by Gary Hart
After the shovels were turned and the ribbon ceremoniously cut, the crowd began to disperse and the dignitaries went to their cars to drive north to the Durango City Hall for a celebratory lunch.
Those who had not found that morning’s Durango Herald on their doorstep had heard of a significant editorial on the front page, and they stopped at newsstands and drugstores to get a copy. Soon small groups of people in restaurants and coffee shops and even on street corners were reading the editorial and exchanging surprised comments. Here’s what they read:
A Time for Justice and for Healing
Most citizens of Durango will remember a time twelve years ago when accusations anonymously circulated against one of our leading citizens. That citizen, then chairman of the La Plata County Commission, resigned his position and retired from a public life that some, perhaps many, hoped might lead to the governorship of Colorado.
Tomorrow a Colorado newspaper will publish a story documenting how the allegations against this gentleman were false, and it will attribute them to a former businessman in Durango named Russell Chandler. Mr. Chandler recently admitted to the publisher of this newspaper in a sworn statement that he was the author of the false accusations knowing them to be false. He further admits that the charges of corruption rendered against that public official, Daniel Sheridan, were not only false but were made both to discredit Mr. Sheridan and to conceal that it was Mr. Chandler himself who was guilty of fraud, bribery, and corruption.
Tomorrow everyone in this community will be able to read the details of this sordid business, and they should know that a good man, and a good woman, were wronged in a terrible fashion. For this, this newspaper bears its share of blame for following the story without due diligence to the facts and without insisting on more than rumor and speculation. We admit our error and ask the community, and particularly Mr. Sheridan, for forgiveness. Quality journalism, protected by the Constitution, should never let this happen.
When all this quiets down, and we hope it will soon, each of us might look into our own souls and ask how often we have contributed to, or perhaps merely condoned, the casual character destruction that has become a hallmark of our public life. In that process, we encourage as many citizens of Durango as feel so moved to join us in apologizing to Daniel Sheridan and asking for his forgiveness. He is the very best that this fine city has to offer.
Frances Farnsworth
Publisher
56.
Deep in troubled dreams at the very break of dawn, Caroline heard an irregular thumping sound outside. She was totally disoriented and first thought she was in her own home. Then she remembered and looked around Sheridan’s living room. It was gray outside and the thumping continued. Toby sat with his ears sharply pointed.
She ran to the front door, thinking it was Sheridan kicking his boots outside. She turned on the light but the porch was empty. The thumping continued, but it was now clearly coming from the area of the barn.
She rushed into the kitchen and looked toward the barn. There stood the tall red horse. He was kicking the barn door in an effort to get in.
Caroline let out a cry and threw herself out of the kitchen door with Toby in close pursuit. She shouted, Red, Red, where is Danny? Red, where is Danny? She looked all around the yard. The trucks and trailers of the rescue squad were still there. There was no sign of Sheridan.
She went to the great horse and threw her arm around his neck. Where is he, Red? The horse shook his head, as if to signal that he did not know. Then she looked down to see the horse favoring its left front foot, the one he had been swinging to hit the barn door. She opened the barn door as the light began to arrive. She led the horse inside and now saw that the saddle had slipped slightly sideways to the left. Sheridan’s rifle was still in the scabbard. She struggled to loosen the cinch and slide the heavy saddle off. As she swung it to the ground she saw the scratches down the horse’s left side and on its flank a couple of deep gashes.
She gasped and ran to the house as the horse nosed its feed bin. She raced toward the phone in the kitchen as it began to ring. Thank God, she thought. He’s calling to say he’s alright. Or maybe someone else is.
This is Steve Ramsey, the voice said. Is Dan Sheridan there? She could not bring herself to answer. Hello? This is Sheriff Ramsey. I’m calling for Mr. Sheridan.
Sheriff, she almost yelled, Thank God. This is Caroline Chandler. I’ve been here all night waiting for Daniel. Where is he?
He joined one of our search parties that went to rescue some kids up in the high country. He’ll be back there soon. I got a walkie-talkie call from the group he was with and they’re almost down to the Sheridan place.
Will he be with them? she pleaded. He’s got to be with them.
There was a pause. Well, the sheriff said, now I’m a little mixed up. The team leader said they found the kids just as the storm came in. They got them packed up and started back. Apparently somewhere along the Silver Mesa Trail near Crystal Valley they got separated. The wind was up to thirty, forty miles an hour and making a hell of a howl and they couldn’t hear themselves think. Dan waved them down the trail and they assumed he was right behind them. They got back to McClure Canyon when it cleared up enough for them to figure out he wasn’t there. That’s when they gave me a call reporting that they had the kids.
Where is he, Sheriff? she pleaded. He has to be somewhere with them.
Well, I’ll be very honest with you, Ms. Chandler, I thought he had gotten out ahead of them. That he had beat them down and would be there at his house. That’s why I called to make sure.
Sheriff, I’m frightened. I’m really frightened. I just woke up a couple of minutes ago and heard his horse outside. I let him in the barn and he’s in bad shape. He is still winded and he’s shivering cold. And his left side is all torn up.
My God, the Sheriff murmured. Alright, you wait right there. The horse vet is down at the bottom of Florida Road. I’ll get him up there in fifteen minutes or less to look after the poor animal. I’ll be in a squad car headed up the road ahead of him and should be there before he gets there. And about the time I get there my boys should be coming in. They may have figured something out.
Thank you, Sheriff, Caroline said. I need some help here. Please hurry.
She instinctively filled the large coffeepot and started the fire under it. She got down on the floor and swept the border collie into her arms. Toby, Toby, she murmured. Then she began to weep.
After long minutes in which she felt her heart about to break apart, she remembered Red. Once again she ran out of the kitchen door with the dog running behind, went into the barn, and began to soothe the horse. Red, good boy, she kept saying. Red, good boy. She filled his large water bucket and he drank thirstily. She remembered where Sheridan kept the oats and put several shovelfuls into his grain trough.
She returned to the house and ran a bucket full of warm water and brought some worn towels. Once back in the barn, she began to wash the horse’s wounds. He whinnied when she touched the particularly painful cuts, especially the deep ones on his flank. Once or twice he stamped his back foot in displeasure. But she continued on, constantly saying, Red, good boy. Where is he, Red? Where is Danny?
After a few minutes she heard a distant siren. It came closer and in another two minutes the sheriff screeched into the dirt driveway and threw on his brakes. The siren went silent, but the red and blue lights continued to flash.
The sheriff checked the house, then came to the barn. Any news, Ms. Chandler?
She shook her head and pointed to the horse’s wounded side. He looked at the cuts closely and said, He’s scraped against a canyon wall or a sharp outcropping. These cuts back here are pretty bad. The vet’ll be here soon. He went to the horse’s head and joined her in trying to calm the great creature down. That-a-boy, he said. That-a-boy. Good pony. Good pony.
Caroline stood apart now, nea
rby. She put her head in her hands and let her grief out. Where is he, Sheriff? Where is he? Please tell me he’s alright.
Within minutes the vet arrived, came into the barn, and began to treat the horse. He examined the cuts and gashes. You’ve had quite a night, big fella, he said. Let’s get some heavy disinfectant on those scrapes. He grabbed a handful of oats and put two big pills in them. He fed them to the horse from his palm. That-a-boy, he said. He searched his bag and came out with a bottle of colored liquid. He put on gloves and poured the liquid on sterile cloths. Then, carefully, he patted the medicine on the wounds. The horse whinnied and stamped his foot. The vet continued to soothe him, then said to the sheriff, He’ll be okay. Go on inside.
Caroline led the sheriff inside and gave him a large mug of coffee. Outside, two Durango ambulances pulled up. Very quickly then Toby pushed open the screen door and went into the gate area and began to bark. That’s them, the sheriff said. He put on his hat and they both went outside.
They’ll tell us where he is, the sheriff told Caroline to comfort her.
The men came down the dirt road and into the barn area of the ranch. They let the three students down and then dismounted. The men and the horses looked exhausted. The sheriff directed the disheveled students to a waiting ambulance and they headed down Florida Road to the Durango hospital.
After the rescue crew had unsaddled their horses and put them in their trailers, Caroline brought them inside and gave them coffee. Having been in the saddle for hours, the men milled around the kitchen trying to warm up. One of the deputies said, It got pretty bad up there. We thought we could get down last night, but several times you couldn’t see a thing, and we had to lay in under some pine groves until the wind let up and we could see the trail with the flashlights.
One of the rangers looked at Caroline and said, Is Dan around?
She shook her head and turned away as she started to cry. The sheriff said, We thought he’d be coming down with all of you. He didn’t show up last night. Where did you leave him?
Didn’t leave him, Sheriff, the deputy said. We were strung out along the trail when we started down. It was black as pitch and blowin’ like hell. He took the tail end drag. By the time we had to lay up under the trees early this morning, he wasn’t there. Nor his horse. We figured he knew a shorter way down or was lookin’ for one. So nobody thought much of it. He’s pretty good at lookin’ out for himself.
One of the forest rangers said, I’m just surprised he’s not here waiting for us.
The sheriff said, It’s not good, gentlemen. His horse showed up a little while ago. He’s pretty badly scratched up.
Caroline left the room.
Here’s what I want you to do, the sheriff said. Get into town, get something to eat, and rest up. I’ve put in a call to the dispatcher. We’ve got another crew on its way up here with fresh horses and we’ll start them back up into the high country as soon as they show up. I’ve also asked that helicopter to come back down from Grand Junction. And we’ve got two light planes warming up at the Durango airport right this minute. The dispatcher has given the pilots the exact coordinates of your trail and we’ll just scour the territory until we find Mr. Sheridan.
57.
I’ll check in on you from time to time, Ms. Chandler, the sheriff said. And you let me know when Dan shows up here. He looked her in the eye and said, He will show up here. I’ve known Daniel Sheridan all my life. There’s no one in southwestern Colorado better able to get himself home than he is. Here’s my numbers. Give me a call when he shows up.
Caroline said, He didn’t have to go.
Yes, he did, the sheriff said. We could have lost some people up there. They all came back.
But he didn’t, she said.
One by one the exhausted crew drove away. The sheriff followed. Twenty minutes later their replacements began to arrive. Caroline had made more coffee and handed it around to them in the yard as they unloaded the fresh horses and saddled them. They held huddled conversations around several maps, then organized themselves into two groups and headed back up the dirt road that formed the end of Florida Road and the beginning of McClure Canyon.
Caroline thought briefly about going upstairs to bed to wait. But she could not. He would be there. His scent would be there. She could not stand it. She kept the radio on for music and the possibility of some kind of announcement. In the news segment beginning each hour that slowly passed were reports of the ground-breaking ceremony that morning and excerpts from the speeches. Each time she had to turn away.
The vet had given her a salve for the horse’s wounds, and each hour she found comfort in visiting the great creature in the barn and administering the ointment. When the horse whinnied in pain, she put her arm around his neck and talked into his ear. Good pony. Red’s a good pony. Good boy, Red. Then, Where’s Danny, Red?
Late morning she and Toby set out for the upper meadow of the Sheridan ranch. I’ll see him coming down, she thought. I’ll see him when he comes out of those trees. He’s going to come out of those trees.
From time to time Toby whined softly. Each time it brought her own sighs and tears.
When she finally turned and came back down, she heard the telephone ringing in the house and raced to answer. It’s Steve Ramsey, the sheriff said. Any news from up there?
No, she said. No news.
Our planes have come back for more fuel, he said. So far no sightings. They say the snow is still very heavy up there. That’s good news because it makes locating someone easier. But it means it’s also hard to get around. He didn’t say “especially on foot,” but she understood.
I’ll stay in touch, he said. And you do the same.
She could only nod and thank him.
That evening the second search party returned. She dreaded to see them. Sheridan was not with them. She watched through binoculars as they emerged from the trees a quarter mile away. She counted the horses and riders. There were no double mounts.
At dusk she fed Toby. She herself could not eat. After he ate, Toby resumed his vigil at the kitchen door, standing and alert to any noise in the yard or barn, lying down and occasionally whining when all was silent. She took him with her to feed Red, administer the medicine, and settle him for the night.
At midnight she lay down on the leather sofa. Her last call from the sheriff had been two hours ago. She wept off and on until sleep came. Toby lay on the floor next to her.
Caroline stayed two more days at the Sheridan ranch. She could do nothing more. The vet promised to look in on Red from time to time and Harv Waldron’s son called to say he would feed the horse and dog and look after the place until Dan Sheridan returned.
Caroline drove through the battered gate, then closed it, and drove down Florida Road toward home. She held the carved figure of the Indian woman tightly in one hand as she drove.
58.
On the outskirts of Ignacio on the Southern Ute reservation, Two Hawks, the ancient holy man, emerged onto his porch as the first rays of the sun broke the horizon.
He faced the east and raised his arms and began to pray. He continued his prayer as he turned to the south, then to the west, and finally to the north. He prayed to the spirit of the four seasons and the four compass points. He prayed for all the creatures and for all the Indian people. He prayed for the white men in Durango and everywhere else.
Then, in the language of the Ute people, he prayed this prayer:
Be with our friend Daniel Sheridan, Great Spirit.
He is a warrior with a great heart.
He has the cougar’s soul.
He will find us when it is his time.
The End
Afterword
For a number of years it has been my honor to be published by Fulcrum Publishing of Golden, Colorado, a publisher with roots in the West and a deep concern for western history, progressive public pol
icy, protection of nature and Her creatures, and, most of all, quality books. To its owners and officers Robert Baron and Sam Scinta I owe a deep debt of gratitude, especially for appreciating why the story of Durango deserves to be told.
This story brings one of Sophocles’ lesser-known plays, Philoctetes, into the late twentieth century. For those interested in parallels, as the epigraph suggests, the best rendering of Philoctetes in recent times is Seamus Heaney’s The Cure at Troy. Instead of the Trojan War, though, this story involves a real-life water conflict in southwestern Colorado.
Water wars, great and small, form a kind of history of the American West. Few, at least in recent times, have involved bloodshed. But I have it on knowledgeable authority that the tense conflict represented by the Animas–La Plata water project central to this story is, if anything, understated.
It is one thing to write a story based on genuine history. It is even more complex to write that story when you yourself played a small role in it. It is as true to history as I could make it, with the considerable help of Mr. Tom Shipps and Professor Duane Smith. Mr. Shipps was the law partner of the late Sammy Maynes (Sam Maynard). And Professor Smith (Duane Smithson) is the dean of Colorado historians and the acknowledged expert on southwestern Colorado history. They both made invaluable contributions to this story, especially having to do with the history of the region and the laws surrounding the Animas–La Plata water and the Southern Ute tribal resources.
A few others in the story are based on real people past and present. Frances Farnsworth, together with the Southern Ute holy man Two Hawks, form the moral compass and the community conscience of the story. Frances is very loosely based on the late Morley Ballantine, who, with her husband, Arthur, owned and published the Durango Herald during much of the period of this narration.
There is no actual Daniel Sheridan or Caroline Chandler, though people like them surely exist somewhere, possibly even in Durango.