Durango (20 page)

Though no philosopher, Sheridan had considered man's role in nature more than once. In his youth it had occupied him little. But as the years went on and he considered instruction he had received from grandfather and father alike concerning respect for the land and nature's creatures, he grew more and more—and without much reflection—to a familiarity and acquaintance with his surroundings that seemed, for lack of a better word, natural. Increasingly with age, he wanted to fit in to his surroundings, not to be separate and apart from them.

A year or two before, he had instructed Sam Maynard to draw up a will leaving his place to Caroline and asking that his ashes be scattered along the edge of his hidden lake in the Weminuche. She would know where that was and how to get there.

He now supposed that was why he was preoccupied by the cougar. He wondered, if it had come down to it, whether he would have put his blade into the great creature's heart and, if he had, would it have seemed unworthy of him to have killed such a wonder of nature for simply protecting its own territory. For Sheridan, that confrontation had become what a literary person like Caroline would have called a metaphor. If the cougar represented nature and was playing its role in that context, what were his rights and what were his responsibilities?

Sheridan slapped a recalcitrant heifer with his lariat rope, and it jumped and bellowed. The cat had rights. It had a right to be itself and to play out its purpose. Sheridan recalled a church service his father had taken him to as a boy and the sermon about man having dominion over the earth and all the creatures on it. It didn't sound right then and it sounded even less right as time went on. Man may have a right to grow crops and herd cows and make a living. But he didn't have the right to kill one of nature's works of art, such as a cougar, out of thrill or sport or territory.

The herd made its way slowly down the slopes, stopping from time to time to pull up some particularly tasty grass, with Toby crouched to nip a heel here or there at Sheridan's command. He was in no hurry. Early fall and this minor version of the old cattle drives were his favorite times. Now, in early September, he could tell by sniffing the air that the first snow would not be long off. And the first one, for some reason, was often a big one. So the sun felt good, the cattle were healthy, and he was with his horse and dog.

He thought of Caroline. Try as he might, he had not been able to keep her at arm's distance. He smiled to himself at how shrewd she was in managing him and at how her company pleased him so much. He went out of his way to keep his emotions in check around her. But he knew she had, in that mystery of the ages, got herself into his heart. He hadn't expected it, but he knew now he would be somewhere between lonely and lost without her. He marveled at her cleverness with finance, yet her sensitivity with her portrayal of nature.

Which brought him back to the cougar. He somehow wanted to reach a basic truth about himself and the cougar, himself representing mankind and the cougar representing nature. He wasn't smart enough, he concluded, to achieve what many of the great philosophers throughout history had failed to achieve. The easy solutions were that old preacher's notion years before about man's dominion over the earth, or the other notion of not chopping down a tree or eating a steak.

The Sheridan heritage had always been to clean up after yourself and not hurt anyone downstream. They had kept their herds in check, kept animal waste and herbicides out of the Florida River, and refused to sell off their timber to the logging companies that continued to beseech them with dollars. It was nothing they prided themselves in. It was just their way and their practice.

The herd was now approaching the low pasture lands where it would winter. Some would go to market and provide enough in the bank to make it until next spring. Sheridan wondered if Caroline would like to go someplace warm, maybe down to Mexico, for a week or two when it got coldest. He hadn't done anything like that for quite a while, and she would probably never bring it up herself. But it might be nice for a change. She's probably tired of that Jameson and ready for some tequila, he thought.

Sheridan closed the gate to the high country trail, patted Toby and praised him, then gave him a fresh bone for his reward. Red got an extra helping of oats for his good work.

Sheridan shook his head. He still didn't know what to think about the cougar. It would continue to be a mystery and a haunter of dreams. Maybe that's why he was put here, he thought. Maybe his real purpose is to tell us with those luminous big yellow eyes to be careful, not of him, the creature, but to be careful how we live, what we chop down, what we eat, what we destroy so needlessly.

40.

I've finished my piece, Mrs. Farnsworth, Patrick said. It's just under five thousand words.

My God, she exclaimed. What in the world do you think you're going to do with something like that?

I was hoping you might take a look at it and consider running it as a series, the young reporter said.

She laughed. A series? Patrick, the
Durango Herald
is not
The New York Times.
We don't do “series.” Besides, I've told you more than once I'm not going to print a history no one wants to read, least of all Daniel Sheridan's. It would be cruel and unnecessary. People around here—she circled her hand above her head—including particularly your generation, would think I had gone completely insane. And my late dear Murray would absolutely turn over in his grave.

Patrick rubbed his eyes, red from writing late into the night for the past two weeks and from reading and rereading old stories and new notes, and he frowned. Well, somebody has to print this, he said. Mr. Sheridan and everyone else are just the actors. This is a story about injustice, an injustice in a community as great as Durango. The point is, if it can happen in a place like this, it can happen anywhere.

Sit down, Patrick, the journalistic matriarch ordered. You have driven me into a role of delivering life lessons and it is not a role I relish. But here goes again. There is injustice in the world. It is everywhere, including in Durango. You are right. If it can happen here, it can—and does—happen everywhere. It is called life. Life is unjust. It is unfair. Our profession, my profession, claims to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. That's hogwash. We print the news. The good and the bad and, I regret to say, sometimes the untrue. Have you noticed how our little section called “Corrections” has grown? It's because we don't always get it right. In fact, she admitted ruefully, we seem to be getting it wrong more and more often.

But, Patrick interrupted, you—we—have a duty to correct things. That's what my story is about.

A one-sentence correction to yesterday's story is one thing, Mrs. Farnsworth said. Your epic history of a bygone era is quite another. Why would you want to do this? I've told you this paper does not want it and will not print it. Take a trip. Go fishing or something. Get this obsession out of your system. I have grown very fond of Caroline Chandler. I don't want her to pack up her easel and move away. I don't want to cause the Utes more trouble than they've already had to face for over a century. And I can absolutely guarantee you that you will drive Daniel Sheridan into the wilderness permanently. For what? Justice?

Truth, ma'am, truth, Patrick said quietly. The truth will set you free, or something like that. Let me tell you why I'm “obsessed,” to use your word. My parents and my church and my college told me that a lie unanswered is a lie accepted. And when a person—or a town—accepts a lie and decides to live with it, it corrodes their soul. If you live with one lie, you can live with two, or a dozen. It's true of a country too. When we are told we have to make war against North Vietnam because one of their little boats fired on one of our big ones, 58,000 Americans and millions of Vietnamese died. And it was a lie. When we invade Iraq because it has weapons of mass destruction, and there aren't any, 40,000 American casualties and a trillion dollars later it is a lie. I don't want my country to live with those kinds of lies. And I don't want Durango to live with those kinds of lies either.

Mrs. Farnsworth turned away and looked from her corner office at the
Herald
toward the distant San Juan Mountains. She refused to let the young man see the tears burning her eyes. The room was quiet, then she coughed and regained her composure.

She turned back. Alright, Patrick. What's the lie? Did Russell Chandler write the accusatory letter, as we assume? Did Daniel Sheridan pay off tribal members to raise money to keep Russell quiet, as we do not assume? Did Mr. Sheridan and Mrs. Chandler have an affair? Which is really none of our business. Is it all of these? Have you proved to our readers' satisfaction, and their probable disinterest, that all of this happened or didn't happen?

No, ma'am, but what I can prove is that Russell Chandler was the frontman for an investment syndicate that was trying to corrupt the Southern Utes and steal their mineral resources and control the water from the Animas–La Plata project.

Patrick, Mrs. Farnsworth said, you better let me read what you have.

 

 

Part Three

 

41.

Professor Duane Smithson and former mayor Walter Hurley had coffee cake at the local bakery for the purpose of letting the mayor recount his recent visit to the Southern Ute tribal council meeting.

I've studied the history of this region I suspect about as much as anyone around, the professor said, and you cannot understand southwestern Colorado, or La Plata County, or the city of Durango, without understanding water. Since they brought the railroad in here in 1878 and this town grew up around it, it has been all about water. If someone came in here and tried to study this community, they'd have to know water history and water law. You and I both know that more than one of the old-timers—farmer, cattleman, or miner—drew down on one another over a diversion ditch or a makeshift dam or even watering a herd of cattle.

When the great dam-building era of the twentieth century began those decades ago, he continued, it was virtually inevitable that sometime, sooner or later, there would be plans for a dam on the Animas to make the desert bloom or some such political rhetoric. What none of us expected, even say as recently as fifteen years ago, is that the project would be completed only if it satisfied the Utes' historic water rights and that they, not the wealthy folks in Durango and around, would be the principal beneficiaries.

Well, it sure as hell comes as a surprise to me, the mayor said over his breakfast. When I was mayor it wouldn't have crossed our minds. You couldn't have sold this thing to the city or the county or the state or the federals as an Indian project. Just wouldn't have happened. But here we are. And now they're in the catbird seat and can make it happen or not.

Tell me what happened when you went down to Ignacio, the professor asked.

Young Carroll and I offered our services to the Indians, the mayor reported proudly, and they seemed very pleased to have the son of a former congressman, known as one of the leaders of the “green” opposition to the Animas–La Plata, and yours truly, a stalwart over the years in support of developing our region's water rights, there before them, representing a new coalition of support.

Was there much discussion, the professor asked, about the fact that what was meant to be a dam and reservoir for Durango business and farms is now primarily a project for the Utes' use?

Not at all, the mayor said. It never came up. I guess to the outsider it would seem somewhat ironic that the Indians, who were pretty much ignored when this thing emerged on the drawing boards in '68, are now the big winners.

There is justice, after all, the professor said.

Well, you could say that, I guess, the mayor countered. But I'm one of those unreconstructed pioneers and manifest destiny believers. God put the US of A here for us to occupy and enjoy. And by God, I've enjoyed this little corner of it as much as anyone alive.

The professor said, Good for you. But I hope the time has come for the Utes to enjoy a little more of it also. And, by the way, generate some electricity with their coal and some gasoline from their oil in the process. That seems to be the American way too, last time I checked.

Yes, yes, the mayor said. What can you do when the Indians lucked out with all those energy resources? Should shut up those who've claimed all these years that we shuffled those poor nomads off into the armpits of America. They'll all be driving Cadillac cars before you know it.

The professor moved a bite of coffee cake around and thought about this. Who's to know? he finally said And it's hardly our place to tell them what kind of cars they can drive. By the way, have you ever met a Ute holy man called Two Hawks?

Can't say that I have, the mayor said. I thought I knew them all, at least the ones that came to the council meetings. But he's a new one to me.

Very good friend of Dan Sheridan's and his father before him, the professor said. If the Utes listen to him, they may hold off on the Cadillacs. He's still one of those old-timers who thinks we're supposed to be part of nature.

Yes, yes, the mayor said. Maybe so. But people are people and, when it comes to fine living, I doubt the Indians are much different from the rest of us. He paused, then said, By the way, speaking of Daniel Sheridan, he was down there in Ignacio with us. The whole purpose of this little play you helped us direct. Remember, young Carroll and I were there mostly as a sideshow to encourage Daniel to jump in and help the Indians accept the water deal the folks in Denver and Washington were offering them.

Did he jump in? Smithson asked.

Well, not exactly, the mayor said. He sat in the front row, but over toward the side, as young Carroll and I said our piece. And he made no speeches. It was pretty clear, though, that he was paying close attention. If our little scheme works, he'll be hooked and he'll find his way back to Leonard Cloud and his folks and convince them to sign up.