Cullin wanted to say something—something profound and reassuring—at least something that suggested due process was warranted and that he was in charge and would take all appropriate steps to bring justice. But his tongue failed him.
Adjusting his bolo as if fearing he might not look presentable, Pike strolled back to the southwest corner of the clearing, talking over his shoulder. “Go visit the rez, Brewster. Talk to the elders and tell them what we know. Find the handgun and you’ll find the killer. That I promise you.”
The reservation. It had been years since Cullin had visited the heart of Native life, and his heart skipped a beat at the thought of facing the Ojibwa council with such serious news. But he knew the mayor was right: the investigation called for thoroughness, and thus he’d have to make the trip. Staring north, past the Great Rock and the dark mine, over a series of small hills and to the rim of the valley, Cullin could see a glow in the sky, as if a bonfire was burning, pushing up light. Faintly he could hear drumming.
He wondered about his reception. Will they welcome me? Will they answer my questions? Or will the presence of a Caucasian man bring silence?
In a moment of levity, Cullin pictured himself a discolored fish in a little glass bowl, surrounded by many, many brown eyes. He was then pulled back into reality by the mayor’s words.
“Did you hear me?” Pike said louder, having stopped only twenty feet away. “I’m the only sworn deputy in these parts. If things go bad, I’m not much help.” He noticed Cullin’s shaking hand. “If you’re not up to the job, I can have Cass County lead the investigation. All it’ll take is a phone call.”
“No,” Cullin said bitterly, stilling his hand. “Last time I checked, this is still my town. I’ll drive to the reservation.”
“I expect results.” Pike turned abruptly, leaving.
Cullin wouldn’t be alone for long, though.
Aaron returned with news. “Sheriff, you wanted to know about the inside of the mine. If there was something in there that the four men might’ve been searching for. Anything that might give us direction for why they were out here in the first place.”
“And?” Cullin said with anticipation.
The Cass County deputy placed his hands on his hips, shook his head, and seemed dejected. “Nothing. The tunnel stops where mining operations were stopped. It’s just a dead end.”
Cullin stared at the ground and bit his lip.
As if prompted by the words “dead end,” hissing and gibberish returned to the perimeter of the clearing, just out of earshot of those present. But if one could’ve listened closely enough, perhaps heightened their hearing and paid particular attention to vocalization and intonation, they might’ve heard the following:
“To dread, to dread . . . more dead, more dead.”
4. Wasin (A Brief History)
American Indians arrived in Minnesota somewhere between nine and twelve thousand years ago. After the first glacial era, archaeologists believe nomadic tribes came to the state, following the migration routes of herding animals. Gradually, settlements were created as Indians used the area’s vast waterways for transportation, food, and trade development. Fur trading became particularly widespread, and toward the beginning of the seventeenth century, French explorers came from the north, seeking beaver, deer, wolf, and bear pelts. Friendships were established. French towns were built alongside tribal villages. And Indian commerce began to flourish.
Then other Europeans arrived. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, explorers and settlers moving west flooded the state, shrinking the size, mobility, and resourcefulness of Indian communities. Because of this, many Indians left the region, and for those that remained, treaties were created, guaranteeing money and sectored land in exchange for continued coexistence. Over decades, treaties changed, usually leaving Natives with less and less land and even less money. By the time Minnesota became an official state in 1858, only splotches of territory on a map were owned by Indians, dubbed “reservations.” Rarely, dating back to the first arrival of French explorers in about the year 1600, did Indians act out violently toward the growing occupation. They simply trusted.
As of 1945, the Leech Lake Reservation in North Central Minnesota covers 850,000 acres, including three large bodies of water known for robust walleye fishing and wild rice harvesting. The population of the reservation is just under four thousand, with most living in small villages near the conversion of lakes and rivers. Tribal headquarters are located on the southern edge, looming over the Westcreek valley. On a flat of deforested land, in a settlement called Wasin, four hundred individuals still carve out an existence based on traditional beliefs and teachings. They live in small, shanty-like structures surrounding a half-circle of large granite boulders behind five tall white pines stripped of limbs, planted into the ground and set at forty-five-degree angles facing north. Outsiders are rare.
5. The Powwow
July 19th, 1945, 9:03 a.m.
Under thick, low-level clouds, Wasin had a powwow.
Men, women, and children, dressed in dark, often ripped cotton slacks and thin, dark cotton shirts or faded brown dresses sat reflectively in front of a massive fire. With small wooden mallets, many of the men banged on large drums, chanted loudly, and lifted their heads to the sky. ONE-two-three-four was the rhythm of the drums, with special emphasis placed on beat one. ONE-two-three-four. Leaning white pines cast shadows opposite the fire’s glow that resembled claws—claws that varied in size, shape, and intensity, and to the discretion of the fire’s rage.
As the ceremony progressed, winds swooped down on those gathered. At first the air simply mussed Indian hair, prompting men to swat at their black bangs with dirty fingers or women to shake away long black strands that flopped in front of their eyes. But soon, like a large fan on the fritz, concentrated gusts twirled the locks of little girls into ponytails or braids or made the short, fine hair of little boys dance on top of their heads. Smiles spread around the bonfire, including grandparents who watched with interest, their faces somewhat leathery, their eyes sparkling in the ever-shifting light. Babies, in the arms of their attentive mothers, reached out to the wind, as if wanting an embrace. And skinny yellow dogs, barking near several of the white pines, frequently leapt up, as if an invisible owner held a stick and wanted to play a game of fetch. The tribe members smiled and laughed at the antics.
Then the entertainment shifted.
From playing with hair, providing inanimate affection, and teasing animals, the gusts shifted to frolicking in the fire. Big flames crackled atop three large pine logs set like a teepee, deriving energy from piles of wood underneath and fueling imagination. Like gas thrown on top, the fire exploded upward on beat two of the continued drumming. ONE, TWO, three, four, it went. ONE, TWO, three, four. This lasted almost ten minutes.
But sharply the tempo changed, and with it the shape of the flames.
To more driving beats of percussion, images materialized one by one: of a boy’s face with a single feather sticking up from the back of his head; of a horse with flowing mane; of a mouth chanting; of a hand holding a spear; of a bear growling, pawing at the children nearest the fire; of a chieftain in a bulky headdress holding his arms upward like he was praying. The beat pounded and the flames grew even larger.
The images came more rapidly: from a boy holding a spear and riding a horse; to a bear running in circles around the fire near the swollen embers, forcing tribal members to crawl backward; and to a chieftain, his hands fisted and shaking.
The pace of the drumming intensified.
A story emerged. Near the embers, the boy on horseback chased the bear around the fire as the chieftain watched from above—sometimes chanting, sometimes cursing the sky, his headdress jiggling. The more rapidly the one chased the other, the more intense the burning leader’s face appeared, as if willing the boy to succeed in a great hunt. The detail of the three-dimensional images were so precise, one could see the fat shaking underneath the bear with each lum
ber forward. After five rotations, the story reached a climax.
With mallets almost breaking the heads of the drums—the sound at its loudest and the beat at its fastest—the bear suddenly stopped. The chieftain still looking on, human and animal waged war. The bear rose up on its haunches, clawed at the boy, and tried biting the horse. The steed reared, forcing the young warrior to hold on tightly; then it retreated slowly, the bear flopping down and stalking. The boy readied his spear. Backward around the fire, predator and prey went, the bear slowly gaining ground—backward and with growing tension. Suddenly the bear lunged, claws out, mouth cock-eyed and baring large fangs. Its tongue wagged, as if thirsty for Indian blood. With a mighty hurl, the child jabbed the spear into the bear’s heart, quickly dropping the beast. And as the bear flailed—as its back and head slapped hard against the earth, a fireball erupted from the center of the fire, engulfing the boy, horse, conquest, and chieftain before turning into a screaming eagle that flew up into the clouds. The tribe cheered. The surrounding trees, with the help of gusty winds, seemingly bowed to the assembly. And the drumming came to a halt.
Toward the middle of the assembly, an elder with beaded bracelets and straight black hair past his shoulders rose, his vision beyond the celebration. He heard something. He saw something. Biting a corner of his lip, the elder’s chiseled jaw stiffened and his brown eyes narrowed as he strolled forward and past the fire. The rest of Wasin observed in silence. Even the children became still. Soon everyone located the object of interest: a pair of headlights coming out of the shady forest from the west.
Sheriff Cullin had arrived.
Driving a noisy 1939 red Ford pickup with big fenders, he approached the settlement and stopped where the gravel road ended, about thirty feet from the now-mellow bonfire. Grinding the stick shift into neutral and turning the key off, triggering a shudder that traveled from front to rear, he grabbed a brown hat from the passenger seat and exited, the door emitting a high-pitched squeal when the sheriff opened and closed it. Cullin immediately felt watched. Nervously, he painted on a smile, waving to the community as he stepped forward, and this is when the approaching elder took a long, hard look at the visitor.
He saw an aged man. Though shy of sixty, Cullin resembled seventy. His facial skin drooped. His eyes were tired and sullen. And though he had broad shoulders and a muscular chest, he grimaced occasionally, as if hauling his big frame over uneven ground was painful. Finally, observing the sheriff’s slightly shaking right hand, the elder thought he might be needing a cane for stability or security.
Cullin appeared ill, he thought.
The elder welcomed the newcomer. “It’s been a long time, Sheriff,” he said. “What brings you to our village?”
Cullin offered a hand. “Hello, Elder Stone,” he said, out of breath. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we have a serious situation in the valley.”
Stone returned the physical greeting but held on longer than expected, staring deep into the sheriff’s eyes. “The winds have whispered something about death. White death. Am I correct?”
“Yes. I need your help.”
The handshake ended, and Stone glanced over his shoulder with a stern face, as if nonverbally telling the rest of the tribe to mind its own business and carry on with the morning festivities.
And they did. As drumbeats resumed, men, women, and children talked quietly among themselves and gazed back into the fire.
“Come with me,” Stone said shortly, turning and moving to the southwest, away from the village and in the direction of the valley edge.
For several long moments they simply walked side by side, not speaking, Cullin showing nervousness and not quite sure how to put his worries into words. Finally, he blurted out his internal dialogue. “We found four dead bodies near the ol’ Dawson mine early this morning. Four townspeople. Pretty sure they killed each other. But we need to find a missing gun to prove it.”
“And what is it you need from me?”
“I’m wondering if you or any of the others heard or saw something during the night. If you can help us in our investigation.”
“We know nothing of your troubles. The winds . . . were only messengers. We have no details. I am sorry.”
Cullin laughed nervously and pointed ahead. “But elder, Wasin is only a short distance from the mine. Surely somebody saw the men or heard shooting or can tell us where the gun—”
“It was a very stormy night, Sheriff,” Stone interrupted. “To venture outside would have been foolish. We saw nothing. We heard nothing.”
“You speak for the whole tribe?”
“They are my people.”
“I could get a court order to carry out a full investigation here, if needed,” Cullin said shyly, knowing the murky waters he waded into.
Stone snickered, revealing the first true smile since Cullin arrived. “And what jurisdiction do Caucasians have on Indian land? Huh? Force is no longer a weapon your government can wield without grave consequences. For many, many years your elected officials stabbed at Natives with a sharp knife . . . now it’s just a rusty, broken blade.”
“Can we not talk in metaphors? This is serious.”
“Then you’ll appreciate, Sheriff, that it’s serious to respect the sovereignty of our two lands.”
“Aw, shit, Elan!” the lawman snapped. “Call me Brewster! Or did you forget that at one time we were best friends?”
Hearing his first name pulled the elder back in time. To when he was a child. Stopping their movement together, looking into Cullin’s eyes again, he recalled the many games of cowboys and Indians the two had played in the valley many years ago, he dressed as a cowboy and Cullin an Indian. Or sometimes the reverse. Chasing each other around trees, shooting fake arrows and bullets, yelling “ye-haw!” or some other nonsensical war cry, gasping for a last breath when struck—it was all part of the childhood fun. Death was a funny thing back then, he reflected, and each of the boys took turns being the conqueror and the conquered. The drama always ended the same, though: wrestling on the hills until each ached from laughter.
In the present, Stone sighed loudly and stared forward over the valley. He watched the twinkling lights of Westcreek below. “Brewster, I am but an elder on a council of five. My powers do not extend beyond basic administrative duties. I cannot grant your investigation on our lands.” Turning to face the sheriff, he bowed his head as if the words to follow might sting. “But you know who can.”
Cullin felt a sharp pain in his heart. His face turned red and his head sank.
“Only a chief can grant your wish,” Stone continued. “You must seek out a man in self-exile, an Indian once chased from your town and too ashamed of past actions to step back onto ours. A man caught between our two worlds but with all the power. He is our chief, and only his word can allow you to converse with the others. Seek him out—visit his home, a place known by few. But known by you.”
“Decoreous . . . ,” Cullin whispered softly.
From behind, the drumbeats picked up again, and so, too, the melodic chanting of the tribal men. Both the elder and sheriff were drawn back visually to the bonfire.
Stone smelled the air, as if receiving some scented communication from afar. “I must ask you to leave, Brewster,” he said. “Our gathering is not for whites.”
In a zombie-like state, Cullin turned and walked away.
But after only a few steps, Stone called after him and said with a more direct tone, “Four murders aside, the tribal council will be in Westcreek in one day’s time to talk about the takeover of property. We will bring reparations.”
Suddenly, and to Stone’s surprise, Cullin whirled around and confronted him face-to-face. “Is this really all worth it, Elan? Huh? Driving people from their homes?”
“I can’t imagine what that might be like . . . ,” Stone answered flatly.
“Your sarcasm is noted, but is adding twenty-five square miles of land to the reservation that valuable? Why’s the valley so damn important?”
The elder’s eyes almost bulged out, as if the question was infuriating. He stepped stiffly toward the fire and focused on the tips of blue that swayed atop many of the red and orange flames. After watching for a few seconds, he spoke calmly over his shoulder. “Powwows are very important to Indian culture. They are celebrations. A chance to remember. An opportunity to bring community together. Today we celebrate the great stories of our people, in song and dance. We also honor a tragedy.”
Curious where the conversation was going, Cullin approached the back of Stone.
“In 1862,” Stone continued, “on this very day, our Dakota brothers started a war with the United States of America. Starving, few hunting grounds left, no reparations from your people and feeling desperate, four Dakota warriors killed a group of white settlers during a hunting expedition near the Minnesota River in the southwest part of the state. They stole food, weapons, and valuable belongings. That night, hearing about the warriors’ attack, a Dakota Council of elders and chiefs decided to fight the settlers, fearing harsh consequences from the US army and wanting, once and for all, to take back Indian land. To right a terrible wrong.”
“You know the rest of the story,” Stone said offhandedly. “Over the next few months, battles waged, and hundreds of Caucasians and Indians died. The war led to the execution of thirty-eight Dakota warriors in Mankato. The mass hangings are the largest in your nation’s history.” He paused, staring down at the dusty earth. “Brewster, you asked, ‘Why is the land so damn important?’”
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 4