Durango

by Gary Hart

  Patrick rubbed his eyes, red from writing late into the night for the past two weeks and from reading and rereading old stories and new notes, and he frowned. Well, somebody has to print this, he said. Mr. Sheridan and everyone else are just the actors. This is a story about injustice, an injustice in a community as great as Durango. The point is, if it can happen in a place like this, it can happen anywhere.

  Sit down, Patrick, the journalistic matriarch ordered. You have driven me into a role of delivering life lessons and it is not a role I relish. But here goes again. There is injustice in the world. It is everywhere, including in Durango. You are right. If it can happen here, it can—and does—happen everywhere. It is called life. Life is unjust. It is unfair. Our profession, my profession, claims to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. That’s hogwash. We print the news. The good and the bad and, I regret to say, sometimes the untrue. Have you noticed how our little section called “Corrections” has grown? It’s because we don’t always get it right. In fact, she admitted ruefully, we seem to be getting it wrong more and more often.

  But, Patrick interrupted, you—we—have a duty to correct things. That’s what my story is about.

  A one-sentence correction to yesterday’s story is one thing, Mrs. Farnsworth said. Your epic history of a bygone era is quite another. Why would you want to do this? I’ve told you this paper does not want it and will not print it. Take a trip. Go fishing or something. Get this obsession out of your system. I have grown very fond of Caroline Chandler. I don’t want her to pack up her easel and move away. I don’t want to cause the Utes more trouble than they’ve already had to face for over a century. And I can absolutely guarantee you that you will drive Daniel Sheridan into the wilderness permanently. For what? Justice?

  Truth, ma’am, truth, Patrick said quietly. The truth will set you free, or something like that. Let me tell you why I’m “obsessed,” to use your word. My parents and my church and my college told me that a lie unanswered is a lie accepted. And when a person—or a town—accepts a lie and decides to live with it, it corrodes their soul. If you live with one lie, you can live with two, or a dozen. It’s true of a country too. When we are told we have to make war against North Vietnam because one of their little boats fired on one of our big ones, 58,000 Americans and millions of Vietnamese died. And it was a lie. When we invade Iraq because it has weapons of mass destruction, and there aren’t any, 40,000 American casualties and a trillion dollars later it is a lie. I don’t want my country to live with those kinds of lies. And I don’t want Durango to live with those kinds of lies either.

  Mrs. Farnsworth turned away and looked from her corner office at the Herald toward the distant San Juan Mountains. She refused to let the young man see the tears burning her eyes. The room was quiet, then she coughed and regained her composure.

  She turned back. Alright, Patrick. What’s the lie? Did Russell Chandler write the accusatory letter, as we assume? Did Daniel Sheridan pay off tribal members to raise money to keep Russell quiet, as we do not assume? Did Mr. Sheridan and Mrs. Chandler have an affair? Which is really none of our business. Is it all of these? Have you proved to our readers’ satisfaction, and their probable disinterest, that all of this happened or didn’t happen?

  No, ma’am, but what I can prove is that Russell Chandler was the frontman for an investment syndicate that was trying to corrupt the Southern Utes and steal their mineral resources and control the water from the Animas–La Plata project.

  Patrick, Mrs. Farnsworth said, you better let me read what you have.

  Part Three

  41.

  Professor Duane Smithson and former mayor Walter Hurley had coffee cake at the local bakery for the purpose of letting the mayor recount his recent visit to the Southern Ute tribal council meeting.

  I’ve studied the history of this region I suspect about as much as anyone around, the professor said, and you cannot understand southwestern Colorado, or La Plata County, or the city of Durango, without understanding water. Since they brought the railroad in here in 1878 and this town grew up around it, it has been all about water. If someone came in here and tried to study this community, they’d have to know water history and water law. You and I both know that more than one of the old-timers—farmer, cattleman, or miner—drew down on one another over a diversion ditch or a makeshift dam or even watering a herd of cattle.

  When the great dam-building era of the twentieth century began those decades ago, he continued, it was virtually inevitable that sometime, sooner or later, there would be plans for a dam on the Animas to make the desert bloom or some such political rhetoric. What none of us expected, even say as recently as fifteen years ago, is that the project would be completed only if it satisfied the Utes’ historic water rights and that they, not the wealthy folks in Durango and around, would be the principal beneficiaries.

  Well, it sure as hell comes as a surprise to me, the mayor said over his breakfast. When I was mayor it wouldn’t have crossed our minds. You couldn’t have sold this thing to the city or the county or the state or the federals as an Indian project. Just wouldn’t have happened. But here we are. And now they’re in the catbird seat and can make it happen or not.

  Tell me what happened when you went down to Ignacio, the professor asked.

  Young Carroll and I offered our services to the Indians, the mayor reported proudly, and they seemed very pleased to have the son of a former congressman, known as one of the leaders of the “green” opposition to the Animas–La Plata, and yours truly, a stalwart over the years in support of developing our region’s water rights, there before them, representing a new coalition of support.

  Was there much discussion, the professor asked, about the fact that what was meant to be a dam and reservoir for Durango business and farms is now primarily a project for the Utes’ use?

  Not at all, the mayor said. It never came up. I guess to the outsider it would seem somewhat ironic that the Indians, who were pretty much ignored when this thing emerged on the drawing boards in ’68, are now the big winners.

  There is justice, after all, the professor said.

  Well, you could say that, I guess, the mayor countered. But I’m one of those unreconstructed pioneers and manifest destiny believers. God put the US of A here for us to occupy and enjoy. And by God, I’ve enjoyed this little corner of it as much as anyone alive.

  The professor said, Good for you. But I hope the time has come for the Utes to enjoy a little more of it also. And, by the way, generate some electricity with their coal and some gasoline from their oil in the process. That seems to be the American way too, last time I checked.

  Yes, yes, the mayor said. What can you do when the Indians lucked out with all those energy resources? Should shut up those who’ve claimed all these years that we shuffled those poor nomads off into the armpits of America. They’ll all be driving Cadillac cars before you know it.

  The professor moved a bite of coffee cake around and thought about this. Who’s to know? he finally said And it’s hardly our place to tell them what kind of cars they can drive. By the way, have you ever met a Ute holy man called Two Hawks?

  Can’t say that I have, the mayor said. I thought I knew them all, at least the ones that came to the council meetings. But he’s a new one to me.

  Very good friend of Dan Sheridan’s and his father before him, the professor said. If the Utes listen to him, they may hold off on the Cadillacs. He’s still one of those old-timers who thinks we’re supposed to be part of nature.

  Yes, yes, the mayor said. Maybe so. But people are people and, when it comes to fine living, I doubt the Indians are much different from the rest of us. He paused, then said, By the way, speaking of Daniel Sheridan, he was down there in Ignacio with us. The whole purpose of this little play you helped us direct. Remember, young Carroll and I were there mostly as a sideshow to encourage Daniel to jump in and help the Indians accept the wa
ter deal the folks in Denver and Washington were offering them.

  Did he jump in? Smithson asked.

  Well, not exactly, the mayor said. He sat in the front row, but over toward the side, as young Carroll and I said our piece. And he made no speeches. It was pretty clear, though, that he was paying close attention. If our little scheme works, he’ll be hooked and he’ll find his way back to Leonard Cloud and his folks and convince them to sign up.

  The professor slurped coffee to conceal his amusement. It is certainly to be hoped, he said. It is well known that the Utes hold him in high regard. I have no doubt that they will pay very close attention to what he has to say to them, if he chooses to say anything.

  The day before, the professor had encountered Sam Maynard on Main Avenue and learned that there had been a quiet, closed-door strategy session involving Sheridan at the tribal headquarters. Maynard had told him that Sheridan may have come up with a water allocation formula acceptable to the tribes that would cause them to approve the propose project if the state and federal water authorities accepted the distribution proposal. Smithson had been sworn to secrecy. And the last person he would share this very significant intelligence with was the former mayor, who broadcast more widely than the Durango radio station.

  It was certainly clever of you and Patrick Carroll to come up with the scheme to bring Dan Sheridan into the negotiations, the professor said.

  No, the mayor said, you get the credit, Professor. You and Patrick came to me. I was just playing the role that was written for me.

  You played it superbly, Mayor, as always, Smithson said. Let’s hope our reclusive friend Mr. Sheridan will play his as well. But I must tell you, he said as they left, if he does, I doubt that we will ever know about it.

  42.

  Norton Biggs, the chairman of the La Plata County Commission, rapped his gavel and said, Let’s come to order. This commission’s now in session, and Mr. Maynard, the floor is yours for your report.

  Sam Maynard walked to the slender podium facing the horseshoe-shaped commissioners’ table and began. I may have some good news, Commissioners, and no one is happier for it than I am.

  He then gave a ten-minute history of the Animas–La Plata water project from its inception in 1968 to the current date. He used a slide projector and screens visible to the commission and to the large audience. Word had circulated that this was not going to be a normal commission meeting, and there was very little standing room at the back and sides of the chamber.

  That brings us to today, Maynard said, and the dilemma we face. As you all know, the project as currently designed is principally intended to provide municipal and industrial water to satisfy the historic rights—it was noted by a few lawyers in attendance that he did not say “claims”—of the Ute Mountain Ute and Southern Ute Tribes. And both tribes have agreed to forgo any judicial process to perfect those rights, but only on the condition that the project be built and they receive the water they’ve been promised.

  He continued, But the project has not been built, and we’re in kind of a political cul-de-sac where the federal government has not guaranteed the money necessary to build the project and the Ute tribes have indicated that they may abrogate their agreements unless it does. I don’t need to tell this commission that the longer this stalemate continues, the more friction grows between pro- and anti-project sides in the Durango area and between the majority community and the tribes. There is too much resentment in this town and this area and—he looked around—I suspect also in this room. There were murmurs and restlessness around the room.

  Alright, he said, we’re here to discuss a way out, and that’s my purpose this evening. In recent days there have been lengthy discussions with the Ute tribes at Ignacio and Mancos. Community leaders from here in Durango and on the reservations and yours truly have considered a wide variety of solutions, some old, some new. And here’s the best idea we’ve come up with.

  Maynard pressed a control and a slide appeared showing the water apportioned to the two tribes under previous agreements but also the distribution of additional reserved water supplies to the Navajo Nation downstream in New Mexico and the several state and local water conservancy districts. As he read off the numbers, people in the crowd leaned forward and made comment to their neighbors, and the Durango Herald reporter wrote furiously.

  This is not rocket science, Maynard said. But it is a demonstration of goodwill by the principal users, the Ute tribes, and a pretty innovative, if I may say so, effort to bring other beneficiaries into the bargain. If we can get agreement from all concerned that they will support this formula—and both Ute tribes have already agreed—then we can take this proposal to state officials in Denver, to our congressional delegation, and to the Department of the Interior and Bureau of Reclamation.

  The chairman interrupted him. Mr. Maynard, if what you say can be made to happen, it is certainly very good news for all of us. But doesn’t the final word rest with the powers that be in Washington? They’ve got the purse strings.

  Mr. Chairman, Maynard said, that is indeed true. But part of the reason our congressmen and senators have not been able to pass the appropriations is that their colleagues know, or have been told, that the Indians are not on board and that there is only mediocre support in this area. The approach I’ve outlined here this evening—and it is only an outline, with lots of footnotes and nuances not included—promises to bring full-fledged support from the tribes in addition to bringing Indian and non-Indian support from New Mexico, which we haven’t had.

  So, the chairman said, you’re saying this county and the city of Durango and the state of Colorado and the water conservancy districts we represent all have to step up now and commit to this project along the lines you’ve suggested here this evening?

  That’s pretty much it, Mr. Chairman, Sam Maynard said. And it begins right here. There is every reason to believe that if the La Plata County Commission—you folks at this table—pass a resolution of support, certainly the San Juan Conservancy District, then the Durango City Council, and then the governor of Colorado will sign up as well.

  Maynard smiled and said, Just between you and me…and these three or four hundred people behind me—there was laughter from the crowd—I’ve talked with everyone of those folks and they’ve all said if this county commission approves, they will approve.

  The commissioners looked at each other up and down the table. Then the chairman said, Mr. Maynard, thank you for your time and considerable effort on this project over many years, and thank you for your presentation. We will now hear from anyone in this audience—within reason—who wishes to be heard, and we will take it under advisement.

  Maynard started to turn away, then stepped back and said, Chairman, with all due respect, I cannot guarantee this coalition we’ve hammered together will stay hammered for long. I urge your speediest consideration—even a vote on the resolution I’ve presented this very evening if at all possible.

  A dozen or more people queued up at the microphone, and Sam Maynard excused himself, shaking hands and receiving pats on the back as he left.

  The record of the evening’s proceedings did not show any reference to Daniel Sheridan. And no one was more pleased by that than Sheridan himself. Sam Maynard had told him after the Friday coffee roundtable that morning that he would propose a resolution to the county commission that evening and had invited him to come, knowing full well that the invitation would not be accepted.

  Instead, Sheridan had dinner at Caroline’s modest ranch house northwest of town. After he told her about Sam Maynard’s scheduled appearance before the county commission, she set down her cocktail glass and said, To hell with these pork chops. Let’s go down there.

  He shook his head. Not on your life. Sammy will put on a show and work his magic, and if God is in His Heaven and all is right with the world, the commission may endorse this idea and we’ll be on our way.

&n
bsp; Don’t you want to be there? she asked. It’s historic, and you did it. You’ve got to be there. Despite her enthusiasm, she did not expect a positive response.

  Now, missy, he said, touching glasses with her. Let’s toast Sam’s success and the Utes’ success and leave it at that. In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t been much for crowds in quite a while, and I don’t see this crowd as being much different. Frankly, given a choice between a county commission crowd, particularly tonight, and that cougar up there—he gestured toward the Weminuche to the northeast—I’d take the cougar any day and twice on Sunday.

  She got up to get the pork chops, kissed his cheek, and said, My dear Mr. Sheridan, you are a nineteenth-century caution.

  43.

  Just when you think you’ve seen it all, Frances Farnsworth thought to herself, something like this comes along.

  Two days earlier she had received a call from Russell Chandler requesting—then demanding—a meeting with her. She wished to know the purpose and he said, You know very well the purpose. You sent that young punk reporter of yours to waylay me in my office and to accuse me of just outright unbelievable things. And I suppose you intend to print his lies without even talking to me.

  She was silent on the phone for a moment, then said evenly, Mr. Chandler, what I intend to do is of interest to you only if I do it. If there is something you think I should know, I am perfectly happy to have it. But you might save yourself a trip by just sending me a letter or telling me what you wish to tell me right now.

  You’re damn right there are things you need to know, Chandler blustered. And I intend to say them to you directly.