The Guardian Hills Saga

by James Edwards

  Amid now gyrating-like cricket noises, the young mother thought she spied something move along the boardwalk and tussle a wooden barrel full of trash in front of the old townhall. She stopped, visually scanning for the cause but finding nothing. She neither saw nor heard anything further, and so continued her journey, wondering if a raccoon or fox was prowling about, sniffing for food scraps.

  At the end of downtown, Gloria turned right on Pleasant Drive and noticed a rustling in a large clump of bushes in front of the town works hangar. It was loud and inconsistent, like someone or some things were shifting position, hoping to remain hidden. Afraid and not wanting to be afraid, she crept closer to the broad greenery, expecting to confront whatever it was, boldly. If a critter, she’d chase it off; if a man too persistent in his desires, she’d yell, clench her fists, and kick for the crotch.

  “Hello?” she said timidly. “Hello, who’s there?”

  Closer and closer she crept to the bushes. Closer and closer and with growing anxiety. That’s when the source revealed itself.

  “Hello, fair maiden!” a jovial voice said. “Care for a rose?”

  Gloria recoiled, grabbed her ample bosom, and shrieked. “Dex!” she said angrily. “Damn you!”

  “You said you like a man who’s full of surprises,” he said.

  “Key word is ‘man’!” she answered, replacing the Lucky Strike tin back into her purse roughly, breathing with scorn, pulling at her clothing in multiple places. “Not teenager! I have one of those at home.” Establishing a more regular heartbeat, she continued to the north.

  Dex pursued. Following as Gloria bounced her shoulders, he attempted to explain, the rose outstretched. “I can’t help it,” he said with admiration. “You make me feel twenty years younger.”

  “It’s called puberty,” she said snidely. “Give it time. It’ll pass.”

  “Have you thought about my proposal?”

  Gloria moved faster. “What proposal?”

  “Of marriage. You, Steven, and me, happily ever after?”

  “I’ve tried not to.”

  Dex ran ahead. He got down on one knee and re-presented the rose. “Doesn’t this help sweeten the offer?”

  Gloria took the flower, her smile insincere. She smelled it, then dropped it with sprawling fingers. “You’d have better luck with dirt. But be careful: the kiss good night could be a bit dry.” Swaying her hips, the young mother moved around him, like he was a pothole in the road. “Goodbye.”

  “I give up,” Dex said with exasperation. “I’ve tried flowers, poetry, music, and friendship. All I ever get from you is a cold shoulder.” He spoke to Gloria’s back. “Why can’t you love me?”

  And indeed, the reason seemed elusive. Dex was a tall, strapping man. Though dressed simply in a faded pair of blue jeans and a black insulated flannel shirt, the man was of fair complexion, hulking in the shoulders and slender at the waist. And his face. Dex’s features were tight and long, dimpled in the chin, and accented by brown, well-sculpted hair and hazel eyes that could easily capture, with a playful blink, the attention of any woman in Westcreek.

  Just not Gloria.

  The object of his affection stopped. Feeling a need to bring the totality of Dex’s advances to an end, she twirled around on her delicate shoes and faced him. “As I’ve said, you and I are from different worlds. Yours exists no farther than this valley. My world is everywhere else, full of hope and possibility. You expect a lumber and mining industry to rebound; I accept the fact that Northern Minnesota is dead and offers nothing for a family. Whether you want to believe it or not, the Leech Lake Tribe is expanding its borders to include Westcreek. Nothing can change that. It’s time to leave.”

  “Is that what Danny told you?” Dex said shortly, referring to Gloria’s late-night date who left her home in the early morning.

  “What?”

  “Goodbye, Dex!” she added, as if insulted, turning back around and abruptly taking a left up a broken stone path leading to a dark house.

  Berating himself internally for his poor choice of words, Dex again ran out in front, holding out his hands, encouraging her to stop. “Please, I’m sorry. Just wait. Just listen.”

  Gloria glared, her arms crossed.

  But she did stop.

  “There’s still hope for this area. Meetings between Natives and the U.S government are ongoing. A deal might be struck at any minute that would allow us to stay.” Dex’s excited hands pointed to the north, west, and south. “There’s enough nickel and ore in the hills around this valley to supply metal foundries from coast to coast. The same with timber: countless towns could be built from the acres and acres of trees in and outside of the valley. And with every tree taken, we can plant five, ensuring work for all generations to come. We can partner with the Ojibwa.”

  “Dex, Dex,” Gloria said derisively, “always the eternal optimist. And always the eternal fool. When your dreams come crashing down—and they will—Steven and I will be far, far away.” She continued her walk.

  “Will you know where to find him when you leave?”

  “What?”

  “When you pack up and run from me, will you know where he’s at?”

  Gloria stared at Dex blankly, like he had a screw loose.

  “You keep giving me this song and dance about how you’re acting in the best interests of your son. That you want a better life for him. But I know for a fact he spends most of his time alone in the attic. That his mother is gone long hours every day. At night I see the attic light on, but the downstairs, it’s always dark. When’s the last time you saw your son? Talked to him? Spent quality time together?”

  “That’s none of your concern,” Gloria asserted, her eyes quivering with rage.

  Dex stepped closer, raising his brows meekly. “But it is. I’m in love with you, Gloria Johnson. Can’t you see that? I wanna see you happy. I wanna see Steven happy. I . . . wanna see all three of us happy.”

  “Don’t try to be some kind of hero,” she said, her quivering eyes slowing.

  “I’m not trying to be a hero. Just a good friend—your best friend. Please believe me.”

  “I don’t,” Gloria said without much bite in her words.

  “But we can’t be together,” Dex continued, now standing nose to nose with his desire, “until you stop being the town whore.”

  Gnarling her face, Gloria reared back a hand and brought it swiftly forward, slapping Dex’s cheek. Startled, Dex responded, slapping Gloria in the same manner but with much less force. Neither felt physically hurt. Both smarted emotionally. After a brief stare down in which the other tried to predict the first’s next move, Gloria gazed up to the barely lit stars.

  “I’m going to count to three, Dex,” she said slowly, “and if you’re still in my way, I’m going to kick you in the nuts and give you something to never forget me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, raising his hand again, this time hovering near Gloria’s face, as if somehow wanting to magically take back his actions. “It’s just that you drive me insane.”

  “One . . . ,” Gloria said, her eyes shutting.

  “Please give me another chance,” Dex pleaded. “Deep inside you know I care.”

  “Two . . .”

  “No more pain of any kind. Let me prove my love to both you and Steven.”

  “Three . . .”

  And then Dex kissed Gloria. Caught up in the countdown, hoping to make right, he went for broke, wanting to feel, if nothing else, that he had tried everything. The kiss was deep and passionate, moist yet restrained, sensitive and yet full of fright—fear of losing what could have been. Dex added his soft palm to Gloria’s once-slapped cheek, and his hand shivered, like all his remaining emotion needed a place to go. Dex swayed his head from side to side in their kiss, but with control, concerned that intimacy might be confused with sex—trying somehow, mentally, to extend the wholesomeness of his intentions. Nonverbally, Gloria became limper and limper in his arms.

  Then she
opened her eyes. Still lip-locked, she peered into hazel warmth that left her speechless and vulnerable. Gloria saw strength yet tenderness; she saw stability and sincerity; she saw hope.

  “Surprise,” Dex said eventually, pulling carefully back, trying to reflect a whimsical side to their oneness.

  Both just looked upon each other for a moment. That is, until distant thunder in the west woke Gloria from her rush of emotion. Feeling out of sorts, she turned her head to the side. Then she took another deep drag from her cigarette, exhaled thick smoke, dropped the tobacco to the ground, and mushed it out with the toe of her shoe.

  “Farewell, Dex,” she whispered, moving reluctantly past him to an unlit stoop. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  The front door opened and closed gently.

  “I have,” Dex said to no one, lightning flashing on the horizon. “I already have.”

  /////

  Sheriff Cullin was also by himself. Downtown, in a small office with a single jail cell, he sat behind a metal desk lit by a kerosene lantern. His hands were folded, the left trying to stabilize the right’s shaking. His eyes watched the twitchy flame with trying indifference. His thoughts were somewhere beyond four murders, a ticking clock in which an alarm signified the end of Westcreek and prevailing town misery. Somewhere amid his thinking, Cullin unwillingly remembered a horrible event. It could come like that in times of stress.

  Approaching in waves, the related images and sounds were at first weak. He saw a busted-open front door, a mostly dark store interior, and a figure moving in the shadows near the back, shown on occasion by bursts of light from an especially angry storm bleeding in from thick front windows. The sounds were faint, trickling into his consciousness like a pair of headphones set too low but gradually turning louder. At the time, the sheriff heard thunder, broken glass crackling under the weight of his softly stepping boots, and restrained sobbing. In the now, he closed his eyes.

  The pictures and noises from the past became more intense. Seeing himself in full police garb, Cullin remembered creeping to the back of the store, searching for a would-be robber, his revolver out and hammer cocked. Slowly he made his way, his pulse pounding. The crying in the back of the store intensified. Noisy movement became scattered and difficult to track. And the once helpful lightning struggled to illuminate. Midway through his search, between an aisle of canned food and a pyramid of paint thinner on the floor, he recalled yelling out. “Step out with your hands up! I won’t shoot! This can end peacefully!”

  Then the images became blurry. As the storm centered over Westcreek, providing a strobe light effect inside, Cullin recalled a skinny body moving out from behind a far endcap, directly into sight, hands up, one holding a fistful of money and the other a half-drunk bottle of scotch. Cullin could see tears rolling down an Indian face as the man got down on both knees and begged for forgiveness.

  That’s when a routine arrest went horribly wrong.

  In the present, the sheriff leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. More memories flooded his overloaded senses, tightening eyelids doing little to lessen the emotional impact.

  Returning to the store in his mind, Cullin could clearly see his own hand outstretched, holding the gun. As he read the suspect his rights, he could feel the hammer of his weapon click forward one notch, though his finger just rested on the trigger. Slowly dropping his eyes, he watched the little metal piece click two more times, on its own, one position away from igniting the firing powder. Bewildered by the mechanical sequence—taking his finger cleanly away from the trigger—he screamed as a bullet flew out of the barrel, a final click slapping the casing set firmly in the chamber.

  The impact was immediate.

  The Indian man fell to the floor face-first. Money scattered and the bottle shattered. The alleged robber didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t breathe. Stunned, the sheriff of yesteryear froze, the gun still pointing forward but shaking in his right hand. The longer he stood still, the more agitated the hand became, trembling from right to left—trembling with pain.

  Back in the office, freed from his recollections, a sudden wind blew the front door wide open. And the air had a follower.

  Chanting an offbeat chant and dancing across the threshold with even less rhythm, a short, rather rotund Indian entered the small space. A loose shoulder strap on his bib overalls swung downward, back and forth, like a metronome on the fritz. Kicking the door closed, the Indian staggered to Cullin’s desk and placed a half-empty bottle of wine near the edge.

  “You’ve been boozing, Amos,” Cullin said with annoyance.

  “I’m surprised you’re not doing the same,” was the reply.

  “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Wasin?”

  “You know the rez is dry. Westcreek is the place to get drunk. And it’s a high time in the town tonight!” He turned in a circle, reviving, briefly, his feeble attempts at dancing.

  “Did you enjoy the party?” Amos asked with mirth.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The powwow. Earlier today. I saw you there, talking to Elder Stone. Maybe we didn’t live up to your expectations? Hmmmm? I bet you were hoping for a different kind of celebration.” Stumbling on one leg, the other slightly lifted, Amos hopped and patted his greasy mouth with an open hand, making a hollering sound reminiscent of American Indians in the past who danced in front of firelight to commemorate the prosperous end to a great hunt or the triumphant end to a war with a neighboring tribe. Almost falling over, he caught himself on Cullin’s desk and laughed hoarsely. “Or maybe you were expecting a rain dance or two?”

  “Go sober up!” the sheriff ordered with a puckered face, pointing to the jail cell.

  “Not in this valley, I’m afraid. Not during these times. But I thank you for the accommodations.”

  Chanting again, giggling, the man from Wasin zigzagged his way to an open, metal-bared door. Moving inside, he walked to a small cot in the back of the cell. He undressed to a white T-shirt and long johns, carefully folding up his dirty bib overalls and placing them on a little wooden stand. Lying down, he pulled a thin blanket over his body, groaning as if every muscle challenged the behavior.

  “Heard you’ve got trouble with a Redskin,” he said. “A specter from the past who’s returned to kill white men. Name of Decoreous? Heard he’s littered the clearing with Indian relics. Heard he’s not so far away. Not so very far, indeed.”

  “Who told you that?” the sheriff scolded, feeling an uncomfortable pressure in his chest.

  “A wink from the sun. A whisper from the trees. Who can say?” the old Indian answered. “The source is unimportant. But know this: if you go into the woods as part of your investigation, things are not always as they appear.”

  Cullin wasn’t fully cognizant. He was lost in thought, struck by the fact that Amos knew of Decoreous’s continued existence in the valley.

  How many more know? he worried, leaning back against his chair, drooping his chin. If word gets out, how will the people of Westcreek react? Will a shaky peace be torn apart?

  “Don’t worry,” Amos said with a yawn. “Your secret is safe with me.” He closed his eyes and smiled.

  “Just sleep it off,” Cullin ordered, trying to comment away any further talk on the matter. He fidgeted in silence.

  “Brewster, I’m worried. I’m not sure your sandman can find me.”

  “What?”

  “You know, the white man who can put people to sleep? With a sprinkle of magic? Just in case he doesn’t know how to get to Westcreek, tell me a bedtime story. To make me sleepy. A tale of maybe great adventure and bravery?”

  “You’re not a child.”

  Amos snuggled under the blanket, wiggling his chin against the soft material. “I like the one about the marine commander in World War II who led his men into battle. Remember? Remember how brave he was? How much his men trusted him?”

  “What a great tale that was,” he added after a pause.


  Cullin’s demeanor transformed rapidly. As if having been told a close family member had died, his shoulders slumped, his face sank, and his eyes almost frowned. He listened with a sense of dread.

  “I believe it was August 7th, 1942. In the Pacific Ocean. The Battle of Guadalcanal. It was the first major action against the Empire of Japan. A commander and fifty mere boys stormed up the beach at dusk, hoping for a sneak attack. All was quiet. So quiet. Only the gentle waves against the shore made any noise. The commander stood tall, hurling out commands for where to go, when to get down, and when to get back up again. But things didn’t quite go as planned. Did they, Sheriff? Huh? The poor souls.”

  Cullin stared ahead at nothing, as if another memory played out in his head. And Amos noticed.

  “The Japanese,” he continued, “they sneak attacked the American fighters. They came from three different directions, yelling, guns blazing, grenades exploding. So much terror. So much chaos. The boys looked to their commander for what to do. What the orders were. But there weren’t any. The commander froze. His bravery had fled long before. Went somewhere else. One after another, each boy fell, screaming in pain . . . or saying nothing at all. I don’t think any of the boys were over the age of nineteen. What do you think, Sheriff? How old was the last man who fell?”

  Cullin seemed pale.

  “The commander did finally find his legs,” the old Indian said with irony. “But instead of defending his troops, instead of returning fire or charging the enemy . . . he simply ran away. Back to the beach. Back to the waiting fleet anchored offshore. I believe he swam for the nearest boat almost a half mile away. Do you remember that story, Brewster?”