Dawson handed him a business card.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “The Washington Herald, huh?”
“My father was Sam Dawson. I’m trying to settle his affairs. He was involved with Rancho la Peña from the early days. I’d like to know more.”
The director drummed fingers on the table. “You’re right. Sam Dawson was in the thick of it. From the get-go.”
“Okay.”
“This whole thing came down about twenty or twenty-five years ago, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“What, specifically, are you trying to find out?”
“Sam died recently. He was shot to death.”
The man nodded and gazed at Dawson. “I see.”
“I want to know how my father got his hands on all that land.”
The director sighed, then winced, as if what he was about to say would hurt. “How much do you know about the Navajo and Hopi land dispute?”
“The what?”
The director leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his chest. “The Hopi reservation is completely surrounded by the Navajo reservation. But they’re two different people, two different tribes.”
“Okay.”
“The reservation boundaries for each were established by the U.S. government in 1882. But the Hopi and the Navajo never liked the way the boundaries were set.”
“Sounds like a familiar theme.”
“The Navajo and Hopi fought about it for years. So, to solve the dispute, Congress relocated some Navajos from land that the Hopis claimed was theirs. Congress put the displaced Navajos on private land adjacent to the Navajo reservation. Private land that was traditionally considered Navajo land.”
“Makes sense.”
“But to do that, the government had to buy that private land and give it to the Navajo as part of their reservation.”
“What does that have to do with Sam Dawson and Rancho la Peña?”
“I’m getting to that. Your father happened to own some of the land adjacent to the Navajo Reservation that the government wanted.”
“He did?” Dawson paused, wondering how that had happened. “So, how did he end up with the Rancho la Peña land grant in southern New Mexico?”
“Rather than sell his ranch land outright to the government, Sam proposed a land swap.”
Dawson thought for a moment. “So, what happened?”
“Rancho la Peña was an old Spanish land grant that belonged to the Bureau of Land Management. It sat along the U.S.-Mexico border. The land was too barren for grazing. It was costing the taxpayers money because the government couldn’t lease it for enough money to make it worth their while to keep it.”
“So, the BLM was happy to unload it if someone like my father wanted it.”
“Yes. The BLM traded his ranch land north of Gallup near the Navajo reservation for what became Rancho la Peña.”
“That sounds simple enough.”
“But there was a catch.”
“What?”
“Your father’s ranch land did not equal the value of Rancho la Peña.”
“So then, how did the land swap happen?”
“Well, the value of your father’s land skyrocketed when uranium deposits were found on it. Overnight the land value went from $250,000 to $5 million. That made it equal in value to the twenty thousand acres of the Rancho la Peña land grant on the border. It was a perfect swap of equal values.”
“Uranium?” Dawson paused, then asked, “How do you know so much about this?”
“I wrote the assessment reports.”
“So, Sam swapped a uranium mine for the Rancho la Peña land grant.”
“Yes.”
“Did Sam own the land grant, then?”
The director shook his head. “The owner of record was the Rancho la Peña Holding Company. Your father was the managing partner. There were other partners.”
“Like who?”
“The largest partner was a blind trust. Probably still is.”
Dawson mulled the implications. “A blind trust is usually created to control real estate or other investments. The proceeds go to the beneficiaries of the trust. But the beneficiaries are supposedly blind to the actual investments. And the details are not public.”
“So, you understand.”
“Blind trusts are often used by politicians who want to claim they’re not influenced by their investments,” Dawson said.” So who controls this trust?”
“A lawyer. A lawyer with Madsen and Conklin.”
“That’s Senator Madsen’s old law firm.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Madsen took a leave from the firm years ago,” Dawson said, “supposedly to avoid conflicts of interest.”
“What do you plan to do with this information?”
Dawson stared at the director. “Is there a problem?”
“I am not to be named as a source. Is that clear?”
“Okay,” Dawson said, puzzled by the request. What is he afraid of? As he pondered the land swap, another question came to mind. “Were the uranium deposits legitimate?”
The director pulled out a map and traced a road with his finger. “The mine deposits are here, near Gallup.”
Something gnawed at Dawson’s gut, something that had been left out, if not overlooked.
“I’d like to see the mine, if I could.”
The director nodded. “Call this man. But mind you, I haven’t talked to him in years. He can take you there, if he’s still around.” The director scrawled a name and number in Dawson’s notebook.
“Who is it?”
“His name is Frank Perkins. He’s one of the most knowledgeable geologists in New Mexico. He knows the region like the back of his hand. Retired a few years back. He participated in the preparation of the report on the land swap. Was very critical of it. He can tell you everything you need to know.”
“Thanks,” Dawson said, jumping up and stuffing the paper in his shirt pocket.
Chapter 27
Gallup, New Mexico
The land swap had been a stroke of genius or a lucky break of monumental proportions, Dawson thought as he drove south from Santa Fe. But, his father was not a genius and neither was he lucky. He’d been shot to death.
It was approaching noon, and thunderheads gathered over the Sandia Mountains, preparing to sweep across the open range and dump just enough rain to gild the land in a light shade of green. Dawson crested a hill where the broad valley of the Rio Grande opened wide above the now dry alfalfa fields edged by the cottonwoods lining the river. Beyond the river, rocky piñon-covered rock mesas rose to the Jemez Mountains.
The traffic through Albuquerque slowed to a crawl, then stopped, trapping him amid cars and trucks idling on the hot concrete. Dawson checked his watch. He had two hours until his scheduled meeting with Perkins. He’d just make it. When the traffic moved, he inched toward the curving exit for I-40, where the traffic loosened as he crossed the Rio Grande and climbed the long grade to the rolling grasslands of the West Mesa. Soon the concrete highway snaked around sculpted red rock rising out of the earth.
He passed a pickup truck with three Navajo men in the cab and a dog in the bed with a couple of kids whose black hair blew around their faces. They stared at him like he was some sort of freak, looking away as they passed the red buttes.
Dawson took the off-ramp into Gallup, drove under the freeway to the main street, and stopped at a gas station. It felt good to stand and stretch. He fumbled for his notebook and found the number he wanted. After three rings, an elderly woman answered.
“Is Frank Perkins there?”
“Who’s calling?” she said with a gravelly voice.
“Kyle Dawson with the Washington Herald. I spoke with Frank yesterday.”
“Just a minute.” She put the phone down with a clunk.
“I guess you made it,” said a gruff voice.
“Frank?”
“Yes.”
“Can you mee
t now?”
“You bet,” Perkins said. “I’m lookin’ forward to it.”
Perkins lived in a house set among piñon pines on a hillside overlooking Gallup. It was a small 1950s-style ranch house with a lawn that sloped down to an asphalt street. Perkins came out the front door to greet him, apologizing for his dirty jeans and work shirt. “I’ve been working in the yard.”
The house was clean, but dark and trimmed with varnished wood. The living room was crowded with an eclectic mix of furniture and a couple of wingback chairs where Dawson took a seat. The coffee table had a sunken glass top covered with white lace. Perkins’s wife appeared with a white and blue ceramic pot of coffee and matching cups.
“I’m so glad someone is finally looking into this,” Perkins said. “It’s stuck in my craw for a long, long time and it stunk from the get-go.” Perkins looked to be at least seventy-five years old, with large, tough hands and sinewy tanned forearms. He had thin hair, a creased, clean-shaven face, and blue eyes.
“You’re the only one in the Anderson Ranch-Rancho la Peña land swap report who questioned it,” Dawson said. “As I understand it, the government wanted some land so they could relocate the Navajos.”
“Bah,” Perkins said, waving his hand as if brushing away a pesky fly. “That land swap was gonna happen, no matter what. Moving the Navajo was just a convenient excuse.”
Dawson pulled out his notebook. “Mind if I quote you?”
“I don’t mind. I’m retired. No one can fire me now.”
“You were one of the land appraisers hired by the BLM to assess the land. Why did you criticize it?”
“Well, they needed someone to challenge what they were doing, just to make it look like all the stones had been turned, make it look like it was all on the up-and-up.”
“Look like? In other words, it wasn’t.”
“Old man Anderson always had a hard time making a go of it because his ranch was mostly dirt and rocks. Anderson felt passed over when the big uranium boom hit the area in the 1950s because he could never find any of it on his land. If he had, he’d have been set for life.”
“The reports say the mineral rights on the ranch land were more valuable than the land,” Dawson said. “A lot more valuable. The mining rights were sold to a Canadian company.”
Perkins nodded. “Anderson’s raw land was worth only about a quarter of a million dollars, tops. But they needed to get the value of the ranch up to about $5 million so the value of the Anderson ranch matched that of the Rancho la Peña grant.”
“That made it look like the trade was an even swap,” Dawson said.
Perkins nodded again. “Yes. The mineral rights were sold by your father to the U.S. government for $5 million. The government then leased them to a Canadian firm for the same amount. It looked good on paper.”
“Was there uranium on the land?” Dawson asked.
“There may be some uranium there, all right, but only because there’s uranium all over this part of the country. But how much, and how hard it is to get to, is the question.”
“So the mineral rights were worthless?”
Perkins shrugged. “The value of anything is determined by what people are willing to pay for it.”
“I guess,” Dawson said.
Perkins spread papers on the coffee table and handed them to Dawson one by one. “Let me show you how the whole thing happened so fast. First, Anderson sells his ranch to Sam Dawson for $250,000. Anderson figures he’s come out of the deal in fine shape. He’s happy.”
Dawson nodded as Perkins handed him a copy of the sales agreement. Dawson’s eyes widened when he saw the name of the sales agent: Jacquelyn Fontaine. “This is the woman who handled the land sales?”
Perkins nodded.
“Jacquelyn Fontaine married my father, Sam Dawson, and became a full partner in development of Rancho la Peña.”
“She knew a good deal when she saw one,” Perkins said. “Look here. A few days later Sam signed over the mineral rights to the government with a value of $5 million. In exchange, Sam got the Rancho la Peña land.”
Dawson looked at Perkins for a moment. “So my father somehow knew that the government needed the Anderson ranch and that the mineral rights would be valued at $5 million. An inside deal.”
Perkins nodded and smiled, then sat back and looked at Dawson, whose mind was racing. Someone like Senator Madsen would have been fully aware of the Navajo-Hopi land dispute and the solution. Hell, Madsen had probably proposed it. And, he knew Jacquelyn would be more than happy to arrange a deal that would put twenty thousand acres of raw land on the border into private ownership.
“Can we go look at the land?” Dawson asked.
“Sure, if you want.”
Chapter 28
Navajo country, New Mexico
Dawson and Perkins drove on a two-lane country road over rolling, piñon-covered hills. Perkins explained that the uranium industry had left the Navajo reservation littered with death and destruction after the uranium boom had fizzled like a wet firecracker decades ago. Many Navajos had worked for wildcat miners, digging the uranium-bearing sandstone with shovels, picks, and wheelbarrows in the shadows of the corporate mines. Decades of unregulated uranium mining had left the wind-swept reservation littered with low-grade radioactive ore. Uranium dust filled the air, covering grass and bushes, and leaching into the ground water. Sheep, goats, and cows had been dying for decades.
Now, Perkins explained, the Navajos piped water to their scattered communities so people could drink and wash and not worry about drinking water poisoned by uranium. But it was costly. In places like Gallup and Grants, New Mexico, uranium waste piles had been spreading the toxic ground water for years. “Eventually, no one will be able to drink it,” he said.
As they descended into a broad and gritty valley, Perkins directed Dawson off the pavement and onto a dirt road. “We’re in Navajo country now,” he said. They rumbled over hard-packed dirt, negotiating ruts and an occasional sprawling mud puddle, the road flanked by sage, buffalo grass, and cholla cacti.
“Where’s old man Anderson these days?” Dawson asked.
Perkins shrugged. “He took his money, which was a lot at the time, and went to California. Said he had enough of trying to ranch on rocks. He’s probably six feet under by now.” Perkins motioned to his right. “Up here. Follow those tracks. Take ’em all the way to the fork and bear left.”
The tracks seemed to lead nowhere. Small bushes scraped the bottom of the car as they came to a fork, and soon they were at the top of a small rise marked by a traditional log and mud-chinked Navajo hogan. A couple of sheepdogs barked and chased the car as they approached, an unwelcome intruder. Dawson stopped about twenty yards from the hogan and turned off the engine. The dogs continued to bark.
“This place belongs to Hosteen Jim,” Perkins said. “He’s one of the Navajos whose family was resettled. He’s got something to say. This guy’s name, Hosteen, is a Navajo title, like ‘gentleman.’ That’s why I call him Gentleman Jim.” Perkins laughed at his own joke. “So, what you are looking at here is the heart of the old Anderson ranch.” He swept his hand across the horizon.
“It’s good not to jump out of your car the moment you pull up to a Navajo’s house,” he said. “You wait and let them come out to greet you.”
“I think the dogs made that clear already.”
“But they know me,” Perkins said as he opened the door and stepped out.
Dawson waited in the car as the dogs followed Perkins to the protruding house door, where he knocked. The door opened and a stocky Navajo man with salt-and-pepper hair emerged, the hair tied in braids. He wore jeans and a plaid cowboy shirt. They talked for a few moments, and Perkins motioned to Dawson. Hosteen Jim disappeared into the house, then reappeared wearing a tall-crowned, flat-brimmed hat. He walked up to Dawson. “So you want to see the uranium?”
Dawson nodded.
“You an environmentalist or something?”
“No. A
journalist. I’m with the Washington Herald.”
Jim grunted and started out across the desert. They followed him over sand and gravel and through the scrub and cactus to a graded parcel with three rusted steel pipes protruding from the ground, each capped with a hinged plate secured with a padlock. “This is the uranium mine,” Jim said.
“I don’t get it,” Dawson said. “This doesn’t look like a mine.”
“They got this process now,” Jim said, “where they pump water down there to dissolve the uranium. They bring the water up and take the uranium out. They then put the water back in the ground.”
“In situ mining,” Perkins said. “They say it’s clean. No waste.”
“But we Navajo say it will ruin the water around here,” Jim said. “That’s what our medicine men say, and most people believe them.” He looked at Dawson. “My uncle died working in the uranium mines. The government gave us some money because the uranium killed him. But the money don’t bring him back.” Jim gazed at Dawson for a moment, letting the words sink in. “Now the mining company is trying to make a deal with the tribal council to start mining again. But I don’t think they’re gonna get nowhere.”
They stared at the rusted, capped pipes as the wind stirred.
“A few holes drilled in the ground and they call it a mine?” Dawson asked.
Perkins nodded. “When it looked like the company was about to start mining, an environmental group in Santa Fe filed a lawsuit to stop ’em.”
“So it’s tied up in court now?”
Perkins nodded.
Dawson looked up as three buzzards circled overhead. The value of the mineral rights on the Anderson ranch had been grossly exaggerated. If the mine was worthless, the lawsuit made the cover story even stronger. If the Canadian mining company couldn’t mine the uranium, then no one knew what the minerals, if any, were really worth. He took his notebook from his back pocket. “So, do you think this land was worth $5 million?”
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