Durango

by Gary Hart

  Sheridan drove the familiar route up Florida Road, always pronounced “flor-eye-da” by the locals, past the Lemon Reservoir to his place. His small Hereford herd was in a high meadow a couple of miles above his ranch. He parked the truck and went to the barn to saddle Red, along the way frowning at a couple of loose boards near the weathered barn door and making a note to nail them down and set aside a few days to repaint the barn. Once in the saddle, he let the horse know he wanted to go up the winding meadow trail and then relaxed for the half hour or so it would take him to get there.

  More than once he found himself wondering what Caroline would be doing. He supposed she would have packed her easel and paints on her horse and would be up in a similar meadow to the west, sketching and then filling in the deep greens of the pine trees, bright yellows of the quaking aspen leaves and their white tree trunks, the mixed blues, purples, whites, and yellows of the wild mountain flowers and, of course, her favorites, the wild columbines in colors ranging from pale yellow to deep burgundy.

  The thought made him smile. As she collected his carvings, he collected her paintings. He must have a half dozen or more throughout the ranch house. His favorite—elk and deer in the meadow where he was headed—hung on the wall opposite his bed. He saw it every morning when he awoke and every late evening before turning out his reading light.

  For a while she had not been able to stay at his house overnight. It had become a common occurrence for her to wake him from a dream, he overheated and interrupted in mid-groan, to calm him down. Once or twice, at her insistence, he had told her they were always the same: a chase, a maze, he pursuing or being pursued. What he did not tell her was that she was with him in virtually all of them.

  Seeing that painting in the early morning, at or before dawn, always contented him. The mornings were the best, the early hours of the night the worst.

  As the big horse methodically climbed the trail, he reflected on the good fortunes of his life—Caroline chief among them—and that brief, chaotic period when it all fell apart. If one was the price of the other, he had long since decided, it was well worth the trade-off.

  13.

  Going back through the Herƒald stories of a decade and a half ago for the second time, Patrick still couldn’t make the pieces fit—even with the background Mrs. Farnsworth had given him.

  After rebuffing more than one set of financiers seeking his help in getting close to the Southern Utes, Daniel Sheridan had accepted a deal with one of the investment banks, paid bribes to at least two tribal council members to encourage their support of this bank’s bid to be sole financial advisor to the tribe, carried on an affair with Mrs. Caroline Chandler, been found out by her husband, and had taken the bank’s money to pay blackmail to her husband. His complex maze discovered, Sheridan had resigned from the La Plata County Commission and had forgone a promising campaign for governor. That’s the way the Herald, the Denver papers, and even some national media had portrayed the story.

  Patrick’s research also revealed a notice some months later of the Chandlers’ divorce. There was a one-sentence mention of the previous scandal that the Farnsworths had seemed reluctantly obliged to include in the story. Thereafter in the chronology there was no mention of Mr. Chandler. The young man made a note to try to find out what happened to him. He also began to wonder what kind of man Chandler was, what his interests were, why he might have wanted to destroy Sheridan other than to seek revenge as a wronged husband.

  But there were also few mentions of Daniel Sheridan in any community stories thereafter. He searched for Sheridan in the Herald’s archives and found only one or two mentions of his presence at a funeral of some prominent figure. Sheridan’s only semipublic appearances had been one or two lectures to Professor Smithson’s Colorado history class at Fort Lewis College. In each case he had been described as a “third-generation Durangoan.” That was all.

  Patrick now had pages of questions. Given his position and promising future, why would a man like Dan Sheridan risk it all to make money—particularly since he had already turned down chances to make plenty of money? Even if there had been an affair, and Sheridan had steadfastly denied it, why was it such a big deal back then, when it seemed almost routine in the late twentieth century? Patrick would need to do some research on changing social mores. Was there something about Sheridan’s relationship with the Southern Utes, and Leonard Cloud particularly, that had made him a target? The hotshot financial high-rollers had other ways to curry favor with the tribe. Why hadn’t Sheridan put up a more vigorous public defense? He had simply walked away, almost without comment. What would have been more important to him than clearing up the record and seeking exoneration?

  But the one man who quite possibly—even quite probably—could answer most of these and a myriad of other questions wasn’t talking. Patrick’s boss had said all that she would say. Professor Smithson had asked him to stop working on the Sheridan profile. Virtually everyone to whom he had mentioned Sheridan’s name had said only the most complimentary things about him or had simply said he was entitled to his privacy now. He had found one or two old-timers who still seemed to carry a grudge against Sheridan, whose noses turned up and mouths turned down when Patrick asked them about him. He let us down, was about all they would say.

  Patrick wondered if Caroline Chandler might know some things that she had not revealed and, if so, if she would be willing to discuss them now.

  14.

  Leonard Cloud had tried to find Dan Sheridan for days after his resignation from the county commission back then. Though reluctant to impose on his old friend’s privacy, he had even driven up to the Sheridan ranch on two occasions. But Sheridan was not there. Harv Waldron’s son was keeping the place up and looking after the animals. Cloud did note that Toby didn’t dash out to greet him, and the big red horse was not in his usual corral.

  Sheridan was somewhere up in the Weminuche, the tribal chairman had concluded. He’d come down when it was time to.

  Years before, while still in high school, Dan Sheridan had found a small high meadow, no more than a dozen acres, with a small stream forming a natural lake deep in the wilderness. The place was miles off the nearest trail, and that was a remote one. It was totally surrounded by tall ponderosas and was protected on two sides by twenty-foot cliffs. Well trained by woodsmen grandfather and father alike, Sheridan knew to build a fire pit near the lake and well away from the pines. There was a perpetual supply of beetle-kill timber on the ground for firewood. He packed in supplies, strung them from a high limb, and pulled them up high at night. What little food waste there was he buried well away from the campsite to prevent bear visits day or night.

  Besides the food he packed in, the stream seemed always to have six- to eight-inch trout eager for his hand-tied flies. He had calculated in his youth that if the country were overrun with aliens of one kind or another he could survive in his secluded hideaway for about as long as he needed to.

  And, of course, he had the Winchester he had inherited from his father. Through repeated practice with cans on fence posts, Sheridan had assured himself he could handle bear or cougar so long as they didn’t jump him in the night. He had learned the creatures’ habits from his father and grandfather. Grandfather Sheridan told endless tales of encounters with the predators hunting his horses or cattle, some virtually on the ranch house doorstep. One of Sheridan’s earliest memories—chilling at the time—was hearing the late-night mating scream of the cougar. From time to time over the years, the big cats would venture down near the top of Florida Road, usually very early in the morning or as the sun set, looking for a deer or young elk or even one of Sheridan’s calves.

  You would see them…and then you wouldn’t. You would think you saw one, but then you weren’t sure. Once or twice he had passed under a tree without checking above eye level only to hear a deep purring growl. Once he found himself fifteen feet away from a full-grown mountain lion. Its lea
ping range was thirty feet. Though he knew better, he could not help but look fully into the wide, staring, incredibly wise yellow eyes of the magnificent creature. He never forgot the sense of beauty and strength the great cat possessed.

  He had never killed one and hoped he would never have to. Survival would be the only defense for doing so. And even then, being in the cat’s territory might justify some punishment for his trespass.

  Leonard Cloud might not know the exact location Sheridan’s retreat, but he strongly suspected it would be a remote corner of the Weminuche. After a week or two had passed, Sheridan appeared on his doorstep outside Ignacio. Harv’s son said you’d been up to see me, he said.

  Cloud took him down the street to a small restaurant and they had a beer. Just wanted to see how you were doing, he said. I also wanted to see if I could help.

  Sheridan said, Leonard, I guess I’m not surprised. If anyone around here had thought something along those lines, it would’ve been you. He looked his friend in the eye and said, I greatly appreciate it.

  Way I see it, Cloud said, you’ve been accused and convicted of something you didn’t do. It’s not right. You’ve protected us—this tribe—as well as anyone around here. We’ve known each other since we were both boys, me younger than you, and there isn’t a crooked bone in your body. Those two guys on the council are going to resign, whether they realize it yet or not, and if I have anything to do with it, they’ll admit that they’re thieves and liars. They got some money alright, but it wasn’t from you.

  Let it go, Leonard, Sheridan said. I don’t want to cause anyone else any trouble. They did what they did, and we have to let it go. Everyone involved just followed the usual script: financial types, newspapers, politicians, people with old grudges, anyone with a Sheridan ax to grind, everyone was just playin’ their role. Almost everyone.

  Cloud studied him. I don’t know Mrs. Chandler very well. But what I do know, I like. She is a real lady. She’s spent a lot of time down here doing her painting. What Durango people don’t know, maybe even you don’t know, is that she has also spent a lot of time volunteering in the grade school and the medical clinic. Many hours, in fact. Many days.

  Sheridan swallowed hard. I didn’t know it. She’s never said. He paused. But I’m not surprised.

  It’s none of my business, Dan, Cloud said, but I want to help out. You had some legal bills, I know. And you couldn’t get your cows to market while all this stuff was going on. We Southern Utes are going to earn a lot of money, and I’d be honored if you’d be a kind of advisor or counselor to the tribal council.

  Sheridan shook his head vigorously. Can’t do it, Leonard. It wouldn’t look right. And it would undoubtedly cause you more controversy and trouble. The press would want to look into it again and some in the tribe and the public would think there was something suspicious. He looked out the window for a time. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, though, he said. It’s a real gesture of friendship.

  I’m not surprised, Cloud said. I pretty much suspected what you’d say. But I felt honor-bound to offer.

  15.

  The long stalemate over the Animas–La Plata project drove already bitter feelings even deeper throughout southwestern Colorado. Instead of seeking compromise, the positions of advocates and opponents alike hardened. Political leaders, long accustomed to addressing the matter with an “on the one hand we need the water, but on the other hand we can’t keep building dams everywhere” approach, now found themselves with little if any middle ground to occupy. You were either with the advocates or with the opponents.

  Calls for study didn’t work anymore, either. The project had been studied to death, almost literally. Pro-development studies were denounced by environmental opponents as biased, and anti-development studies proved many times over that the project could not pay for itself, at least in terms of increased agricultural production.

  Being civilized, the people of Durango, especially those who had taken hard stands on this divisive issue, by and large managed their relationships by agreeing to disagree. But from time to time bitterness would emerge, and the forums for this were both the regular city council and county commission meetings. Like the ancient Greek and Roman public forums from which they derived, these public meetings began to move from being a place for civil debate to a venue for airing personal and group grievances. As is usually the case, the most vocal were also the most hard-headed and illogical.

  The Animas–La Plata water project as a public issue migrated from an issue for civil discourse, to disagreement, to a matter where minds hardened. And as animosities grew, hardened minds became hardened hearts. When communities fall out over such matters, antagonisms often last for lifetimes and beyond. Thus, what started out as a fairly modest proposal to develop water for farmers in the area became a larger undertaking with implications for energy development and tourism expansion, then migrated into a debate over winners and losers, and finally became a kind of metaphor for human values. What kind of a community do we want? What kind of a world do we want?

  And, as with most undertakings of any consequences, two very distinct points of view emerged. What is enough? Haven’t we got a pretty good life here already? Why do we want to jeopardize a kind of community Eden? That’s all well and good, others would say, but a lot of us haven’t made it yet. Why can’t we have the same opportunities as you rich folks? What’s wrong with letting this area grow and expand and bring in new money and new people? Isn’t that the way to make everybody better off?

  During this period, back in the day when Daniel Sheridan was still chairman of the county commission, the Monday and Friday coffee club was not immune.

  By and large its regulars, who had distinctive points of view on the matters just like everyone else, kept the discussion on a friendly and even keel. Everyone understood where everyone else stood. But as the controversy intensified, subtle frictions emerged.

  Mr. Murphy said, Look, this thing’s going to be built. We all ought to figure out how we do it best.

  Bill Van Ness laughed. As if we have anything to do with it. The big guys are going to build this thing. And they’ll decide who gets what. The way it always happens.

  The professor said, What “big guys”?

  The big guys, Van Ness said. The government, the bankers, the big shots. They don’t give a damn what people like us think.

  What about all these meetings the city and the county have had over this? the professor asked. Dan and the other commissioners seem to take the opinions from around here pretty seriously.

  Ha, Mr. Murphy snorted. Then what? I think Bill’s right. The government and the banks are gonna do whatever they want. That’s why I say just build the damn thing and let’s get on with it. It’s gonna happen anyway. So what’s all the fuss about? I’m getting tired of all this political football! That’s my opinion.

  Sam Maynard had listened to all this. Then he said, You’re all forgetting one thing: the Indians. They’ve got a stake in this. And all that energy they’ve got can’t be developed without water. There are some experts now promoting a coal slurry technology.

  What’s that? someone asked.

  You build a big pipeline, Sam said, holding his arms up to form a four- or five-foot diameter. You mine the coal and crush it. Then you mix it with water—a lot of water—and you pump it down the pipeline to where the power plants are. He pointed westward. Then they drain the water off at the power plant and burn the coal in the boilers. Electricity for Phoenix and Los Angeles.

  Wait a minute, Bill Van Ness said. That’s our water. What happens to the water?

  Sam laughed. Bye, bye. You think those people in the desert are going to send it back to us? He laughed again at the thought.

  None of this makes sense, the professor said. My conservation group and a lot of outdoors people and hunters and so forth are going to the town meeting tomorrow night with the senator an
d tell him to quit financing this project. He needs to hear from the other side, our side.

  Why in hell would you do a thing like that? Mr. Murphy said. The thing is confused enough already. You’ll just make a lot of the folks around here angry.

  Tom, the professor said, people who’re against the project are angry too. We think we’re not being heard. All these big guys Bill’s talking about are being heard. They pay these high-priced lobbyists back in Washington to bang on the doors all the time. And they make big contributions to campaigns. Why can’t the rest of us go to a town meeting and speak up? I think this whole thing is nothing but a boondoggle for a bunch of fat cats. I like this place the way it is.

  Dan Sheridan walked in as Mr. Murphy said, You see, that’s what’s wrong. A bunch of greenies show up here and start telling us how to run this town and what we can and can’t do. That’s what I object to. I care as much about this place as anybody. But I’ve got a business to run. My hardware store’s not going to make it unless we get some more customers. I can’t sell hardware to a bunch of river rafters and hippies.

  I’m not a hippie, Tom, the professor said.

  I didn’t say you were, Mr. Murphy said. But a bunch of those people you’re taking to the senator’s town meeting will be. I guarantee it. And last time I checked they hadn’t taken a bath in a while either.

  Easy, Sheridan said as he placed his hot coffee on the table.

  We’re talking about the project, Bill Van Ness said.

  So I gather, Sheridan said. What else is there these days?

  We’d talk about sports, Sam said, except the Rockies are having a bad season and the Broncos don’t look to do much better this fall. Anyway, we shouldn’t pollute your coffee with a touchy subject you’ve got something to do with.

  Why not? Sheridan said. Everybody else does. Can’t walk down Main without getting stopped by one group or another wanting to shut the project down or start it up.