Durango

by Gary Hart

The young man on the right end of the table said, Well, as the newest member of the County Commission—he scratched his head—it’s still pretty confusing to me. Half the people in my district want it and half don’t want it.

  Welcome to elective office, Sheridan said.

  All but the youngish man smiled, and the reporter for the Durango Herald made a note.

  The thing is, Ralph said, it does get down to growth or no-growth. I can see how the water helps the energy people and the developers. But like Mrs. Raymond here, I can see, even as a newcomer to this area, how too much, too soon will mess this place up. Like a lot of new people, I came here because Durango and this county are a good place to live and to raise children just the way they are.

  Lots of dollars to be made, Mr. Ralph, Sheridan said, by lots of people in the dollar-making business.

  Well, you’re for the project, Ralph said, and you’ve lived here forever. How come you’re for it?

  Sheridan looked at the ceiling with a wry smile, Not quite forever, Mr. Ralph. I’m not Methuselah. Just Methuselah’s son. But to answer your question, it’s the Utes. Half the people I represent want this project and half don’t want it, just like you, but the final straw for me was the Southern Utes getting the water they need to carry out their energy development program, Red Willow, and improve the lives of their people. Simple matter of justice.

  In the back of the meeting room, packed with two hundred or so people, sat two men, one about Commissioner Ralph’s age, the other a well-turned-out man in his late fifties. Both wore expensive suits and stood out from the everyday La Plata County crowd around them. The younger man took detailed notes. Occasionally they whispered to each other.

  The floor was opened for public comment and, as usual, a number of citizens queued at the microphones. As at many commission meetings in the years before, individual comments were about equally divided between those who didn’t understand why the “government” didn’t just get on with it and build the dam and those who decried the damage to the environment and the quality of life around Durango. Sheridan and the other commissioners listened attentively and sometimes nodded in agreement or disagreement. Once or twice the commissioners asked questions of the more informed citizens or chastised those who chose an extremist stance, one way or the other.

  That all occurred some twelve years before. But that evening, and many like it in the monthly county commission cycle, had often crossed Sheridan’s mind in the years since. He remembered noting the two well-dressed men, strangers to him, and wondering what had brought them there. Very soon thereafter he was to find out.

  In the meantime, the prolonged, troublesome, and divisive Animas–La Plata Dam project had waxed and waned over years and then decades, surviving largely on annual congressional appropriations for “study” funds to keep the project alive another year in the hope that divine intervention or rare human wisdom might resolve it one way or the other.

  For the minority of those in the Durango community who did not worry about the project or who tried to find a balance between growth and preservation, the feeling was that a dam of some dimensions would ultimately be built, if for no other reason than because of what came to be shorthanded as the “Sheridan position”: the Southern Utes deserved and needed their fair share of the water stored above the dam. There was some degree of white guilt in this. But the Utes had built up a store of moral capital over many decades, and the issue of justice was a powerful one.

  Sheridan often used that word—justice—when he could not think of a better one. For him it meant what was right. Though he had a year or so of law school, he did not philosophize about it. And he did not use it to preach. But he did remember a line he had seen on a rare trip to Washington. It was on the wall in the Jefferson Memorial rotunda. “I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just.” Jefferson’s conscience had plagued him about slavery. Sheridan had a similar sense about the Utes.

  A few days after that county commission meeting, Sheridan had gotten a call from the younger of the two men who had been at the back of the meeting hall. He called himself Matthew Palmer—just call me Matt—and said that he and his boss, Mr. Stone, would appreciate the pleasure of lunch with Mr. Sheridan. What might this be about? Sheridan had asked. He tried not to sound too wary. Matt Palmer had responded that they wished to discuss the Animas–La Plata project. They certainly shared Mr. Sheridan’s concern for the Southern Ute Tribe. They represented a company that wished to help the Utes develop their mineral resources as a means of providing a better life for people too long left out of modern advancement.

  On that occasion, Sheridan had chosen not to test the young Palmer’s bona fides. But he did, at least in his mind, do what his father had long ago taught him: When you hear some notion that seems too good to be true, put your hand on your wallet.

  With a measure of native caution, Sheridan joined the two men at the Strater Hotel dining room for lunch a few days later. As usual, he listened more than he talked.

  We liked what you had to say at the commission meeting last week, Mr. Stone said.

  Sheridan said politely, May I know who “we” are?

  Ah, Mr. Stone said with a chuckle. “We” are a very progressive investment fund. We look at new opportunities, especially in the natural resources area, and try to direct our investors and others toward specific development projects. We have studied the Southern Utes’ opportunities and agree with you completely that the Animas–La Plata water is crucial to their success. So, we simply wanted to meet you and offer our support in your efforts.

  Sheridan nodded slightly. Very generous of you. Do you mind if I ask a few questions?

  Not at all, Stone chuckled. We’re used to hard questions in our business.

  Have you met with Chairman Cloud, Leonard Cloud, at the reservation headquarters down in Ignacio? Sheridan asked.

  Not yet, young Palmer intervened. But we were hoping you might help arrange an introduction. Stone’s lips smiled, but his eyes frowned.

  You don’t need an introduction from me, Sheridan said. The Utes have been waiting for people with money to show up for quite a few years now. Problem is, now that they’re trying to take control of their own resources, a whole lot of folks like you are showing up. Don’t mean to be impolite, but it’s the truth.

  Stone said, Exactly. But that’s why we thought having you open the door might make a big difference. We’ve done a good deal of homework, “due diligence” we call it, and we know of your extraordinary position with the tribe, Mr. Sheridan.

  Shaking his head, Sheridan said, I don’t have any “position,” let alone an “extraordinary” one. They were my father’s friends, and my grandfather’s before him, and so they’re my friends too. Nothing extraordinary about it. He paused. And by the way, I don’t trade on friendships, extraordinary or not.

  Oh, no, no, no, Stone said quickly. Nothing of the kind. Both men shook their heads vigorously. We simply meant that a call from you to Chairman Cloud, or better yet, if you came along with us, would offer a kind of…credibility, if I may use that word, that we might not otherwise have and others certainly would not have.

  By credibility, Sheridan said, I gather you mean a head start, an advantage. Over the “others.” He pushed his unfinished lunch back and leaned back in his chair. Let’s see if I understand what’s going on here. Your investment fund—what do you call it?

  Nature’s Capital, young Palmer offered helpfully, pulling a business card from his pocket.

  Sheridan said, I see. Nature’s Capital wants to help the Utes develop their resources—methane coal gas right now, and oil and natural gas to come—so that they can, what did you say, “provide a better life for those too long left out of modern” something.

  Advancement, young Palmer said eagerly.

  Advancement, Sheridan repeated. And you need my help to do that.

  Not exactly “need,”
Stone interrupted. Would like to have, is a better way of putting it. He now pushed his card across the table at Sheridan. A kind of partnership. Win-win-win. We win by financing Ute energy projects. The Utes win by finally enjoying the benefits of the resources God gave them. And you win—

  It wasn’t God, Sheridan interrupted.

  What? Stone asked, I thought—

  It was good old Uncle Sam, Sheridan said, a note of keen intensity in his voice. God didn’t put the Utes down there in that wind-blasted desert. Uncle Sam did. The US government did. We did, he said, pointing at Stone, young Palmer, and himself. We put them there about a hundred and thirty years ago. And you know what? We left them there. We forgot about them. We couldn’t have cared less. And then, guess what, the Arabs decided they didn’t want us to get their oil for fifty cents a barrel and shut the valves. All of a sudden, “we” needed to find oil fast. Guess where “we” looked? On their land. And “we” found oil and gas there. And you know what happened next? The good old US Department of the Interior, Bureau of goddamn Indian Affairs, leased the rights to the oil and gas to major oil companies—he dropped his voice to a whisper—and gave the Utes spare change. A pittance. A fraction of the profits. Embarrassingly little.

  Though he had not raised his voice, Sheridan’s face had darkened. Under the table, his hands shook with anger. He now spoke between set teeth. If I were you, I wouldn’t go down there with your money and talk about what God gave them. If anything, God played a trick on Uncle Sam. He said to Himself, Let’s see, the white men are putting the red men in the corner of a desert, more or less to get rid of them, while the land they roamed is taken from them. But these same white men, God says to Himself, are putting oil in cars and burning it up real fast. So, let’s even things out. I’ve put a lot of that oil under the land used to corral the red men and now we’ll see what happens when the white men need it.

  Sheridan leaned across the table. Some people call that Divine Justice. Me? I don’t know whether it’s divine or not. But it sure as hell is justice.

  Both men were now still. They both shook their heads slowly. Young Palmer’s eyes were wide and apprehensive. Stone then nodded thoughtfully, as if viewing a particularly complex balance sheet. I see, he said. Good advice. Very good advice. Thank you for that. We’ll be, shall I say, careful in that regard.

  You don’t have to worry about Chairman Cloud, Sheridan said. He’s served in the US Air Force and even did a few years at the BIA—Bureau of Indian Affairs—so he knows what’s going on. And you’ll find him much less, what should I say, intense on this subject than I am. He’s a very smart man and I’m sure he’ll listen politely to what you have to say. He has quite a number of new friends these days, especially in your line of work.

  Which brings us back, Stone said, to the matter of your…involvement. We really do value your advice and, as we have said, think having you on our side would make a great deal of difference in our success with the Southern Ute Tribe. They will, after all, need financing to develop their resources, that is if the courts confirm that those resources are theirs. I mentioned win-win. You would win, possibly big, as well.

  We’ll see what the courts do pretty quickly, Sheridan said. The Utes have Sammy Maynard, and he’s one of the best. Been with them since Chairman Cloud became leader in the sixties. He paused and looked out of the partially opened window at the street below. You have the wrong man, Sheridan said, where “winning” is concerned. I don’t have much beside my own land, my family’s land, and I never will. And if I haven’t already made it clear, then I will. I don’t trade in friendships. If you’re talking about some sort of reward for joining your team, what do you call yourselves?

  Nature’s Capital, young Palmer said quietly.

  Nature’s Capital, Sheridan repeated. Anyway, I’ll just say no thanks. It’s not how I do business.

  At that point Stone lowered his voice, scanned the room, and said, Mr. Sheridan, there is considerable talk around here, and I gather in other parts of Colorado, that you might be interested in seeking a statewide office. Some even say the governorship.

  Sheridan stared at him, eyes narrowed.

  I have no idea, Stone continued, whether that is true or not true. But what I do know is that seeking public office these days, what with media and consultants and whatnot, is very costly. Now, you yourself have said that you are not a man of means. So, if you have an interest in serving in a higher capacity, and I have no doubt you would do so with great skill and integrity—I’ve seen how you handle yourself in the county commissioners’ meetings—you’ll need financial resources. A rather large amount of financial resources.

  Sheridan’s gaze narrowed, disconcertingly, further.

  Let’s just say that we at Nature’s Capital—and by the way, we are a subsidiary of one of the largest investment banks in the country—would do all we could to see that you had the resources necessary to carry out those ambitions.

  Sheridan was silent. He pushed his unfinished lunch plate away farther. Then he pushed their respective business cards back toward them. He stood and said, Gentlemen, whether I do or do not seek another public office should have nothing to do with your efforts to make money off the Utes, and it won’t. If I were to run for higher office, in fact, it would be specifically to prevent that kind of corruption. You do whatever you wish with the Utes. They’re smart enough to know who to trust and who not to. They’ve had a lot of experience in that regard. Just don’t use my name in any of your dealings with them.

  That all happened some years ago. But what transpired thereafter would become part of the Sheridan legend in those parts.

  7.

  After his Monday coffee with his local Monday and Friday group and then another cup with Ms. Chandler, Sheridan walked across the street to his pickup. Near the vehicle stood a tall, angular young man in standard student wear: jeans and a work shirt.

  Mr. Sheridan? the young man asked. Sheridan nodded. May I speak with you?

  Sheridan nodded again. Surely. About what?

  The young man coughed. My name is Pat Carroll. I was a student of Professor Smithson, you know, Duane Smithson. Sheridan nodded again, and Carroll continued, I studied history with him and I may go on and get a graduate degree at Boulder or somewhere in modern history and teach. Right now I’m interning at the Durango Herald, at least through the summer.

  Where you from? Sheridan asked.

  Well, my dad was involved in government, the young man said, and I’ve lived here, studied at Fort Lewis, for most of my life. He paused. I like it here. A lot.

  Sheridan nodded again. What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Carroll?

  Pat—Patrick, the young man said. I was wondering if I could talk to you about a story. For the paper. The Herald.

  What kind of story? Sheridan asked warily.

  It’s a kind of, I guess you’d say, a kind of profile, the young man said.

  Profile of what? Sheridan asked.

  The young man avoided Sheridan’s steady gaze. Well, it’s…it’s about…what I had in mind was to write something about…you.

  Sheridan shook his head. I don’t think so, but I appreciate the interest, he said. He turned to open the pickup door.

  The young man said, But Mr. Sheridan, I’ve read all the stories in our paper—

  Sheridan said, Well, as newspapers go, the Herald’s not bad. But I’d encourage you not to believe everything you read. Ink and paper don’t make it so.

  I don’t mean to be pushy, Mr. Sheridan, the young man stuttered. But you’re interesting. You’ve had an interesting life. You’ve come up in conversations with Professor Smithson. You’ve had a really interesting life…but most people around here think you’re kind of a…a mystery of some kind. So, I thought—

  Let’s leave it a mystery, shall we? Sheridan said as he got in the truck. I like it that way.

  That Friday, he joi
ned the group at the coffee shop, and after the usual survey of current gossip and world events, the professor took him aside. Dan, he said, I think you met my student, Patrick Carroll.

  I did indeed, Sheridan said. Was this “profile” idea his or yours?

  His, the professor said. All his. He’s very bright. Straight As. Besides, he’s actually the late Congressman Carroll’s son. And he’s quickly tired of covering the garden clubs and weddings and writing the obituaries. And he’s picked a few things up and—

  Sheridan shook his head vigorously. I liked old Congressman Carroll, and I was wondering if the young man might be junior. But even so, we don’t want to do that, Duane. Not now. Not never. You’ve got to tell him it’s just not going to happen. You understand. I know you understand.

  What if he stayed away from…you know…the bad part? the professor said.

  There’s no “bad part,” Sheridan said. There’s a complicated part. And for my money, it’ll stay complicated well after I’m six feet under up at the end of Florida Road. And then no one reading the Durango Herald or anything else is going to give a good damn. Matter of fact, they don’t give a good damn now. And you have to tell this young man, Mr. Carroll, that that’s a fact.

  He’s read all the old stories already, the professor said. You know, he went back into the Herald morgue—

  That’s the right name, Sheridan interrupted. Right where these old stories should stay.

  —and he says the stories at the time don’t make sense. He says that the whole thing stinks. Smithson studied Sheridan’s face. He says what happened was not right. It was unfair. I think Patrick even said it was unjust.

  Well, Duane—Sheridan looked away—stink or no stink, I’m not talking about it. That’s just the way it is…and that’s the way it’s gonna be. Why in the world would you or anyone else think I want to talk to some college kid years later about that nightmare?

  I know, the professor said. I know. I told him that, but he’s got a burr under his saddle about it and he’s damned determined. I can’t talk him out of it.