The Guardian Hills Saga

by James Edwards

  “Ondamitaa!” he begged. “Ondamitaa!” meaning, “peace now!”

  Instead, things got worse. The rocks pelted the earth with great force, some kicking up to the next layer of circling, hitting the underbodies of the deer, fox, and martin, and each squealed. Even the bear experienced greater hardship. Dropping to just inches from the ground, the beast rotated on its side, as if on an invisible rotisserie above a make-believe fire. Occasionally the bear’s paws dragged against the clearing floor.

  Steven felt exhausted. Though mimicking his grandfather’s exact movements during a memorable birthday party held many years ago, the carnival ride failed, the magic dying out. The boy became spiritually overwhelmed. His breathing diminished. His temperature rose. His muscles shuddered, and soon, near the base of the Great Rock, he collapsed to the rough terrain and closed his eyes, an arm still elevated and hoping to touch a thread or two one last time. But the web was gone. Struggling to keep awake, he eventually fell asleep.

  His grandfather giggled softly. Watching Steven caringly, he called for quiet in the clearing. Staff in hand, he gently lifted his arms and whispered some calming, Native words. The response was well-disciplined.

  The elements of Steven’s magic were stripped away: the electricity in the sky ceased, the always-following, deep bass rumbling went silent, the clouds parted, the air decelerated. And the gelatin-like faces became more and more transparent, eventually disappearing altogether. With the spirits gone, gravity returned to all levels of circling. The bear flopped to the ground and lumbered into the forest. Deer, fox, and martin lowered more slowly, but then also headed for the woods once their hooves and paws contacted the familiar. And for the rocks that still rotated, all dropped at the same time, producing a ground-shaking thump. The show was over.

  Leaning on his staff, sighing with pleasure, the old Indian looked upon Steven. Watching him rest brought a greater sense of peace. He felt proud to have his grandson under his wing, even if only for a short while. The reunion diminished the prime elder’s pain related to questionable decision making in the past; the guardian was thankful for the diversion.

  But then something strange happened.

  Just as Steven’s grandfather was about to climb down from the Great Rock, an unfamiliar wind blew into the clearing from the north. Scratching at his cheeks and puffing at his eyes, it felt hot and deceptive. Turning into the wind, and though nothing could be seen, he smelled the stench of death.

  “Who are you?” Decoreous said with worry. “What do you want?”

  10. Reparations

  July 20th, 1945, 8:00 a.m.

  A hazy sun shone over Westcreek.

  Downtown, a large gathering of Caucasian men, many with crossed arms, pressed against the raised boardwalk directly in front of town hall. Five tribal elders stared back at them with reserved expressions, their stiff backs flush with the front door and nearby window, as if getting too close to Main Street might bring discomfort. Elder Stone was part of this Native delegation. He talked about the immediate payment of two hundred dollars for every displaced family and one hundred dollars for every individual, reparations for the upcoming takeover. Negotiations between the U.S government and the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwa were at a stalemate, and in one month—barring a miracle—Westcreek would belong to the First Nation. The meeting was scheduled to facilitate a smooth handover of property.

  Nearby, to the east, leaning tensely against a vertical support holding up a wooden canopy covering most of the downtown boardwalk, Sheriff Cullin watched. He fidgeted nervously. It wasn’t the tribal presence in Westcreek or the verbal offering of funds for hardship or the imposed countdown to seizure that stressed the lawman; rather, the faces in the crowd.

  Cullin scanned the front row of men. He saw the town’s history. Edgar Johannson, seventy-five and short in stature, stood nearest, his long white beard reaching down to his stout belly. Edgar had established the first General Store in town twenty-five years ago, providing food, toiletries, and other household items to the burgeoning community. Next to Edgar, “Doc” Ian Wilson, a physician. He was a tall gangly fellow, fifty-eight, with small glasses and a bushy gray moustache. Doc shared office space with Cullin. In a refrigerator near the rear of the sheriff’s office, he stored penicillin and other temperature-sensitive drugs needed for his practice. And on the far western edge of the front row, listening to the tribe with a scowl, Cullin spied Wilbur “Will” Nelson, a ninety-year-old most townspeople credited for the incorporation of Westcreek. A once hard-working entrepreneur, he came to the valley to start a sawmill when the land was unclaimed. The venture proved profitable, and over time he sold the business and retired. But unlike many men in their golden years, Will’s free time did not include hunting, fishing, visiting friends, or nature walks; instead history: “Redskins” who pillaged pioneer settlements and killed non-Indians. He loved to spin tales at the Westcreek Café to anyone who would listen. Often, the ninety-year-old would sit on his porch with a double-barrel shotgun and liter of vodka, waiting for an invasion he felt was coming. Dressed in a blue suit and bow tie, his quivering lips massaging toothless gums, Will internally questioned Stone’s peaceful motives.

  The sheriff viewed the center of the gathering. The mood was much the same, but the ages differed. He first saw an obese man with bright red cheeks. Tommy Riggs, twenty-one, had worked in the Dawson mine above the clearing for three years, extracting taconite until the site was shut down. Since then, he struggled to find work, spending most of his time drinking. Next to Tommy, an individual simply known as Beckett swayed from side to side, as if trying to displace internal rage that wanted to blow. He was tall, of average build, and had thick brown hair and an almost constant five o’clock shadow. A large scar of unknown origins sliced diagonally across his forehead. Listening to the elder discuss what could and could not be taken out of the valley, he frequently guffawed with insincerity. Beckett’s swaying became more prominent, eventually causing him to bump shoulders with someone Cullin worried the most about: Blaine Erickson.

  Recently celebrating his twenty-fifth birthday, Blaine was the son of Bull, one of the four men found dead in the clearing. Blaine strongly resembled his father. Short, spiky hair spread downward to his ears and then forward into well-manicured sideburns. The sideburns rippled when Blaine gnashed his teeth together, and this was almost a constant while listening to the delegation. A strong chin led to a thick neck, which led to broad shoulders, which led to a meaty chest barely contained beneath a holey gray sweatshirt. And Blaine’s arms were like miniature tree trunks, appearing so dense with tissue that each, hanging down, engorged its respective trapezius muscles.

  Cullin remarked silently that father and son not only looked alike but acted alike, both having a short fuse and fiery wrath. The lawman worried about Blaine’s potential vengefulness. Watching closely, he saw Blaine clench and unclench his fists rhythmically, his eyes staring forward and never blinking. Feeling uneasy, Cullin eyed the back of the group. Two final men of interest came into view, neither, though, bringing much ease.

  Both were new in town by Westcreek standards. Each in their early fifties, the pair had moved to Northern Minnesota from Chicago twelve months earlier, hoping to build a log cabin resort on nearby Gull Lake. Alfred Wright, a burly former professional wrestler with a bushy black beard, was the brawn of the venture; Paul Porter, who many in town felt resembled a taller, skinnier version of Winston Churchill, the brains. Together the two envisioned a two-level, ornate retreat catering to rich sportsmen from all parts of the Midwest. But because land rights were in question, plans had been delayed. The government had promised a quick resolution to the matter, but forecasted days turned to weeks, which had turned to months. Running low on patience and money, the men from Chicago sought out Mayor Pike’s counsel. The official head of town had a solution. In exchange for doing “odd jobs,” which had never been clearly defined, Pike provided a sizable loan for living expenses until Alfred and Paul could repay him—with
interest, and presumably after the resort was open and profitable. The pair were deeply in the mayor’s debt.

  Staring down, Cullin thought back to when Pike’s financially bound assistants first came to town. Personality-wise, they were different then. Alfred was always relaxed, if not a bit lazy, and loved to tell dirty jokes; now, he mumbled to himself, rarely laughed, and always seemed bitter. Paul enjoyed flirting with women, talking about baseball, and playing music in the park; now, his once-lively eyes seemed dull, he socialized with few people, and his guitar had been lost in a late-night poker game. Cullin knew the men were strained by the current economic conditions and the likelihood that their dream resort would never be realized, but he sensed another reason for their malaise—something deeper.

  Who changed you? Cullin wondered. Pike? What has he told you? What “odd jobs” have you done?

  Cullin found it peculiar that the more the newcomers from Chicago spent time with the mayor, the more secretive they became.

  Elder Stone’s concluding remarks brought the sheriff’s attention back to the boardwalk.

  “We know our wishes bring hardship,” the tribal elder said. “For this, we understand and sympathize. The money is a token of peace and goodwill—a year’s worth of our tribe’s fur proceeds. We ask that all citizens leave this valley by August 20th. May your God watch over you.”

  A long, uneasy silence followed the speech.

  Suddenly, Will spoke up, some of his words hard to hear, for he didn’t have his dentures in. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “Why won’t you work with our government?” Edgar added, pulling at his long beard. “We want to stay in our homes!”

  “Our decision is final,” Stone replied.

  “Why do you want this valley so bad?” another man yelled out.

  “We simply want what’s ours,” Stone said, his voice becoming shaky, glancing side to side as if unsure of physical safety. “History must be righted.”

  Behind, the four remaining members of the Wasin assembly also got nervous, moving closer together.

  Sensing the growing animosity, observing the crowd of Caucasian men push hard against the boardwalk, some raising fists into the air, Cullin leaned away from the vertical support, as if ready to intervene. He took a reluctant step forward but then stopped.

  Blaine yelled the loudest. “Who murdered my father?”

  A raucous chant of “Yeah! Yeah!” from the crowd accompanied his question.

  Stone and the others were quiet.

  “Why won’t you let our sheriff investigate on your land?” Doc said with a squeaky voice, his glasses bouncing on his nose. “Are ya hidin’ the killer?”

  Building to a feverish pitch, again the crowd chanted, “Yeah! Yeah!”

  “Our purpose for being here . . . is not related to the four men who died!” Stone said louder but with shaky eyes.

  The growing noise level was deafening. No one could hear.

  “Somebody left Indian shit, arrows and spears, around the bodies!” Beckett blasted, his scar wiggling like a worm. “It was no white! Did it all just ‘fall from the sky?’”

  The crowd could no longer be contained.

  Suddenly, as if a gate were lifted on the raised boardwalk separating the two races, the men, tightly compacted and buzzing with energy, stepped up. Outnumbered, the tribal delegation crouched, ready to block any punches with stiff arm bars.

  But no fight would ensue.

  Just as the sheriff took another reluctant step forward—as he fumbled for his gun, sensing that lives were in danger—two shots echoed throughout downtown.

  Everyone startled. Voices went still. Those not facing the south side of Main Street immediately whipped around to discover the source. Coming from the sheriff’s office in a slow saunter, Mayor Pike crossed the gravel road. Dressed in a wrinkleless black pair of dress slacks, a black shirt and vest, and black bolo, he waved his long-barreled pistol in the air, as if to punctuate that he was the shooter. An unlit cigar hung from his mouth.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he playfully chortled, “I thought I made it clear that I expect civility in my town. Your behavior is an embarrassment to us all.” Placing the gun carefully back into its holster inside his vest pocket, he headed for Cullin, stepping up on the boardwalk with an exaggerated fuss, as if every muscle in his lower body was stiff. “Ya’ll keep this up and I’ll run out of ammunition.”

  Pike lit his cigar with a match from a small red box retrieved from his pants. His movements were slow, as if he had all the time in the world. “Now, I think the good Elder Stone has made it clear. This meeting was convened to discuss the transfer of Westcreek and the valley back to the tribe. You all knew this day might come. You’ve been packing. And I think the money offered is reasonable.”

  From the middle of the crowd, Blaine marched to the mayor, the other men getting out of the way. Breathing with heaviness, he stopped a few feet from Pike and Cullin, flexing his biceps. “I’m not leaving until I find out who killed my father.”

  “Where’s the missing gun?” an unidentified voice called out from the group and to no one in particular.

  Ignoring the question, Pike enjoyed his tobacco and approached the edge of the boardwalk, staring down at Blaine. “Son, I can understand your rage. Your father was a friend of mine. Don’t forget that. But you are not a law enforcement officer. Sheriff Cullin is investigating the tragedy.”

  “And what if he doesn’t find anything?” Alfred, the former wrestler, called out. “The Indians are taking over—you said it yourself.”

  “If allowed by the Ojibwa, county or state authorities will pick up where he left off. Until then, our sheriff has jurisdiction.”

  Whispers and bewildered facial expressions spread throughout the gathering. Blaine tried putting their confusion into words.

  “The elders,” he said, throwing his big left thumb backward and in the direction of the delegation, “won’t allow us on their land. Everybody knows that.”

  “The elders,” Pike countered with special emphasis, “don’t have the authority.”

  “Then who does?” Beckett spat. “Stop playing games!”

  Grinding his teeth slowly, the mayor stared at the sheriff. Through their eyes, from Pike to Cullin was emitted a sense of power and authority; from Cullin to Pike, anxiety and fear.

  “One, ‘Decoreous Blackfoot,’” Pike said with conviction and without turning his head.

  The buzzing that permeated the group earlier, precipitating an angry charge toward the boardwalk, began to build again. Voices, in disbelief, yelled out.

  “Decoreous Blackfoot?” Doc repeated, his voice crackling. “We ran him out of the valley years ago!”

  “Damn it, Rolly!” Will added, as if the mayor was responsible for the secret. “He burned down a family’s home! Did you forget about the Krebs Place? He killed a young boy!”

  Edgar pointed at the Westcreek Park farther down Main Street. “He uses black magic! Ungodly powers! We were all there when he endangered those children!”

  Crowd buzzing turned to outraged discourse which turned to loud talk of getting even.

  Turning back to the men, Blaine played bully cheerleader, raising his gourd-sized fist. “He’s the murderer! We’ll find him, bring him to justice!”

  Bang! Bang!

  For the second time in the afternoon, the mayor brought back instantaneous order by firing his gun into the air.

  “I’m going to charge each one of ya one dollar for every bullet I have to let off from this point forward,” he threatened. “As I thought I made clear: Sheriff Cullin is in the middle of an investigation. He doesn’t need any help. Decoreous Blackfoot is not currently a suspect. He’s simply a person of interest.”

  An uneasy quiet settled upon Westcreek as the white men processed the unbelievable news in private. Then Blaine spoke.

  “When’s Brewster gonna talk with the old Indian?” he said with a grumble.

  Cullin was about
to answer when Pike cut him off.

  “When and where this meeting will take place,” he said sternly, “is confidential. And anybody who attempts to interfere or play vigilante will be arrested. If we have to put all of you in jail, so be it. Just remember how small the cell is.” Pike fiddled in another vest pocket, extracting a gold pocket watch. He checked the time. “We’ve kept the good Elder Stone and his council for longer than necessary. They’ve said what they’ve needed to say. Everybody knows what to do. It’s time to go our separate ways. Any developments regarding Bull, Bernie, and the twins’ death will be provided on a need-to-know basis.” He ended by taking the longest suck off his cigar, spewing smoke straight up.

  The group of men did not move, though.

  “Don’t make me get out my gun again,” the mayor cautioned.

  Begrudgingly, the crowd dispersed, the buzz now just a whisper or two.

  But not everyone left.

  Blaine remained. Crossing his arms slowly and tightly, he glared at the mayor with contempt.

  Pike drew closer, bent down, and read his eyes. “That includes you too, son. Hunting down an old Indian won’t bring your father back.”

  “But it’ll even the score,” Blaine said, not buying Decoreous’s innocence.

  “No, it won’t. Not in my town. Not under my watch. Now go.” The mayor stood up straight and tall.

  The air between the two grew dense, and in that time, Blaine glanced briefly to Cullin and then back to Pike, as if weighing, psychologically, how committed each was to due process. Neither wavered in their nonverbals.

  With a sneer, Blaine turned, marched farther down Main Street, punched at one of the supports holding up the wooden canopy, and aggressively swung open the door leading into the Westcreek Café. The interior was almost filled to capacity.

  Flicking his ashes on the boardwalk, Pike faced Cullin. “They had a right to know about Blackfoot,” he said confidently. “If I’m wrong about him—if he’s more than just a person of interest—the folks have a right to be on edge, defend themselves against other attacks . . . or ‘supernatural behavior.’ Remember, I’m the only sworn deputy in these parts and of little strength. So far, your investigation has given us nothing. We can’t risk any more problems.”