The Guardian Hills Saga

by James Edwards

  The lawman turned away. Deep inside, he knew the mayor was right. There were more questions than answers concerning the mystery of four dead bodies in the clearing of a large forest, and at this point no one should be overlooked. He just wished more discretion could have been exercised, given the Indian chief’s notoriety.

  Not waiting for Cullin’s insights into the matter, Pike casually dropped his cigar, snuffing it out with the point of a shiny black boot. “Now, I don’t wanna tell you how to do your job, Brewster, but I think the sooner you visit our old friend, the better. Our citizens are bound to get more and more restless.” Careful to protect his hip joints, the mayor stepped off the boardwalk and onto the crunchy gravel. He then strolled to the café, speaking forward. “You keep me posted on your progress.”

  Cullin was by himself. Watching Main Street slowly empty of people, and while a sudden, pungent breeze picked up from the northwest, the lawman thought about resigning as sheriff, transferring the investigation to the county, and getting as far away from Westcreek as possible. He felt tired, overly tired. It wasn’t just the investigation or having to watch his town die or having to attend the funerals of four friends; rather, it had to do with facing Decoreous Blackfoot after all that had happened.

  “How do you face a man whose son you killed?” he said to no one.

  A sputtering engine coming from the west end of downtown rescued the sheriff from his soul-searching. Black exhaust bubbled up from underneath the chassis of a badly dented gray Chevy pickup that would carry the tribal men back to Wasin. Three of the elders sat in the bed of the truck and one in the passenger seat; Elder Stone drove.

  From afar Stone locked eyes with Cullin. For a brief moment, the sheriff was catapulted back in time. He remembered when the two were still boys. Both twelve years of age, a day before Stone and his family were due to leave the valley and build a new life on the newly created Leech Lake Reservation, following an afternoon of hunting for arrowheads, the friends made a blood pact. Cullin, dressed like a sheriff, his badge made of Popsicle sticks, took a small pocketknife from his muddy corduroy pants and cut a shallow slit in his palm. Showing little discomfort, he passed the blade to Stone, who was dressed like an Indian warrior. Wincing, Stone repeated the behavior, and then the boys joined hands, warm blood mixing and dripping to the ground.

  “No matter what happens,” Cullin remembered saying, “we will always be best friends.”

  “We will always be best friends,” the young Stone repeated.

  But now in 1945, Cullin’s and Stone’s visual connection ended abruptly. Without a smile or nod of even recognition, Stone and the rest of the tribal representatives sputtered away in the pickup, taking a hard right on Main Street and speeding in the direction of the valley slope. The engine backfired three times.

  Startled—and as a result more firmly planted in the here-and-now—Cullin felt even more isolated in his worries.

  /////

  “Thank you . . . I appreciate your help.”

  Using the only telephone in the valley, Sheriff Cullin glumly replaced a heavy black receiver onto its rotary-dial base. He could hear a grumble of thunder from the west through the thin walls of his downtown office. The sound, he thought, echoed the feeling of Westcreek. He had just completed a call to Cass County authorities in Walker. One coroner and two investigators provided a verbal assessment of the evidence collected at the murder site. Overall conclusions were not surprising.

  Bernie had killed Bull and the twins. Though the “why” was still a mystery, a fight must have broken out among the four and escalated when Bull bludgeoned Bernie with the stock of his rifle, leaving him behind, presumably to die. The remaining three had headed for the old Dawson Mine, perhaps to escape the terrible storm, but were then surprised by Bernie’s recovery. Shots were fired, hitting Bull and the brothers. Bull returned fire. Lodged in Bernie’s lung was a large-caliber bullet, the same caliber used in Bull’s gun. The slug had gone in sideways. A keen detective present during the initial investigation discovered a small chip in the side of the Great Rock and hypothesized that one of the big man’s bullets ricocheted, penetrating Bernie’s chest. Bernie was the last to die.

  To the sheriff, the story made sense. But a huge problem still remained.

  Where was the .38 caliber weapon that killed Bull and the twins? he ruminated. Where was Bernie’s prized mother-of-pearl pistol? Shaking his head, an overarching question troubled him even more. Why were they on Indian land in the first place with so much equipment?

  A louder grumble of thunder from the west woke Cullin from his mental effort to understand.

  He prepared for the next step in the investigation. Rising from his squeaky chair, mindlessly grabbing for a tan sheriff’s jacket flung over a tall, scuffed-up file cabinet, he reluctantly started for the door. Having taken only one step, though, he bumped his thigh hard against a half-open desk drawer. Peering down, he saw his pistol and gun belt. The sheriff wasn’t planning on taking a weapon; he didn’t feel it necessary. But Mayor Pike’s words spoken earlier in the day made him think twice.

  The folks have a right to be on edge . . . defend themselves against other attacks on whites . . . or “supernatural behavior.”

  Safety measures seemed prudent, so he grabbed for the gun belt. But a necklace stuck on the end of the barrel gave him pause and stirred up an internal dilemma. The piece of handmade jewelry had been a beloved gift.

  Again, the lawman got tossed back in time.

  In the early morning hours of late May 1941, amid dense fog and dressed in a blue navy uniform, Cullin had secretly traveled deep into the forest, seeking Decoreous’s comfort. The next day, he’d leave for the 32nd Street Naval Station in San Diego, California, for officer training. Cullin frequently turned to the tribal chief in times of uncertainty. From as far back as he could recall, Cullin had appreciated how Decoreous had always been there for him, like a second father. While growing up, he had lived just three houses away. Whether to provide homemade ointments for skinned-up elbows or knees, a spanking for playing with matches behind the town bank, or advice—sought or not—about courting girls in his young teens, Cullin could count on the gentle Indian. Cullin particularly remembered the many summer evenings he and Stone would sit cross-legged in the center of the town gazebo and listen to fantastic stories of heroism and wonder, Decoreous sitting on a tripod stool and speaking as much with his hands and face as his mouth. Unity was the moral of most of his stories.

  “Remember, boys,” he’d preach with softness, “with a village, all things are possible.”

  Reflecting on the day the chief was violently chased out of town, the sheriff felt a part of his spirit had been ripped from his chest. The wound still hadn’t healed.

  Decoreous had been welcoming that morning in 1941. Guiding the sheriff to one of two tree stumps used as chairs and a small kitchen table in a corner of his cabin, he had prepared herbal tea, burned incense, and chanted a soft prayer for strength and safe-keeping. The navy recruit worried that he’d eventually be shipped to the Pacific Islands, where war with Japan seemed imminent. Decoreous listened, provided words of wisdom, and physically comforted Cullin, often squeezing his shaking hand with tenderness and understanding.

  “I am not a leader,” the sheriff remembered saying. “I can’t be a leader. It isn’t in me.”

  Rising slowly from his stump with a serious expression, mumbling a march-like song, Decoreous had shuffled about the home searching for something—something special as a gift to Cullin. In small end table drawers, on a windowsill, atop a fireplace mantle, deep beneath a pile of yarn plopped into a basket of woven reeds, he touched every nook and cranny trying to find this “something.” Exhausted, sighing with disappointment, he placed his hands on his hips and had suddenly felt a slight lump. In a pocket of his robe, he found the object of interest. A warm smile spread across his wrinkled face.

  Shuffling quickly back to the table, Decoreous had presented Cullin with the small, unass
uming deer hide necklace. It was tan, slim, soft, somewhat worn around the edges, and held several white, brown, and red beads.

  “Take this, my son,” he said with tenderness. “Wear it—hold it in your hands at your most desperate moment, and I will be there for you. I will protect you and fill you with a sense of peace.”

  With his shaking right hand, Cullin had accepted the gift and squeezed it tightly. Decoreous responded by reaching out and encasing Cullin’s fingers, bringing their vibrations to a stop, sending electrical charges throughout the young man’s body that prompted stillness. The sheriff remembered exhaling in comfort.

  Decoreous kissed him atop the head. “Trust me, my son. I will not fail you . . .”

  Back now in 1945, Cullin’s right hand, holding the gun, holster, and necklace, shook. Flashbacks occurred: of storming the beaches of Guadalcanal; of leading a troop of boys, some still with acne, into battle; of bright lights and loud booms; of screaming; of mind and body dissociation; of running away; and of swimming for safety… without his men.

  Angrily, the sheriff dropped all the items, including the necklace, back into the desk drawer. He would take nothing else on the trip.

  11. On Finding a Prince

  July 20th, 1945, 5:17 p.m.

  Knock-knock . . . knock-knock . . .

  KNOCK-KNOCK . . . KNOCK-KNOCK!

  “Coming!” Gloria yelled.

  Emerging from her bedroom, dressed in a long pink smock, her blonde hair tied back in a bun and dodging many stuffed cardboard boxes labeled “kitchen” and “living room,” Gloria headed for the front entrance. But she suddenly stopped beneath a closed trapdoor in the ceiling leading to the attic. She fumbled nervously with her hands, as if wanting to reach up and pull down on a dangling rope; she didn’t, though.

  KNOCK-KNOCK . . . KNOCK-KNOCK! KNOCK-KNOCK . . . KNOCK-KNOCK!

  Jumping, the young mother tried to catch her breath. “I’m coming!” she hollered with forced assertion. Three feet away, she paused again, unable to see a face staring back through the small window in the top third of the door. There was no one there. Gloria felt fearful, crossing her bosom diagonally with her left arm, as if the posture might protect her from some type of impending harm.

  “Hello?” she said timidly.

  A muddy, trampled rose suddenly appeared.

  “Surprise, beautiful,” a familiar voice said through a crack in the doorframe. “You forgot this last night.”

  With an exaggerated eye roll and fed-up grumble, Gloria lunged forward, dead-bolted the door, and pulled a small roller-blind down over the window. “Dex,” she said, “I don’t have time for your juvenile games. Go away.” She headed back to packing.

  “Wait, wait!” Dex begged through the same crevice. “I came to tell you . . . that you were right.”

  Gloria slowed, listening over her shoulder.

  Closing his eyes, Dex rested his forehead and thick brown hair against the doorframe, hoping the woman he loved was still nearby. “You were right. There’s no saving Westcreek. The Leech Lake Tribe will no longer negotiate with our government. I just got word. They’re going to take over the valley, whether we like it or not. In thirty days. There’s no hope.”

  Pivoting back, but still quiet, Gloria continued to pay attention.

  “I guess I was naïve to think that whites and Indians could work things out,” Dex continued. “They . . . can’t. So, dreams don’t matter anymore.” Sensing Gloria’s continued presence, he turned, slid down the door into a sitting position, and then pulled his legs tightly against his chest. Rubbing his dimpled chin against one of his knees in thought, he vocally reflected. “Gloria, it’s a good thing you didn’t accept my marriage proposal. I don’t have anything to offer. A woodsman out of work, no money in the bank, living out of a tent, barely enough change in my pocket to afford a sandwich. Shit. You’re right: I’m a hopeless teenager.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I can tell you this much: if you did become my wife, I never would’ve built that dream house you wanted. Remember? That small house in St. Paul with a white picket fence?” He sniffed loudly, dropped his eyes, and shook his head. “Sorry, but it wouldn’t be good enough. Not for you and Steven.”

  Remaining mum, Gloria crept closer, eventually placing her ear and hand on the smooth wood of the door.

  Dex could almost feel her heartbeat. “I would’ve built, with my own two hands, something much better. Maybe a log cabin near Trading Post Bay on Leech Lake. Two levels, four bedrooms, two baths, high ceilings, and rear deck, so each morning you could wake to see the sunrise over the water. No picket fence. There’d be too much property. We’d take long walks every evening, feed the deer, watch the eagles play along the shoreline.” The images crystal clear in his mind, the lumberjack pursed his lips and rolled the lifeless flower between his fingers. “And I’d make sure that all four sides of the home had rose bushes. Red, pink, yellow—polka-dot, if they exist.” His tone saddened. “But houses, property, and flowers cost money. Something I don’t have. Something . . . I’ll probably never have.”

  The young mother slid downward into the same sitting position as Dex. Both were literally back to back, separated by only two inches of wood.

  Dex stared up at a growing mass of black clouds. “If things would’ve worked out, maybe I could’ve taught Steven a trade or two. Woodworking or masonry. Maybe we could’ve gone into business together.” Dex smiled. “He’s a fine young man, Gloria. Never forget that.”

  At first blushing with pride, Gloria wrinkled her face in shame, rubbing her cheek against the door. “I’m sorry I haven’t been kind to you, Dex. You didn’t deserve my anger. My rejections. I know you meant well. We’re just different people wanting different things.”

  “I pushed you,” Dex said perceptively. “You weren’t ready for commitment. I know you’ve been through a lot.”

  “After my husband died, you were the only one in this town who offered me any kind of friendship. I’ll never forget that.”

  Recalling a fond moment, Dex suddenly laughed. “Do you remember when I took you and Steven out for a picnic? Last summer, in the northern hills not far from the ol’ Krebs Place?” With one hand, he covered his eyes playfully. “I never thought tuna salad could be so runny.”

  “I don’t remember you complaining when you asked for seconds—and thirds,” she giggled, speaking up over her head, as if the movement might help her words carry better through the door.

  “Thankfully I had your dry powder-milk biscuits to soak up the juice.”

  “Stop!” Gloria said with exaggerated annoyance.

  “Sunlight dripped down through the trees,” Dex further recounted. “Remember? It was hot but not uncomfortable. A soft breeze kept us cool. We ate in peace. The ants, black flies, and mosquitos left us alone. Later, I remember Steven went deeper into the woods, searching for deer antlers. For his collection. You and I stayed back. Played poker using saltine crackers as chips.” He scratched his forehead. “Never got beat by a girl before.”

  Gloria wasn’t mentally tracking. She was fixated on a puzzling event from that day. “We lost track of time,” she said with confusion. “It got dark really fast, and Steven wasn’t back yet. I got worried. We searched for him, called out his name. Searched for an hour. Nothing. No answer. We headed back to our picnic spot, and there he was, asleep. Dozens of fireflies flew above him. Enough to light a whole room. It was like they were watching over him. Maybe keeping him warm as the temperature dropped. And when we got close, they scattered. It became pitch black. We couldn’t see anything. I remember hearing animals running through the nearby brush or swinging through the trees like monkeys. They were all around us. Even the ground was strange. It trembled, like a pack of gophers tunneling away.”

  “A beautiful woman with a beautiful imagination,” Dex mused, rolling his eyes. “With all the cookies and cupcakes you packed, insects were bound to find us. The critters—they’re just naturally attracted to light.” Grinning widely, he st
ared up, leaning the back of his head firmly against the door. “And as far as the earth shaking . . . I didn’t know I was that much of a romantic. I thought we were just friends.”

  Gloria forced a smile, though still trying to make sense of the oddities.

  A sudden BOOM! in the upper atmosphere forced each to startle.

  Watching the skies turn darker, Dex became serious. “Where will you and Steven go? Now that we’re being pushed out.”

  “I have an older sister who’s a nurse at the Mayo Clinic, in Rochester,” she answered. “We can stay with her for a while. Till we find something more stable. I have to earn enough money to get down there. Find a ride maybe.” Gloria’s face sagged. “Of course, there’s always my parents’ place in Redwood Falls. I’m sure my father has forgiven me after all these years. For being a ‘dirty Indian squaw.’ That’s what he called me when I told him I was getting married to an Ojibwa. He’s never even met Steven.”

  “I’m sorry, Gloria,” Dex said with compassion. “You—”

  “No—no . . . don’t. It’s okay,” she tried to reassure. “I didn’t expect understanding. It’s not in his nature.”

  Gloria gently rested her cheek against the door. “Where will you go?”

  “I’ve got a cousin who works on the ore docks in Duluth. Said he’d be able to get me an overnight loading job. Maybe if I prove myself, I can be a foreman.”

  “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

  Dex snickered softly. “My cousin’s married with four kids. Lives in a small two-bedroom house near the university. There’s no space. No, I’ll sleep by the pier. There’s a makeshift labor camp nearby.”

  He laughed loudly.

  “What?” Gloria asked, adding a chuckle.

  “I’m moving up in the world. From one tent community to another, this time with a Great Lakes view. Quite the legacy.”