by Diana Palmer
“I hope it will be.”
“Me too.” She gazed deep into his eyes for a moment, then glanced away, as if she’d somehow embarrassed herself. “Well, I guess I’d better go back to town and develop an action plan.”
Jackson took the cup she held out to him, set it on the counter by the coffeemaker and waited for Maggie to retrieve her briefcase from his office. She returned carrying it, and she suddenly looked like a bureaucrat again. Before he could stop to consider the wisdom of offering her advice, the words popped out of his mouth.
“We’re not usually too formal around here, Maggie. If you really want people to talk to you, you should ditch the briefcase and the suits.”
She glanced down at her clothes, then looked up and grinned. “I’m so used to these things, I never would have thought of that. I’ll stop at the trading post and see what I can find. Thanks, Jackson. Thanks for everything. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A moment later, she was gone. Jackson poured himself another cup of coffee and walked into his office. Though it didn’t have much in the way of comforts, compared to the cushy office he’d had in New York, he’d never minded working here. But now the whole building seemed too quiet. Too empty. Too lonely.
The phone rang then. Jackson wasn’t surprised to hear his uncle’s voice on the other end of the line. The moccasin telegraph had always been active on the Laughing Horse Res.
“Everything’s fine, Uncle Frank. Oh, you talked to Earnest Running Bull, did you? Annie Little Deer, too? That’s quite a network of spies you’ve got.”
While his uncle fired one question after another, Jackson propped his feet up on the desk and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah, she turned out to be okay. Was she cute?” Jackson rolled his eyes, crossed his fingers and lied. His irrational attraction to Maggie was the last thing he wanted to have blabbed all over the res. It didn’t mean anything, anyway. Just a few hormones acting up.
“Hell, I didn’t notice. She’s gonna stay for two months, Uncle Frank. No, I didn’t charm her. I didn’t have to. She figured out she didn’t know anything all by herself. I still don’t trust her, though.”
Now the advice started. “Yes, Uncle Frank. I know. I know. Hey, have a little faith in me, will ya? I’ll keep an eye on her. Yes, I promise.”
Hanging up the phone, Jackson assured himself he’d keep an eye on Maggie Schaeffer, all right. But, for his own peace of mind, he’d do it from a distance. Uncle Frank wasn’t the only one on the res who had a network of spies.
Three
For the next two weeks, Maggie immersed herself in becoming more acquainted with the people who ran the social agencies at Laughing Horse, and with their clients. Following Jackson’s advice, she bought jeans, sneakers, and beautifully decorated shirts and sweaters made by a co-op of Northern Cheyenne women at the trading post. Her new clothes were comfortable and practical, and she believed they did help her to blend in with the reservation residents.
She also exchanged her briefcase for a large purse, in which she carried a small notebook. She didn’t take many notes, however. Before long, she found herself so involved with whatever was going on at the day-care center or the clinic or the employment office or the Indian school, she simply didn’t have time. She didn’t need notes to remember the conversations she had during the day, anyway.
These people were absolutely fascinating, and one of the things she liked best about being around them was their humor. They teased and harassed each other without mercy, but there was usually an underlying tone of affection that went along with it. Given the problems they often dealt with—unemployment, alcohol and drug abuse, domestic violence and so on—Maggie realized they probably needed a strong sense of humor to survive.
Though people treated her with courtesy and respect, Maggie also realized she was only seeing the surface of their lives. It would take time, probably a lot more time, for them to learn to trust her enough to really open up with their concerns. While it was frustrating, she tried to understand, and told herself she would know she’d finally been accepted when they started to tease her as they did each other.
She visited with the tribal police, the elderly people who told stories at the day-care center, the waitresses at the tribal center’s restaurant. She interviewed the postmistress, the salesclerks at the trading post and the members of the women’s sewing society. She talked to the Catholic and Protestant clergy who served the reservation, and the tribal priests and medicine men.
Every night she returned to her motel room in Whitehorn, feeling physically and emotionally drained, but eager to write up her impressions and insights on her laptop computer. Every morning she went back for more, always asking, “Why do you think that happens?” and “What should be done to change things?”
At first she regularly dropped by the tribal offices and tried to talk with Jackson Hawk, hoping to verify her perceptions of the things she was learning. Unfortunately, he rarely had time to see her, and when he did, his manner was cool and distant. She was puzzled, disappointed and a little hurt by his attitude, but she finally decided to leave the man alone and get on with her business.
If she occasionally felt lonely and depressed from observing the grinding poverty of the res, Maggie reminded herself there were more bright spots in her days than dark ones. One of the brightest was Sara Lewis, the curator of the Native American Museum, who was one of the volunteer tutors at the Indian school. Sara had welcomed Maggie and befriended her from the moment they met. Maggie admired her tremendously.
Tall and statuesque, Sara was cheerful, organized and dedicated. Her thick, shiny black hair fell to her waist when she wore it down, and her beautiful dark eyes carried a serenity that seldom wavered. Proud of her Northern Cheyenne heritage, Sara knew who she was and where she belonged, in a way Maggie envied.
Eager to spend time with her new friend, Maggie signed up to help tutor the junior and senior high students in the after-school program. The kids were as cautious about accepting her as their parents and grandparents, but on March 15, Maggie still caught a disturbing glimpse of what life was like for them at the public schools in Whitehorn.
A group of high school girls came into the study room and spread their books and papers out on a big round table. Their mood was unusually glum, and Maggie was just about to go ask Sara for advice on how to handle them when a girl named Wanda Weasel Tail broke the silence.
“You went to college, didn’t you, Ms. Schaeffer?”
Another girl—Nina, if Maggie remembered her name correctly—rolled her eyes in disgust and slammed her chemistry book shut. Maggie nodded at Wanda. “Yes.”
“Did you like it?” Wanda asked.
Maggie nodded again. “It was a lot of hard work, but I enjoyed most of it.”
“Was it worth it?” the girl persisted. “I mean, all that hard work, you know? Did it make white people treat you better?”
“I’m not sure I can answer that,” Maggie said slowly, choosing her words with care. “I guess in some ways it did, but I didn’t grow up in an Indian community. I’ve always been so used to white people, I’ve never had many problems in dealing with them.”
“But college helped you get a good job, didn’t it?”
“Of course it did. I wouldn’t be working for a congressman if I hadn’t gone to college.”
“Aw, Wanda, give it a rest,” Nina muttered. “You’re not gonna go to any college. None of us are.”
“Why do you say that, Nina?” Maggie asked. “You’re all doing very well in your classes, and there are scholarships available for Indian students.”
“It’s not the money.” Nina’s eyes flashed with anger for a moment, then suddenly took on a dull, defeated expression that wrenched Maggie’s heart. “We’re not even gonna graduate from high school, because we’re all flunking English.”
“Now, I know that’s not necessary,” Maggie said firmly. “I can help you with almost anything that’s giving you trouble. And if I can’t,
I’m sure Miss Lewis can. That’s why we’re here.”
“It’s not that we don’t know how to do the assignment,” Wanda said. “We just can’t do it.”
Maggie pulled out a chair and sat down with the kids. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand. What’s the assignment?”
“It’s our senior research paper,” Nina said. “You know, one of those ones with footnotes and all that garbage?”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Because they have to be typed, and we don’t have any typewriters or word processors,” one of the other girls said.
“And because we don’t have time to do the research at school, and the librarians won’t let us check out any books,” Wanda added. “They say they never get ’em back when Indian kids check ’em out, so they won’t let us take ’em home.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” Maggie squawked.
Nina shrugged. “That’s the rules, Ms. Schaeffer.”
“Rules can be changed,” Maggie said.
“Not these rules,” Wanda said. “You don’t know those librarians.”
So furious she could hardly see straight, Maggie shoved back her chair and stood. “Well, those librarians don’t know me, either. I want a list of your research topics, girls. And I promise you, one way or another, you’re going to write your papers.”
“Oh, yeah?” Nina scoffed. “So what’re you gonna do, Ms. Schaeffer? Beat up the librarians?”
Maggie gave her a grim smile. “If I have to. But I don’t think it’ll come to that.”
“What about the typing?” Wanda asked. “None of us have taken it, because we can’t do the homework. ’Cause we don’t have equipment, you know? The papers are due next month.”
Fearing she would explode with some inappropriate remarks if she didn’t get out of this room fast, Maggie collected the papers with the girls’ research topics. “You just do the writing, and let me worry about the rest. Get busy on your other homework for now. I have to go talk to someone.”
Unable to concentrate on his work, Jackson tossed his pen onto the desk, swiveled his chair around and gazed out the window at the Indian school. He told himself he really wasn’t hoping for a glimpse of Maggie Schaeffer, but he didn’t believe it for a second. Though he hadn’t seen her for three days, she was seldom far from his thoughts.
How could she be, when everyone he ran into asked him what he knew about her? Hell, he hadn’t needed a spy network to keep up with her movements; she was the talk of the entire reservation. She’d even earned herself a nickname. She was now known as Maggie the Little Fed Who Actually Listens, which was high praise indeed for an outsider who’d been here such a short time.
Sighing, Jackson started to turn back to his work, then caught a flash of movement that drew him to the window again. Uh-oh. The Little Fed was headed this way, in one heck of a hurry, and she looked mad enough to spit nails. Jackson whipped around and picked up one of the court documents he’d been reading, so that he’d look busy if she was coming to see him.
Sure enough, she stormed into his office a moment later, bristling with righteous indignation. Without so much as a greeting, she waved a fistful of crumpled papers at him. “Do you have any idea what’s going on at Whitehorn High School?”
“Lots of things are going on at the high school,” Jackson said, hiding a grin. Man, the lady was steamed. “Could you be more specific?”
“The discrimination, Jackson! Outright, blatant, illegal discrimination. Why are you letting them get away with it?”
Jackson climbed to his feet and stepped out from behind his desk, approaching her with one hand held up like a traffic cop. “Whoa! Calm down, and tell me what this is all about.”
She took a deep breath and blew it out, ruffling her bangs with the breeze she created. “You’re right. I’m sorry I barged in here like this. But it just makes me so furious, I want to hit somebody!”
“I can see that.” Jackson gestured toward the straight-backed chair. “Sit down. I’ll get you a cup of coffee, and we’ll talk about it, okay?”
She obediently sat for a moment, then bounced out of the chair, as if she couldn’t contain all the energy generated by her fury. She followed him to the coffeemaker, yapping at him like an enraged pup while he filled two cups.
“I’m telling you, Jackson, this situation is absolutely intolerable. No one deserves the kind of treatment the kids are getting. Those librarians should be drawn and quartered, tarred and feathered, ridden out of town on a rail.”
Jackson handed her one of the mugs. Grasping her shoulder with his free hand, he gently herded her back into his office and pushed her into the chair again, then parked his butt on the edge of his desk. The aroma of the coffee finally got to her, and when she stopped to take a sip, he asked, “What’s this about librarians?”
Maggie shot him an impatient look, but proceeded to explain the high school students’ dilemma. By the time she finished, he felt ready to spit a few nails himself.
“We’ve got to do something, Jackson,” she said. “For heaven’s sake, the dropout rate for Indian kids is high enough, without those idiots making it impossible for them to succeed. You should take the librarians and the principal and the whole lousy school district to court and sue them for damages.”
“I wish I could, Maggie,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “But I can’t do it right now.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “Those kids don’t have a minute to lose. You’re the tribal attorney—”
“Yes, I’m the tribal attorney, and at the moment, this tribe has more important legal matters to contend with.”
“Such as? What on earth could be more important than helping those kids graduate from high school?”
“The tribe’s economic survival. We’re in a fight for our lives, and I can’t take on any more than I already have.”
That shut her up for an instant. But only for an instant. When she spoke again, however, her voice had softened. “What’s going on, Jackson?”
Taking a moment to consider the wisdom of telling her, Jackson studied her face. She cared deeply about the kids, he was certain of that. But could he trust her with information as sensitive as this? Well, shoot, he’d already spilled half of it, and if she kept poking around on her own, she’d probably hear the rest, anyway.
“Have you ever heard of Jeremiah Kincaid?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’ve met him, once. In the office in Washington. As I recall, he’s the president of the Whitehorn Ranchers’ Association.”
“That’s right. He’s pretty much run the whole county for the last thirty years. His father ran it before that.”
“What’s he got to do with the tribe?” Maggie asked.
“I’ll get to that in a minute. But first, I want you to tell me something.”
“I will if I can.”
“You’ve been talking to all kinds of people here for two weeks now,” he said. “What’s the most common problem you’ve heard about?”
She didn’t even pause to think about it. “Unemployment. Some decent jobs would probably solve a lot of the other problems I’ve heard about, too.”
“Exactly. And why do you think we have so much unemployment?”
“A lack of education is one reason.”
“Yeah, it sure is,” Jackson agreed. “And racial discrimination’s another. But a lot of other tribes have even less education per capita than we do, and their unemployment figures are about half of what ours are. How do you suppose they manage that?”
She tossed her head impatiently. “I don’t know. Why don’t you just tell me?”
“All right,” Jackson said, smiling at her impatience. “They have a better land base, Maggie. And they’ve managed to keep the whites out and employ their people themselves. We haven’t been able to do that.”
“Now you’ve really lost me,” she complained. “Are you saying Jeremiah Kincaid and the Whitehorn Ranchers’ Association are trying to steal your land?”
>
“In a way. See, until the Indian Self-determination Act was passed in 1975, the government treated Indian tribes as wards, with the Bureau of Indian Affairs acting as a legal guardian. Anything the tribal governments wanted to do had to be cleared through the BIA, and the BIA had the power to lease out lands that weren’t being used. Mr. Kincaid and his pals got in pretty thick with our local BIA superintendent, and were granted long-term leases at rock-bottom prices on almost half our land.”
“Can’t the leases be revoked?” Maggie asked.
“They don’t need to be. They’re due to expire on the first of June. When I informed Mr. Kincaid the tribe would not be renewing those leases, the ranchers’ association filed a lawsuit against us.”
“On what grounds?”
“Guys like Kincaid don’t need solid grounds, Maggie. They buy judges and congressmen, and even U.S. senators.”
Her eyebrows swooped into a scowling V. “Now, wait a minute—are you implying my boss takes bribes?”
She was quick, all right, Jackson thought with a grin. And so damned earnest. “I don’t know. Does he?”
“I hardly think so, Jackson.”
“What was Jeremiah Kincaid doing in his office?”
“I don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. I have some integrity, you know.” She shot him a huffy glare that dared him to challenge her last statement. “But constituents visit him every day. That doesn’t mean he takes bribes.”
Jackson shrugged. “You’re right. But I have to tell you, it makes me damn nervous to find out Kincaid’s been to see him. I’ll bet he’s one of Baldwin’s biggest campaign contributors.”
“So what if he is?” Maggie demanded. “Congressman Baldwin doesn’t have any control over the courts.”
“No, but he has a certain amount of control over legislation concerning Indians. And when it comes to Indians, Congress has the power to do any damn thing they want. Frankly, I’m worried about Baldwin’s sudden interest in us. It was clever of him to send you out here.”