wandered in here would regret it.
Dr. Denny had photographed and cataloged the artifacts, just as Dad had done. Now it was time to set the bait. I picked my way among the rounded stones and reeds at the water's edge and dug a shallow bed in an eddy, settled the arrowhead firmly in the silt, and pushed my special stone next to it, making sure the arrowhead caught the light. It was the perfect spot for an amateur archaeologist to look.
“There,” I said, “You can’t miss it.” I hoped no cows would uproot my trap, before Linc took the bait.
I thought about what Aunt Lutie had said about prayer and tried not to be irritated at her. Lately, she’d been more forthright with her religion, like I’d have to agree with her brand of it now that I had so many thorny problems.
I hoped Dad hadn’t been quite so melodramatic about his faith, but I suspected he was a “holy roller,” as my mother had claimed. At least he wasn’t ashamed of his beliefs or his heritage. Had it been hard for him to separate his Native spiritual leanings from his Christian ones? How had he managed to embrace his ethnic heritage and still hang onto faith that had come from the very people who had robbed Indians of their lands? Had he been like me, undecided in what—or whom— to believe?
I didn’t really want to give up on God, although I wasn’t sure whether he cared to help humans or let them stew in their own juices.
“Our Father, my father,” I said to heaven or the air, “that's all I ever wanted to find.” I sat there and listened for answers among the sounds around me. Were there whispers of my ancient relatives in the creek?
The water fell over the rocks where Rubin had submerged old tires for a fish habitat, but the burbling sounded more like a child's rhyme than profound wisdom from above. Golden leaves from the cottonwood silently parachuted to the water's surface like manna, and here and there a silvery fish broke through with a splat.
Behind me the so-called cattle-proof fence creaked in the breeze. A new metal sign read, NO GRAZING ALLOWED—for literate cows, I supposed. It swayed at the same tempo as the fence. It sounded like, “What if? What if?” That got me wondering if enticing Linc to steal my artifacts would be enough.
“What if,” I asked a small frog perched on a rock near the bank, “what if I located one of Linc's buyers? There must be some sort of paper trail.” That first day I’d seen him in the café, he’d acted like he owned the world. The thought of him standing a pickle upright in the middle of his sandwich still disgusted me. “Linc must know there's no way to keep supplying his sources without taking ownership of the whole area.” The frog didn’t smile. His throat only inflated and deflated, but he blinked as if he understood so I kept talking. “How’d he fake the certificates?”
The frog blinked again. To prove Linc stole the things I’d hidden, I’d either have to pose as a buyer or find the artifacts in his house. It was unlikely he’d invited me to his house for tea anytime soon. The frog didn’t acknowledge my wit or my revelation and kerplunked into the water. I looked at my watch and realized I’d been talking to amphibians for half an hour. I wouldn’t even have time to change before I went to town. I jogged back across the hill to the trailer, aware that these days the exercise didn’t leave me short of breath.
My attorney George Kutzmore looked surprised. “You got here fast.”
I smoothed back my hair. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I said. “I’ve been frantic since Nova left.”
“I’m so sorry about your daughter. Any word?”
“Not yet. But that's not why I’m here.”
He offered me a seat, but I declined. “My father, as you probably know, was half Nez Perce.”
He nodded. “Your aunt too.”
“Yes. When I got here, I couldn’t see why he’d spend so much time out at that creek, since it's not a Nez Perce area. It's more likely traditional Warm Springs or Paiute. But after I found some of Dad's old photos, I’m convinced.”
George raised his snowy eyebrows. “Convinced?”
I could hardly explain fast enough. “Linc's told the whole town about his ‘need’ for the water in that creek, right?” I stepped closer to the desk. “Remember how we talked the first time we met that maybe water isn’t all he's interested in after all?” I resisted the urge to pace and plunked down both Dad's photos and the ones Dr. Denny had taken.
George examined the pictures as deliberately as Denny had. Finally, he laid the pictures down like a winning poker hand and leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers and smiled at me.
“What?” I was not amused.
“You remind me of Erin Brockovich from that movie about nuclear waste, that's all.”
“This is a serious matter, George. That area around the creek is an Indian burial site. We were right. My father was protecting it.” I grabbed the photos and held them up. “This site is old—ancient, even. Dad knew it. I’ve consulted an archaeologist who dated two artifacts I found in the creek as possibly pre-Clovis. Do you know what that means?” I told myself to calm down and give George a break. I didn’t understand everything, either.
But George was patient. “I’ve heard about pre-Clovis. There was a debate about it when they found Kennewick Man in Washington State,” he said. “That would make these items more than ten thousand years old. But news travels so fast around here. How could Joe—or you, for that matter—dig up this stuff without somebody finding out?”
“We couldn’t.” I folded my arms and waited.
George's eyes lit up. “Somebody found out. Somebody named Linc Jackson?”
“Just call me Ms. Brockovich.” I sat down and crossed my legs. “People thought Dad was seeing things, but he wasn’t that far gone. One night he heard Linc's truck pulling away from the creek, and the next morning he found fresh excavations and tire tracks.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I read it in his journal.”
“Joe kept a journal?”
I nodded and leaned across the desk. “And some of the things Dad had cataloged and left at the site came up missing later—items that had been photographed, identified, and logged. An arrowhead, a stick for digging roots, and something else he didn’t name.”
&n
bsp; “You think Linc's selling it on the black market?” George pulled out a legal pad, flipped to a clean page, and began taking notes.
I nodded. “Money … the root of all evil.”
“Indeed,” George murmured. “Lutie would correct us. The Bible says the root of all evil is the love of money.”
“Linc must love money enough to pillage First Nation burial sites,” I said. “He means to sell to the highest bidder.”
George looked me in the eyes. “What did your research turn up?”
I stood up again and paced. “The Tribal Council told me that to legally sell Indian artifacts they must be accompanied by a properly notarized statement. Tribes must approve before a proof-of-ownership document can be issued. I haven’t been to the county records department yet, but if Linc sold Indian artifacts, there must be notarized records. All I have to do is track them down.”
“Linc's got some nerve.”
“You’ve got that right,” I muttered. I hadn’t mentioned the vandalism at the library, nor Uncle Tiny's injury.
“I’m sorry about the tormenting you and Tiny have been taking lately.”
“You know about the library?” Suddenly, I was aware that I was still dressed for mud, not for the library. I smoothed my ratty blue sweater as best I could, resisting the urge to pick at the pills.
He shrugged. “News travels fast around here. Sorry.”
I shrugged. “I can’t afford to worry about that right now. I also researched Native American grave laws.”
“NAGPRA.”
I nodded. “If we could prove he's faked papers in order to sell the artifacts, wouldn’t he be in trouble?”
“Big trouble.” George's enormous mahogany desk was littered with stacks of files and papers, but he apparently had a system. He plucked the Pond case file from the middle of a pile and opened it, mumbling portions aloud to himself. It struck me that my attorney had no secretary or legal assistant to help him wade through the mountain of documents. I glanced over at his framed credentials to reassure myself that George was a member of the Oregon Bar in good standing.
Yet Linc had tons of influence in Murkee. What kind of chance would we have? It sounded as if it came straight from a grade B movie, but Dove claimed Linc even had the sheriff in his back pocket.
“Linc managed to get his water rights using that four-years and eleven-months technicality. He's no dummy,” George said. “His water rights document looks in order right down to the judge's signature.”
“But what if he faked the documentation? Or what if he's hoarding the items Dad photographed and cataloged?”
Sunlight poked through the blinds and glinted on George's gray-blue eyes and silver hair. “Robbery? Hm. That might be best—to prove he stole from you or your dad. Linc must know Native American investigations are slow and hard to prosecute. He's a smart cookie.” For all his small town ways, the attorney appeared capable and distinguished.
I blew out my breath with a huff. “That's what I’m saying … one giant dishonest cookie. I set a trap for him to see if he’ll bite.” If there were a shred of proof for what my father claimed, I’d find it.
George agreed that hiring a documents expert to prove forgery would be a lengthy and expensive process. “Sometimes it takes months to get a document analyzed,” he said, “even when it's a priority, and I doubt we’d be at the head of the line. If you try to prove Linc stole artifacts, we need to guard against entrapment.”
“What else can I do?” I said.
“Give it a try,” he said. “But it won’t be easy.”
I smiled. “Things that matter are hardly ever easy.”
George sighed. “If Linc is dealing Native artifacts on the black market, it’ll shake this town to the core. In fact, if the ranchers around here believed it, well, I think they’d say Linc ought to be hanged.” George chuckled. “The law of the West.”
“The law of the West? Rubin Jonto says if the people really cared about the land they wouldn’t be so quick to let their livestock graze and trample it to death.” I couldn’t believe how political my statements sounded, even to me.
“Linc must know what he's up against,” he said, shuffling the papers into an irregular stack. “We’re too close to the Warm Springs reservation for sympathy with grave robbers. Nobody around here wants anything to do with stolen goods.”
I resisted the urge to straighten the papers myself. “Do people around here truly believe Linc's on their side?”
“His name may be Jackson, but Linc's got Murkee in his veins. He keeps folks working, not to mention what he does for the ranchers. Folks trust him all right.”
“And what about my father? Everybody think he was nothing but an old drunk who was seeing things?”
“Must be hard on you, coming out here after his passing.”
“What you’re saying is nobody took Joseph Pond seriously.”
“Your father was a gentle, honest person who’d rather pray than cast aspersions. But he was in the last stages of alcoholism. I don’t know what he saw.”
A tear slid down my cheek, and I brushed it away. George offered me a tissue. “Maybe that's why I came here,” I said, “—to prove everybody wrong. Tomorrow I’m going to the county seat to look for anything that smells fishy. I’ll be in touch.” I turned toward the door.
George stood up. “Wait. I have an old friend—former FBI man. He might have access to an expert, someone who’ll do a rush job.”
I could have hugged the man.
He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. “I’ll get hold of my old pal today. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, George. I owe you.”
I smiled and breathed deeply on my way out of the office. Outside, a light autumn wind kicked dead leaves and red dust around at my feet. It occurred to me that I’d stared at the ground a lot lately. Maybe Lutie was right … maybe I should be looking up, waiting for an answer to our prayers.
JOSEPH's JOURNAL
DECEMBER 2005
They’re all saying it now: Old Chief Joseph's got a couple of loose screws. A real nutcase. The old sot has gone ’round the bend. The spring of the year is when new life comes aboard, when the earth and God hand out second chances. But this year is so cold, so dry. Maybe the land and the good Lord are trying to tell me something. I know this much … change is in the air.
The creek is sacred. On both sides of the banks, all the way to the fence, the earth holds remains of the people who were here before all others. Some say the old ones are Nez Perce, but they don’t know our story. Before the white man, we hunted a vast land, from the Blue to the Bitterroot Mountains. But this land was not ours.
I could show you, Muri. You must be old enough to carry so heavy a secret. The creek's bed and banks glitter with potsherds and dark lumps of charcoal from fire pits long ago: a kap’n, a stick worn to a dull point, used for digging roots; arrowheads; shreds of a camas basket; and a coprolite. I hid some of the treasure. A man at the university says they might pre-date the Clovis people. Tell no one about this.
Half of Murkee and your Aunt Lutie think your daddy's gotten carried away again. Can’t say I blame them. “What you doing by that creek, anyway?” folks ask me. “Chasing off crows, steers?” I smile and pray they don’t see what I see, don’t learn what I know.
Nobody believes I saw anything, just like most of the folks aren’t sure you ever existed, Muri. I’ve shown them the photo— you standing on a chair, smiling—but even the church ladies are tired of looking at it. They smile with compassion or pity; I’m never sure which. They say they’ll pray I find you. I won’t mind if all they remember is to bring another casserole out to the house.
The evening I moved the artifacts, I smelled diesel and dust and heard a truck engine's chatter and whine, going too fast on that rutted old road. How did Jackson learn this place is sacred? Did he watch as I hid the sacred things? I’m glad I recorded what I found. It may be what saves us.
These days, I’m also glad
that Rubin, the only guy around Murkee who doesn’t call me Chief Joseph, is on our side. Rubin is all about preserving what was and what is, and he has the proper reverence for the First Nations. He's a little gung-ho on eco stuff, but he's a fine vet.
Every day I pray, studying the scars and missing digits of my hands. The half moons on my fingernails grin back at me. Some days I wish I’d never found this place or the creek and its heritage. Whether I’m a scarecrow or an elder, I drink too much out here, and it's killing me. Muri, I’m holding on for you.
Someday soon, I’ll tell you more about our ancestors and what I found and I’ll tell you about love. Love boiling over for a daughter I lost long ago. Love from a father who's running out of time. I hope God forgives me for moving these sacred things to keep them out of the collectors’ hands. The task of protecting them has fallen to me. I must not fail. Livers don’t hand out second chances, no matter if it's summer or spring.
Before I go, you must understand the things we must protect. I want you to meet the God I’ve tried to serve. I hope Jesus will touch you the way he has touched an old sinner like me.
22
Nova had been missing two full weeks, and neither she nor Linc's grandson had been in touch. Tru got the shoes he wanted thanks to a last-minute appeal to Chaz, who had returned from New York but who, in my humble opinion, still wasn’t doing enough to find our daughter. I had to wait for Tiny to get his truck running again in order to go to the county offices.
I phoned Denny and Gwen every night, and you would have thought Nova belonged to them. Gwen Moses knew a lot of artists who kept studios in areas where Nova might turn up. The couple had distributed her picture and even made up more flyers at their own expense.
Lutie loved my glass angel, which she promptly named “Nova” and set in a place of honor amidst the family photos. I had trouble looking at it though. It sliced my insides like shards from a broken window, reminding me that she was still gone.
The Fence My Father Built Page 20