“Just to bring you up to speed,” Adam said, tossing an impatient glance her way. The meeting had been scheduled for four o’clock, and Adam liked to start on time. A white habit, he called it, that he’d picked up in law school and at white firms in Denver and Casper. It made no difference that everyone in the chambers was Indian, and the Indian way was to start when the time was ready, which meant when everybody had arrived. Yet the Joint Council had voted to go into executive session, and they had started without her.
“I’d appreciate it.” Vicky scribbled the date across the top of the yellow pad. She wondered if Adam, eager to hurry the meeting along, hadn’t assured the council members that it was fine to start without her.
“The Forest Service has opened this area to logging,” Adam was saying, and Vicky looked up. His black hair was combed back, close to his head, which gave his handsome, sculptured features an austere look that emphasized the small red scar on his cheek. The hint of impatience was still there in the way that he ran an index finger along the spine of green mountains.
A guffaw erupted from Norman Yellow Hawk, as if he’d found it necessary to clear his throat. “They want to clear out the underbrush and the dead trees to prevent fires, that’s what the Forest Service says. What they’re really up to is giving those lumber companies what they’ve been after for years—rights to cut down the big ponderosas.”
“We fought the decision.” This from a Shoshone councilman, who had leaned forward and was clasping and unclasping rough-looking rancher’s hands. “Shoshones and Arapahos got together, told the BLM director we didn’t want trucks and heavy equipment traveling across the rez to get to Red Cliff Canyon. Didn’t do any good. BLM’s gonna let all them trucks up into the canyon, right through poha kahni. The house of power. A sacred place.”
One of the Arapaho councilmen leaned over the table and cleared his throat. The others drew back, giving him all the space and time he needed. “Problem is,” he said, “canyon’s on BLM land, leads right into the national forest, so they can run trucks there if they want. They said they did an environmental study. What it was, was a bunch of their scientists saying no problem. They had a public meeting, and we were the only ones that showed up to comment. Bottom line is, logging companies had already made up their minds to widen the road so they can haul heavy equipment and timber. Better road will also bring in a lot more outsiders than the handful of tourists that drive up to the dude ranch every summer.” He paused, as if to allow time for a new thought forming in his mind. “Now we got another petroglyph stolen, and that fool Duncan Barnes runs the antiques place out on the highway told the newspaper it’s worth a quarter of a million dollars. Lots of folks could get the idea to come into the canyon and help themselves to the rock art.”
Norman set his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. “Couldn’t come at a worse time,” he said, peering over the bulging knobs of his knuckles. “Archeologist and some students been working in the canyon the last couple summers, trying to date the petroglyphs. They were planning to finish the project this summer, but there won’t be enough time if road construction starts.”
He paused. Behind the gripped hands, Norman’s lips were set in a tight line. “They’ve been doing radiocarbon dating of the patina on the rocks,” he said. “Also excavated a couple of mounds beneath the images. Found all kinds of artifacts—arrowheads, bones, carved tools used for chipping rocks. Said that by dating the artifacts, they could corroborate the radiocarbon dating.” He drew in a long breath and shook his head. “Construction is gonna stir up big clouds of dust and create a lot of noise. Vibrations might damage the rock art images, and the dust…well, the dust could pollute the patina and throw off the radiocarbon dating by hundreds of years.”
“The spirits will abandon the canyon,” Stockham said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the emotional charge in the room. He had turned slightly in his chair and was staring at the small window that interrupted the wall running the length of the chambers, as if he were witnessing the exodus of the spirits. The late-afternoon sun was intense; an oblong splash of orange-red light lay across the gray carpet. “They’ll go where there’s peace and quiet. The images will disappear. Maybe the spirits will carve new images of themselves in some other place; maybe not.”
No one spoke. A sense of hopelessness, unseen, yet as real as a spirit, moved through the quiet. This was what it was about, Vicky was thinking. The total lack of respect for the beliefs of her people, the beliefs of everyone in the room. The engineers and surveyors who came to widen the road, the truckers who would haul the equipment into the forest and haul out the logs—they would scoff at the idea that the petroglyphs were more than ancient pictures carved into rocks. Scoff at the idea they were the spirits themselves who dwelled in the canyon, the spirits who showed their images. The canyon was a sacred place. They had to protect it.
“Adam and I have been discussing the options,” Vicky said. They’d spent part of the morning going over them. It had been comfortable talking with Adam. He was Lakota. He hadn’t scoffed when she’d said they had to find a way to protect the spirits. She glanced up at him now, expecting him to explain.
Instead, he lifted one hand, another impatient gesture, and motioned her to her feet. Then he stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. Vicky went over to the map. It was a moment before her index finger found the tiny red line, almost invisible, that marked the dirt road running from Highway 287 into the mountains of the Shoshone National Forest. The road was about two miles south of Red Cliff Canyon. “We suggest that the tribes propose an alternate road to the BLM,” she said, glancing along the row of brown faces on the dais above her.
Stockham was shaking his head. “Shoshones won’t go for it,” he said. “We got a couple families living up there off that road.”
“But the homes aren’t right on the road,” Adam said, and Vicky felt a wave of gratitude that he’d jumped in on her side. We’re a good team, Vicky. She could hear his voice in her head. He was right. They were stronger together than either had been alone. Then another voice in her head—her own. Maybe I am kidding myself. Maybe I am the one who is stronger with Adam at my side.
“You’ve thought about everything.” Norman gave Adam a look of approval. “The homes and barns are a mile or so south of the road.” Glancing sideways at the Shoshones, he said, “That a fact?”
Stockham shrugged and lifted his eyebrows, a gesture that said, “Could be.” The other Shoshone councilmen gave almost imperceptible nods. Stockham went on, “Why would the BLM go for a road that’s not much more than two tracks through the brush?”
“The logging companies will have to improve either road,” Vicky said. “There are advantages to the alternate road. It leaves the highway and crosses a mile and a half of flats before starting the climb into the mountains. And it’s a gentler climb with fewer curves than Red Cliff Canyon, which would make it easier for the trucks hauling heavy equipment and logs to negotiate. We can make a strong case that it would be in the best interests of the logging companies to use this road.”
The room was quiet a moment; then Stockham said, “That fails, we can always go to the Gazette. Looks like that hotshot young reporter—what’s her name? Aileen Harrison?—is real interested in petroglyphs. Couldn’t wait to write the article about the Drowning Man, tell the world where the glyphs are. Well, maybe she’d like to tell the world about how the logging companies are going to destroy them. Get public opinion riled up enough, it’ll force the BLM to use the other road.”
“Too big a risk,” Adam said. It was an option she had brought up this morning, Vicky was thinking, but Adam had waved it away. “The petroglyphs are too vulnerable,” he went on. “Even the article about the stolen glyph is bound to bring more people into the canyon. People who’d never even heard about the petroglyphs will be hiking all over the mountain looking for rock art.”
Adam stepped over to the map. “Looks to me like we’re walking a fine line here,”
he continued. “We want people to appreciate the art carved into rocks a thousand, two thousand years ago. What we don’t want are curiosity seekers tromping over the mountain, thinking, ‘Gee, rock art is valuable,’ and wondering how they might steal it.”
The two tribal chairmen exchanged a quick glance. Then Norman said, “Natural resources director for the tribes, Mona Ledger, is going to be in the canyon for a while with some of her staff. They’re photographing and cataloging the rest of the glyphs. They know to keep their eyes open for anybody looking suspicious. But they can’t stay there forever. We have to count on the public having a memory of about five minutes and forgetting the glyphs are there. No sense in stirring up the newspapers about the dangers of a new road. Only calls attention to the petroglyphs.”
“I’m not sure I agree.” Vicky tossed a glance at Adam. “I think you have a good point, Herb,” she said to the Shoshone. “If the BLM thought the public was on our side, they might back off.” She’d made the same point to Adam this morning, a point that he’d ignored. She hurried on, looking past the irritation in Adam’s expression, directing her comments now to the men on the dais. “I don’t think the BLM wants to be perceived as an agency that destroys sacred places.”
Norman shrugged. “Couple of other things,” he said, making a tipi with his hands. “Not for publication, you understand?”
“We’re your lawyers, Norman,” Adam said.
“Herb and me”—a glance at the Shoshone next to him—“rest of the Joint Councilmen, the fed, and Father John, we’re the only ones know what’s coming down.”
“Father John,” Vicky said, his name escaping her lips as if it had been there all the time, on the tip of her tongue. Of course he would be involved in whatever Norman was about to tell her. He’d become part of the lives of her people, just as he’d become part of hers.
“The thief sent a message to Father John,” Norman said. “We come up with the money, we might get the Drowning Man back.”
“How much money?” Vicky heard herself asking.
“Same as what the newspaper says. Quarter million. Last time a glyph was stolen, the thief wanted two hundred thousand.”
“Wait a minute.” Vicky took her seat and locked eyes with the Arapaho chairman. “You were contacted seven years ago?”
“Thought we had a deal,” Norman said. “Then Travis Birdsong went crazy, killed his partner. There was all kinds of publicity, and the contact went away. We don’t want that to happen again, ruin our chance to get the glyph back.”
Vicky took a moment. She stared past Adam and the easel with the map of the Red Cliff Canyon area, a new thought forming in her head. “How was Father John contacted?” she said.
“Indian stopped him over in Ethete.” This from Norman. “Didn’t want to come to the tribal offices himself…”
“It could be the same contact.” Vicky could feel her heart speeding up. Amos Walking Bear could be right. Whoever had taken the first glyph had come back for another one, and sent the same man to try to collect a ransom. Which could mean that Amos’s grandson could be in prison for a murder he didn’t commit.
“Another reason not to bring on a lot of publicity,” Adam said, glancing at Vicky as he stepped back to the table. “The Indian’ll disappear, just like last time.”
“Another problem.” Norman said. He was bouncing his tipied hands off each other. “Newspaper reporter keeps poking around, she’ll find out that the petroglyphs aren’t all that’s been stolen up in the canyon. Thieves’ve been taking small artifacts for some time now. Mona and her staff came across several mounds that were dug up recently.”
“Artifacts are also missing?” Vicky said.
The tribal councilmen were nodding in unison, heads bobbing over the long table. “Ancient tools, bones, who knows what else was taken,” Norman said. “Probably sold on the black market, same place the Drowning Man will disappear into if we don’t get it back.” The corners of the man’s mouth pulled downward. His eyebrows folded into the deep crease above his nose. “You’d be surprised at how much money people are willing to pay for old bones. Anything that’s Indian, they don’t care, they lay out their money. Don’t have any respect. We don’t need the newspapers telling folks about artifacts and even more valuable petroglyphs.”
“The alternate road will speak for itself,” Adam said. “Fewer curves, easier grade. We don’t need to involve the press.”
“How soon can you write up a proposal for the BLM?” Norman said.
“Right away,” Adam told the chairman.
Norman nodded. “We made real progress here. You two…” Norman glanced from Adam to Vicky. “I’d say you know what you’re doing. We’re gonna go into regular session, take a vote on going forward with this. We’ll get back to you.”
Adam thanked the councilman, then walked over and held the door open, waiting. Vicky picked up her briefcase and walked past him. “Annie said one of the elders came in,” he said, closing the door behind them.
“If you knew that, Adam, then you knew why I was late.” Vicky started down the corridor ahead of him.
“This was an important meeting.” Adam’s footsteps clacked alongside her on the tiled floor; his shoulder brushed hers.
Vicky didn’t say anything for a moment. She should not have to explain to Adam Lone Eagle that it would have been impolite to refuse to see Amos Walking Bear. It was what had made their partnership possible, the fact that Adam understood the Arapaho Way. Finally she told him the old man was convinced that his grandson had been convicted seven years ago of a crime he didn’t commit.
They were outside now, walking across the gravel to her Jeep. She opened the door and faced him. He’d stopped a few feet behind her, staring across the lot, squinting against the sun that gave his face a reddish cast, his own briefcase hanging next to the leg of his khaki trousers. This had nothing to do with her arriving late for the meeting, nothing to do with Amos Walking Bear’s unexpected visit. “What’s going on, Adam?” she said.
When he turned toward her, Vicky saw the absent look in his black eyes, as if they hadn’t just suggested a possible recourse to the BLM’s decision, as if they weren’t in the parking lot in front of the stone building that housed the tribal offices, the life-size metal sculpture of Chief Washakie guarding the front door. He had gone somewhere else.
Adam said, “We’ll have dinner tonight, Vicky. We can talk about it then.”
6
THE PICKUP’S ENGINE gave off an intermittent belching noise that punctuated the music of “Perchè tarda la luna” as Father John drove north across the reservation. The vastness of the area was monumental—the reservation itself melting into the plains, a flat, empty landscape with plateaus that rose out of nowhere, arroyos that cut unexpectedly through the earth, and thin roads that snaked into the brush. In the west was the gray smudge of the foothills of the Wind River Range. The sky was cloudless, the color of cobalt, pressing down everywhere. He’d gotten used to the emptiness of the plains, the sense of timelessness. It was familiar and comfortable. He passed the small sign at the edge of the road—Leaving the Wind River Reservation—and drove on.
It had been past noon before he’d gotten away from his desk and walked down the corridor of the administration building to tell Ian that he’d be gone a few hours. Parishioners had been dropping by all morning; the phone had rung nonstop. Not good, Father, another petroglyph gone. Spirits gonna be upset. We gotta get the DrowningMan back. He’d tried to reassure the callers, but all the time, he’d sensed that he was only trying to reassure himself. And each time he’d reached for the receiver, he’d wondered if this was the call, if this was the dealer. But the man hadn’t called. Not last night, not this morning.
Outside his window, the foothills began moving closer, patches of scrub brush and stunted pines crawling over the slopes. On the other side of the road ahead, the line of high bluffs came into view, jagged red slopes shining in the afternoon sun. Now and then a pickup or sedan had
shimmered in the oncoming lane a moment before sweeping past. He let up on the accelerator. It was easy to miss the turnoff into Red Cliff Canyon, nothing more than a dirt road on the left that meandered into the foothills before beginning the climb into the mountains. There was a ranch directly across from the turnoff, he remembered—the Taylor Ranch. He could see the house and barn and outbuildings rising out of the earth now, an uneven collection of log walls and metal roofs stacked against the red slopes of the bluffs.
He slowed for the turnoff ahead, the interruption of dirt at the side of the road. The pickup bounced past the sagebrush that lapped at the doors and the tape skipped across the opening notes of “Signore, ascolta!” The pickup started winding upward, spitting out clouds of dust that sprinkled the windshield with a fine, gray film. Then he was in the canyon, climbing along the mountainside. Past the edge of the road on the left, the slope dropped into a creek that looked like a silver ribbon flung over the rocks. He kept one eye on the slope rising on the other side for the flat-faced boulders with the carved images. They were hard to spot, he knew. There were people who drove through the canyon and had no idea the petroglyphs were there.
He kept the pickup at about fifteen miles an hour, he guessed—the odometer had stopped working a few years ago—switching his gaze between the road and the rocky, tree-studded slope, looking for remnants of the rock that had held the Drowning Man. Odd, he thought. It was the one petroglyph easy to spot, if you knew where to look, but now that it was gone, it was as if the rock itself had faded into the mountain.
The Drowning Man Page 5