Durango
Page 13
He stepped on a pine cone, which crunched like dry cereal under his boot. He had moved to the edge of the cat’s thirty-foot jumping range, and he was calculating how he would sacrifice his left arm to the cat’s viselike jaws in order to get the six-inch blade under a front leg and into the ribcage near its heart. Even if successful, he would have a long ride back to town with a mangled arm and deep claw marks on his upper body, some possibly opening veins or even an artery.
Glancing up again as he retreated, Sheridan saw the cat still in its crouch. What had taken less than thirty seconds to transpire had seemed like an hour or more. He took two more quiet steps back, then saw the cat turn its great tawny head away and spring effortlessly—almost soaring—in the direction away from him and up the trail. Sheridan lifted his head and lowered his arms. Perspiration, he now felt, had soaked his shirt.
He reached down and took Toby’s collar. Though the dog was making no move to follow the cat, there was always the chance that instinct might take over. Sheridan waited a full minute, then turned, and he and Toby went back down the narrow trail to the campsite.
Sheridan went to the horse and removed the Winchester. Upwind of the cat, Red had not smelled it and was calm. Sheridan pulled up its tether stake and moved it closer to where he would start his evening fire. His knowledge of the cougar told him that it would continue on its way upward into the high mountains. It had cleaned the deer carcass and had little reason to hang around to further protect its kill. And it had a range upwards of eighty square miles that it had staked out against all competitors.
Sheridan returned to the lake edge and pulled the now-quiet trout from the water, cleaned and filleted them, and rolled them in a cornmeal, flour, and salt and pepper mixture. He started the fire and watched it as it caught, blazed up, and then reduced itself to a steady heat. As he waited for the fire to abate for cooking, he retrieved his canteen from Red’s saddlebag and sat on his log bench by the lake. He tipped the canteen up and felt the icy heat of the whiskey sear his throat.
Why live where he lived and why retreat to this hidden wonder if you didn’t want to share it with a cougar, one of nature’s most magnificent creations, he thought.
After he shared the trout, covered with fried bacon and fried potatoes and onions, with Toby, he drank half the whiskey in the canteen, then covered up for the night with his saddle for a pillow, Toby lying close to him for their mutual warmth. He never ceased to wonder at the clarity of the heavens in this place. Just before sleep, he levered a round into the chamber of the Winchester and laid it close to his other side.
31.
Guess what, Pat, my intrepid reporter? The voice on the phone that had just awakened Patrick at two in the morning sounded bright and cheerful.
The young reporter struggled to wake up and make out who this was and why they were calling.
We found him. It was his college roommate, Mitch, with the investigative firm. And you’re not going to believe where he is. It’s eerie, man. But he’s right here in Kansas City.
Patrick tried to make sense of this. You mean Chandler? he said.
Of course, dude, isn’t that who we were looking for? He’s right here under our nose.
What’s he doing, Mitch? I mean, what’s his business? Patrick managed.
His business is making money, Mitch said in a conspiratorial tone. What he’s done all his life, apparently. He’s vice president of a big investment bank and he has charge of the whole Midwest region. One of those guys who falls in a pile of poop and comes up roses. Though, apparently, his business buddies didn’t ask many questions about his years down there in your place. What’s it called? Durango, man, like a Western movie. Remember it well from my misspent college days.
Well, gosh, Mitch, that’s great, Patrick said. You’re the best.
What do we do now, buddy?
I gotta think about it, Patrick said. It’s the middle of the night and it’s a little hard to make a plan right now.
No rush, Patrick. This dude’s not going anywhere soon. He’s dug in here—chamber of commerce, charity balls, all that stuff. Big society wife too, by the way. Wasn’t there something about another wife down there that I seem to remember from my little background search?
There was, Patrick said. Part of the mystery hereabouts. Let me do this, Mitch. Let’s both get some sleep—this is too much like the old dorm days. Then I’ll give you a call tomorrow when I’ve figured out the next step.
A few hours later, and after considerable caffeine, Patrick decided that he would go to Kansas City unannounced and simply walk in on Chandler. Despite the scenario Professor Smithson had projected, he felt confident he could bait the bear in his den.
A few days later, after arranging with Mitch to be sure that Russell Chandler was going to be in town, Patrick Carroll flew through Denver to Kansas City. Chandler’s new wife was on the planning committee of a charity dinner the following evening, so his chances were good. Uncharacteristically, he wore his college blazer, slacks, and tie, though they did little to improve his rumpled appearance.
He found Chandler’s firm on the top floors of an elegant building in the Plaza shopping center, slipped past the receptionist, and confronted Chandler’s assistant. I’m Congressman Patrick Carroll’s son, from Durango, Colorado, and my father was a very good friend of Mr. Chandler’s, he explained. I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, but I was unexpectedly passing through town and wanted to pay my respects to my father’s old friend.
The woman seemed perplexed but said, Just a minute, and disappeared. He could hear a discussion in the large corner office and presently Russell Chandler appeared. He wore a hesitant smile that failed to mask his perplexity. Mr. Carroll, is it? he asked as he extended his hand.
Patrick confirmed his identity and repeated his desire to meet a good friend of his late father.
I’m sorry, Mr. Carroll, Chandler said, but I hate to say that I didn’t know your father—late father—all that well. When we…when I moved to Durango years ago, he was retiring from office and then soon passed away, I regret to say.
Well, he always spoke very highly of you, Mr. Chandler, Patrick said. He used to tell us that it was high-caliber newcomers like you and Mrs. Chandler that would make Durango a great city.
Chandler glanced back at his office and started to retreat. In any case, Patrick, he said, it was kind of you to drop by. I greatly appreciate it.
Mr. Chandler, would you mind if I just had a private word with you? Patrick quickly asked. I have a question about my father in those days that you might help me with.
Chandler reluctantly invited the young man to follow him into his office and Patrick closed the door behind him. Mr. Chandler, he said, the thing is that my father was one of the original supporters of the big water project there in our town, and when I was a young kid I know it got very heated, very controversial, and I couldn’t quite get my dad to sort it out for me. And it’s important because it seemed somehow to break his heart when things went bad. And I know you—and the previous Mrs. Chandler?—were there in those days and might just kind of help me understand what all happened back then.
Chandler shook his head in annoyance. I’m sorry, he said brusquely, I’m afraid it was long ago and I was only a bystander, a new banker in town, and I really didn’t know much about a lot of the things that were going on behind the scenes. I do recall it got rather messy. But I never quite understood why or how. I’m sorry I can’t help.
Patrick persisted. Wasn’t there something about a man named Sheridan, or something like that? Wasn’t he involved in some kind of scandal? I remember my father mentioning it, but I was just a kid and never could figure it all out.
Chandler’s face darkened. There may have been, he said. It was long ago. He was some kind of official or other. Somebody said he took money. It was pretty awful. But I only followed it through the papers.
But didn
’t you actually leave about that time? Patrick asked. They were still standing. Chandler had not asked him to sit down. Part of the confusion around that time, he continued, had to do with this man Sheridan’s situation and your…departure—I heard pretty abrupt departure.
That was a long time ago, Mr. Carroll, Chandler repeated. So it is of no current interest to me and, as I have said, I knew nothing about it.
Patrick knew he had only a minute or two left. But Mr. Chandler, my dad said you were right in the middle of it. That you may have sent an accusing letter about this man Sheridan. That Mrs. Chandler was somehow involved. Could all of that possibly be true? I know my father was a very honest man. He wouldn’t have told my mother those things if he hadn’t believed them.
Young man, Chandler said, as he moved toward the closed door, you are treading on very old and, if I may say so, very treacherous territory. Reputations can be damaged by pursing things like this.
You mean, like Mr. Sheridan’s reputation?
What is your purpose here, young man? Chandler was now clearly irritated and defensive. I don’t know what you are trying to achieve here, but I’m not interested in helping you do it.
Mr. Chandler, I’m just trying to find out what happened years ago in my hometown regarding a major public project my father had a great interest in. Nothing more. This project has now become even more controversial and is dividing our town. I want to find out why.
Chandler recovered some composure and said, Well, that is very laudable and I wish I could be of help. But I’ve told you all I know.
Patrick played his last card. Mrs. Chandler—that is, the previous Mrs. Chandler—thinks you have a great deal of information.
Chandler said, What? She thinks what? How do you know her? Have you talked to her? We’re divorced, as you must know, he said heatedly. I have not seen her or talked to her since then. But she is not a woman to spread rumors or gossip. She would not do that.
She has told someone I trust, a very important person in our town, that you are the one who sent a letter to the newspaper accusing Mr. Sheridan of corruption. I’ve seen that letter, Mr. Chandler, and it alleges that Mr. Sheridan was taking money from investment people to pay off tribal council members and to pay blackmail to someone who would claim that Mr. Sheridan and your wife were having an affair.
Chandler now combined anger with the confusion of the trapped. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Mr. Carroll, but you have no right to be here or to make these outrageous allegations, especially so many years later. My relationship to my former wife is my business and no one else’s. I doubt she said what she is supposed to have said, even to one person, but if she did, she is clearly trying to settle old scores with me. I’ll have none of it.
What if it could be proved that you wrote that letter, Mr. Chandler? What if it came out that you did it?
Leave now, Mr. Carroll. You are here under some kind of false pretenses. You are trying to trap me for reasons I cannot begin to fathom. Regardless of these wild statements, you have no proof of anything and you never will. Now you must leave.
Patrick started for the door. All I can say, Mr. Chandler, is that you should at least have used a typewriter. Perhaps you were too angry or too jealous to think of that. But you have very distinctive handwriting.
Who sent you here? Who’s behind this scurrilous activity of yours?
No one sent me, Mr. Chandler. I came on my own. But by the way, I’m a reporter for the Durango Herald, and I am in fact Congressman Carroll’s son. I think you might find yourself back in the spotlight down our way pretty soon. And this time you won’t be able to run away.
As Patrick made a hasty retreat from Chandler’s office, he heard his quarry shout something after him. Though it shocked him, it made him smile.
32.
That same night, Sheridan and Caroline had dinner at the Strater Hotel on Main Avenue. The place was a fixture. Henry Strater built it using red brick and Colorado sandstone in 1887, and it possessed—and had preserved as if in amber—all the Victorian hallmarks of that era, including the nineteenth-century furniture decorating all the rooms. Though it was a must-see on all the tourist brochures, they nevertheless had a drink in the Diamond Belle Saloon on the hotel’s street-level corner. It was always worth a chuckle to see newcomers enter the Old West swinging doors from the sunshine outside and try to accustom their eyes to the earlier-century interior, part history and part Hollywood.
When the crowds began to gather, they retreated to their back corner table in the Mahogany Grill dining room. Been up to your hidden lake recently? Caroline asked.
Just last weekend, as a matter of fact, Sheridan said. Hasn’t changed much since you saw it. Probably won’t change much until the next ice age.
Caroline said, I’m a paid-up member of the climate change heretics. Ice isn’t going to be the problem. Your little lake could well dry up from the heat.
Hope not, Sheridan said. It’d be a real shame, now wouldn’t it? It’s a pretty perfect place just the way it is. I’d hate to see it turn into some kind of high country desert up there.
Then you better turn down your thermostat and go back to your kerosene lamps, she said. The projected numbers on warming don’t look very good.
I do my part, Sheridan said. I keep the place pretty cold even in the winter—
Don’t I know, she laughed.
And I do still have the old-timers’ kerosene lanterns. Could have used one of those last weekend up above.
Why’s that? she asked.
Had company up at the lake, me and Toby and Red. Big old cat up there dining out on a deer.
My God, she said. Did you see him?
Oh, yeah, he said. Saw him real good and up close. Sheridan recounted his confrontation, adding a bit to the size of the cougar and his closeness to it.
She shivered involuntarily. Maybe I won’t be going back up…not that I’ve been invited recently. Between giant cougars and water—what do you call them—water “finortens” or some such, I may be too citified for your hideout up there.
You don’t need to worry about it, Sheridan said. Between Toby and me and the Winchester, I think we can protect you from the cat. Now those finortens are a different thing altogether. But give it some thought. In another two or three weeks, it’s going to begin to get cold up there at night. Even old broken-down cowboys can only put out so much warmth.
They combined their locally grown steaks with a fair red wine and celebrated with a dish of ice cream. What are you going to do about the mayor and Patrick trying to make you the peacemaker? Caroline asked.
Not much, he said. They have some fanciful notion that young Carroll can use his father’s credibility to convince the Utes to accept a deal. But it seems like kind of a fool’s errand to me. The young man is certainly well intentioned and carries some kind of cause left over from the congressman’s day. But he’s got a few years to go before he becomes a figure with the gravity required to knock heads together and settle this once and for all.
My impression—, she began.
From the omniscient Mrs. Farnsworth, I presume, he said with a smile.
Omniscient is a pretty big word for a broken-down old cowboy, she said. Anyway, she is my best source of news around here, both printed and otherwise. My impression, received from her, is that the young man and the old man are really after you. The theory seems to be, or at least Frances’s theory seems to be, that by taking Patrick in hand down to see Mr. Cloud and the tribal council, you would find yourself working out an agreement, whether you intended to or not.
Sheridan said, The mayor and the boy—sorry, young man—are operating under the impression I have some clout with the Utes. It may make a nice story, but it’s way out of proportion to reality. Leonard and I are friends and have been most of our lives. But I have no evidence he sees me as anything other than a friend.
Wait a minute, Sheridan said. I will say this just one more time. I’m not any kind of victim, and I wasn’t driven anywhere. I made my own choice. And it was mine alone. When things get toxic, so ugly you can’t manage it, it’s time to step away. That’s all I did. No one drove my anywhere. And whether it was just or unjust isn’t for me to say. I did what I did and that’s that. I don’t have any need to pick up where I left off, or seek acceptance or approval from anyone, or reenter the public wrestling match. I’m happy the way things are—he laid his hand on top of hers—particularly the way things have worked out now.
Still, she said. Durango is your place. It’s your family’s place. You don’t want to see bad feelings build up to the point people won’t speak to each other or cross the street to avoid old friends. That’s not Durango. It’s not why we live there. If I wanted to live among layers of ancient feuds, there are lots of cities in this country to move to.
Alright, listen, Sheridan said, leaning forward. This is between us and, at least for the time being, I’d just as soon that Frances Farnsworth didn’t know about this. I’ve asked Leonard and Sam Maynard to get together down in Ignacio in the next couple of days and see what can be worked out. I’m going to let young Carroll try to do whatever he wants to do. But after we’ve played out that little drama, we’re going to go over several formulas for allocating the water. We’re going to try to find the one that protects the Utes’ interests first and is also fair to Durango and La Plata County.
He emptied the wine bottle into their glasses, and Caroline said, Daniel, I’m so happy. It is your role and your mission.