Montana Standoff (10 page)

Four days from now she would be joining Steven for a barbecue on the Bow and Arrow Ranch. Ethically she knew she couldn't discuss any of this with him, but morally she wanted to. She wanted to believe that economic health did not necessarily preclude environmental health, and that the two could and should coexist in a progressive society. That the New Millennium mine could bring a huge windfall to a podunk town like Moose Horn. That change was necessary, growth was necessary, and that a static environment was a dead environment. But as she scrolled through the endless list of violations and the repeated warnings and fines levied by the EPA against the Soldier Mountain Mine and three others owned by Condor International, she began to wonder if her righteous beliefs had any validity at all.

 

S
TEVEN LEFT HIS OFFICE EARLY
to notarize and file some papers at the courthouse, and then, pausing on the courthouse steps, he thought suddenly about Luther Makes Elk and Pony's request to engage the old man's services for her upcoming wedding. The September afternoon was gentle and golden, and the fumes from the traffic swishing past made him long for the clean smells of blue sage and empty space that surrounded Luther's little shack. He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He would be even later getting home if he made the side trip to see the holy man.

His adopted grandfather was a traditionalist elder who had once led the Crow into a battle that couldn't be won; a spiritual battle against the white missionaries who had sought to erase the culture, traditions and religion that made the Crow people what they were. It was an ugly battle that Steven Young Bear had no intentions of ever fighting, and yet, such was the irony of life. A step taken away from one place might very well lead back to it in the end. He'd been on the rez the night that Luther Makes Elk was arrested six years ago for leading the traditionalists in a ghost dance and prayer to return to the old times. Steven had been visiting Pony and his aunt Nana and at their insistence he had accompanied them to the ghost dance. In spite of his resolve to remain apart from it all, he had been mesmerized by the rhythmic heartbeat of the drum, by the star-studded night sky, by the sweet-spicy aromas of the sage and sweetgrass smudge.

He had felt as far removed as he could ever be from the white path he had chosen to walk as he watched the
ritual dance, and yet it was that very path that had saved Luther Makes Elk in the end, after the blue lights and the sirens, after the forced dispersal of the traditionalists because of the lateness of the hour and the nervousness of the white farmers who lived on leased reservation lands.

At Pony's desperate urging, he had gone to visit Luther Makes Elk at the jail, to talk with him and explain why he had been arrested for accosting an officer of the law with his ceremonial drum, and ultimately, to post the bail that freed the old man. He'd even driven Luther back to his run-down shack in the foothills, not too far from where Pony lived. He had tried to leave then, but Luther Makes Elk had taken out the pipe and made a ceremonial smoke to share with Steven, and a young man did not show disrespect to an elder, especially a holy man.

Steven had reluctantly shared the pipe. After a contemplative pause, Luther had nodded and said, through a curl of blue smoke, “You walk a different path, but one day, your blood will be important to you again, and when that day comes you will become a great man.” Luther had handed him the pipe and Steven had smoked. “I will have you be my adopted grandson.” Luther had nodded again.

Steven had hidden his dismay from the old man. He did not want to be Luther Makes Elk's adopted grandson, but neither could he insult him. “I would be honored to call you grandfather,” he'd said.

Luther had drawn a thin-bladed skinning knife from a sheath at his belt and drew a shallow cut across the heel of his hand. He handed the knife to Steven, who
did the same. They clasped hands, blood to blood, and that was how Luther Makes Elk, the legendary Crow holy man, became Steven's adopted grandfather, and why Steven, instead of heading home at the end of the day, was pointing his Jeep east, toward the reservation, to ask Luther if he would bless Pony's wedding to Caleb McCutcheon. Steven wasn't sure what Luther's answer would be. Luther had never before blessed the union of a white man to one of his own, and had said many times that he never would.

 

L
UTHER
M
AKES
E
LK
was not surprised to see Steven. “I cooked enough supper for you,” he said by way of greeting as he stood in the doorway of his shack and watched Steven approach. His deeply wrinkled face was impassive yet his sharp black eyes missed nothing. “But you came too late,” he added. “And so. The food is cold.” He motioned Steven inside.

The sun had long since set and the air was growing chill. “I can't stay long, Grandfather,” Steven said. “I came to ask a favor.”

Luther paused on his way to the little propane stove in the corner of the one-room dwelling. “Sit and eat.” He motioned to the only chair drawn up to the small metal table and Steven obediently sat. “I have gathered some things for your vision quest. An eagle feather. Four hardwood twigs to mark your place on Brave Heart Mountain. Red is the color of the cloth I tied around the twigs. Red seemed right somehow.” He nodded. “Some bags of tobacco. Sage and sweetgrass for your smudge.” He lifted a pot from the stove and set it in front of Steven. “Eat as much as you want,” he said.

Steven took the offered spoon and pot of stew and dipped into it. “Grandfather, my sister Pony is marrying a white man. His name is Caleb McCutcheon and he owns the Bow and Arrow Ranch outside of Katy Junction.”

“I got your traditional clothing, too,” Luther said. “It's in the sack with everything else. You will need these things so the spirits can find you better. We will smoke the pipe together before you go. You can take the pipe with you. It is blessed.”

Steven swallowed a mouthful of the stew. He glanced down at the pot, which was nearly full, then raised his eyes. “Grandfather, have you eaten?”

The old man nodded. “Twice, already. I waited, but like I said, you were late.” His black eyes narrowed. “You don't like it?”

“It's fine.” Steven took another reluctant bite.

“We should have a sweat-lodge ceremony,” Luther said, “but there is no time if you are going to climb the mountain before dark.”

“Grandfather, I can't go on a vision quest tonight. I have to work in the morning.”

“You can't do your white man's work when your spirit is confused. You need to climb the mountain and let the Great Mystery explain itself to you and take the red fire from your blood before it makes you sick.”

“I'll go as soon as I can, but it can't be tonight.” Steven pushed the stew aside, realizing the futility of trying to explain the white man's way to an old traditionalist. “Pony wants to do the seven sacred steps at her wedding. The vows are already written, but she needs a holy man. She was hoping you might agree to conduct the ceremony.”

Luther glanced down at the pot, and then at Steven. “I got to thinking about Johnny Bird, and I wondered, where did he get that meat? Johnny doesn't hunt. But then I tell myself, the meat is a gift. And so. I made a stew from it.” He shook his head in faint apology. “It isn't very good, is it?”

 

M
OLLY WAS PACING HER APARTMENT
, microwaved dinner untouched, when the knock came at her door. She flung it open and pulled Dani inside. “Steven's invited me to the ranch where his sister lives this coming Saturday,” she blurted out, slamming the door behind her startled friend.

Dani raised a hand to her temple as if momentarily lost in thought. “Wow, that's great, Molly. The way you sounded on the phone I thought maybe you'd been fired from your job or disfigured in a horrible car accident. Couldn't you have hinted at the good news and spared me losing several years of my life on the drive over here?”

“They're having a barbecue.”

“You're kidding. What will those crazy ranchers think of next?”

“You're my wardrobe expert, my fashion adviser. Advise me.”

“What time of day?”

“Two.”

“Gee, that's a tough one. Appropriate attire for a ranch barbecue. Let me think.” Dani's eyebrows drew together in an exaggerated frown. “Wait,” she said, face clearing as she raised her hand, pointing to the sky. “I'm having a vision. Levi's. Cowboy boots. Nice leather belt. White linen blouse, dark gray or paisley tailored
vest. Minimal makeup, maybe one or two pieces of jewelry, simple earrings, and I don't mean my emerald ones. Not appropriate for a ranch barbecue.”

“What should I bring?”

“A couple of nice bottles of wine and a copy of your résumé.”

Molly paced to the window, stared out into the darkness. “I know I shouldn't be going. I promised I wouldn't see Steven other than professionally, and I should have said no when he asked, but I just couldn't. I'll take my chances and hope I don't get caught.” She turned. “That's awful, isn't it?”

Dani smiled. “That's good. There's hope for you yet. And don't look so glum. The ranch owner might take pity on you and give you a job mucking out horse stalls or branding calves after you've been fired from that high-and-mighty law firm of yours.”

 

S
TEVEN LISTENED
to his phone messages when he got home that night. There were a few from colleagues touching base on various legal issues, a briefly worded message from Sam Blackmore's widow stating that Sam's digital camera, the water samples, the money and his briefcase were definitely missing and she had reported them stolen to legal authorities, and another from Conrad Walker, the sheriff who had conducted the preliminary investigation into Sam Blackmore's death. “Thought you'd want to know,” Walker's rough voice said. “Blackmore's widow is pushing the district attorney for a forensic autopsy even though the medical examiner's preliminary findings turned up nothing suspicious.”

Good news.

He pried off his shoes, retrieved a beer from the refrigerator and padded into the living room to read the newspaper when his phone rang. “I'm sorry I was so abrupt on the phone today but I was afraid someone in the office might overhear,” Molly said, and his heart jumped with gladness at the sound of her voice.

“How do you know your home phone isn't being tapped?” he said, dropping onto the couch.

“Somehow I don't think I'm that important.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Steven said, surprised at how easily the words came, and how much he meant them. Her soft laugh was followed by an awkward silence. “I'm glad you're going to the barbecue,” he said.

“I'm glad you asked me.” Another long pause, and then she cleared her throat. “Steven, maybe I'm way out of line bringing this up, could you tell me why there's no public record on file of any lawsuit being brought against the Soldier Mountain Mine by the tribe on the Rocky Ridge Reservation?”

Steven felt a jolt of surprise. He took a sip of beer to give himself time to collect his wits. “No,” he said.

“But you told me that there was a lawsuit, and you helped them fight that battle.”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence on her end and then the soft sigh of defeat. “Okay, then. Here's an easier one for you. Can you tell me if there'll be dancing at this barbecue?”

“Probably. My sister likes to dance.”

“Do you?”

“I didn't inherit the talent that she did, but I can do a passable Texas two-step.”

“What's that?”

“That's a mandatory dance movement for anyone living west of the Mississippi.”

She laughed again, and the warm sound made him smile. “I guess I have a lot to learn about this western stuff,” she said.

“I'll teach you the two-step if you teach me how to cook a cabbage.”

“Deal,” she said. “Is this a casual event?”

“Everything at the Bow and Arrow is casual. It's a great place. You'll like it.”

After they'd said good-night, he sat in silence for a long time, the newspaper lying forgotten on the couch beside him. He sipped his beer and stared at the wall and wondered why she'd asked him about the Soldier Mountain lawsuit. He'd only brought her there to show her what an open pit mining operation looked like. Her question had startled the hell out of him. He hadn't figured on her being interested in the plight of the Sioux who lived on Rocky Ridge and the uranium mine's long list of environmental violations. He hadn't even considered the possibility that she'd investigate the lawsuit. She'd already run into a major roadblock. Better to let her hit every wall and travel down every dead end until she gave up searching for the answers. Better to let her go on believing in truth and justice, law and order, and the sanctity of human rights, because when those beliefs died there was nothing left to hold on to.

He knew that better than anyone.

M
OLLY DIDN
'
T SLEEP WELL
that night. Just hearing Steven's voice had had the most disturbing effect on her. It wasn't enough to be talking to him on the phone, she wanted to be sitting with him in his cozy little living room, snuggling up next to him on the sofa, resting her head against his shoulder and gazing into the fire as he spoke. She knew it was nothing more than pure chemistry that she was experiencing. Pheromones. Wasn't that what those chemicals that attracted the opposite sex were called? What else could it be to have addled her head so completely? She hadn't known Steven long enough to be head-over-heels in love with him, and two people could hardly be more at odds when discussing big business and the environment.

She took her restless psyche to work and spent Wednesday morning compiling more of Brad's paperwork, but could find no satisfaction in it. She worked straight through lunch, using the time to catch up on filing and answering long overdue correspondence. Boring, routine stuff, not the sort of courtroom drama she'd imagined in law school. She kept glancing at the Internet icon on her computer desktop and reminding herself that she had stopped chewing her fingernails when she was fifteen.

Skelton stopped by her office later that afternoon. “Good job smoothing Ken's feathers,” he said by way of greeting. “How's the permitting paperwork coming along?”

“Actually, there's been a bit of a snag.” Molly rose from behind her desk, remembering at the last moment to slip on her shoes. “It's in regards to the access road being built on Madison Mountain. We just received this with the morning mail.” She plucked the certified letter off the top of her desk and extended it to her boss. “Young Bear's filed an injunction in federal court to stop all work on the road. He alleges that New Millennium did not follow due process of the law and obtain the proper permitting before beginning road construction.”

Molly paused for a moment while Skelton unfolded the letter, waiting for a reaction that never came. “It just so happens that he's right,” Molly continued. “I phoned Mr. Manning earlier, and he admitted that since there was little reason to expect any problems, work on the access roads should proceed concurrent with the filing for permits and both he and Brad gave the go-ahead for that to happen. Mr. Skelton, is this normal procedure? When I advised Mr. Manning that the road work should be stopped immediately, he just laughed.”

Skelton gave the letter a cursory glance before setting it on her desk. “Brad already informed me about this. It's no big deal.”

“No doubt the newspapers will print something about it.”

“Newspapers have to print something, or they'd go out of business pretty quick. That's small potatoes.”

Molly took a deep breath. “While I was doing some
research for Brad on this project, I did a quick background check on some of Condor International's other subsidiaries and discovered that this firm also represents the Soldier Mountain Mine near the Rocky Ridge Reservation. Didn't the Sioux try to shut it down two years ago?”

Skelton's expression remained neutral. “Two and a half years ago Soldier Mountain applied for a ten-year permitting extension to continue mining uranium. Young Bear alleged that the mine was contaminating the tribe's drinking water and he tried to block the extension by pushing to legislate tougher clean-water initiatives. Fortunately for us, he failed,” he said. “
That
was a tough fight. This project on Madison Mountain is all about gold and silver. You should breeze right through, fair sailing all the way.”

“I haven't a doubt of it,” Molly agreed, “but I'm also fairly certain that all our client's dirty laundry is going to be aired by Young Bear at these upcoming public hearings. That's why I need to understand what happened at Soldier Mountain, so I can prepare Brad with a rebuttal. But Mr. Skelton, the funny thing is, all I've been able to dredge up are a few brief newspaper blurbs. The files at the federal courthouse are sealed up tight. There isn't even a statement of claim for public consumption. I've never encountered this kind of a roadblock before, and the court clerk I spoke with was most unhelpful.”

“Don't worry about Soldier Mountain,” Skelton said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Young Bear won't bring that up at any public meeting. He's just lucky that ill-conceived lawsuit of his didn't land him in jail.”

Skelton glanced impatiently at his watch. “I'm late for an appointment,” he said, and left her office without another word.

Molly returned the file to the cabinet and sank back into her chair, kicking off her shoes and dropping her chin into her hand. She frowned as she gazed across the room. What had Skelton meant about the Soldier Mountain lawsuit landing Steven in jail? Could it have anything to do with the brief newspaper blurb she'd stumbled across in her Soldier Mountain research about Steven's legal assistant, Mary Pretty Shield? The newspaper had merely related her name, her age and that she'd been found dead beside a river on the reservation. Tribal police had treated her death as an accidental drowning. There was no other mention of her except an even briefer obit two days later.

She wondered if she dared ask Steven about Pretty Shield. It would be a strictly professional inquiry, of course, but what if she didn't like his answer? She had an uneasy feeling she wouldn't. It seemed the harder she tried to enlighten herself in preparation for these public hearings, the more dirt she uncovered. She didn't like dirt. She liked things to be clean and neat and predictable. She liked it when the good guys wore white hats and won every fight.

Molly closed her eyes with a soft moan and felt the beginnings of a bad headache gather like an impending storm in her temples.

Saturday. Oh please, please, come quick….

 

S
TEVEN HAD JUST RETURNED
from Sam Blackmore's memorial service and was working on a real-estate trans
fer when Amy Littlefield called his office. “They're still using the mining road,” she blurted angrily into the phone. “I just came from there and those great big yellow dump trucks are still going up and down, just like they owned the place. I thought you told me you filed an injunction to make them stop.”

“It takes time to serve the papers,” Steven soothed. “They'll stop soon.”

“I didn't see anything in the newspaper this morning.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Steven said.

“We've been talking about blockading the road,” Amy said. “We could make up a bunch of signs, call the media, drive our cars over there and set up a roadblock. That would get their attention, and maybe even get us on television.”

“Actions like that can turn violent pretty fast. I'd advise you to stay away from the access road.”

“We have to do something. It isn't right, them breaking the law that way and nobody stopping them. We can't just sit here and let them get away with it.”

“Give it another day,” he said. “Sometimes the wheels of justice turn a little slow. Try to be patient.”

He hung up and glanced at the clock. Eleven forty-five. It felt later than that. He hadn't slept a wink last night. All he could think about was Molly, and Saturday and how far away Saturday was from Wednesday. His phone rang again. It was Pony. “Did you get a chance to see Luther Makes Elk?” she asked.

“I saw him Tuesday night.”

“Well?”

“He thinks I should go on a vision quest.”

“Steven, what did he say about my wedding?”

“He seemed to know about it already. Did you tell him?”

“I didn't dare. I know how he feels about mixed marriages. Did
you
tell him?”

“That you were getting married?”

“Steven! What did he say? Will he do it?”

Steven paused. He thought back to Monday night and remembered what he could of the strange conversation. “Come to think of it, Pony, I don't think he really gave me an answer.”

“That is
not
funny.”

“Okay, here's what I'll do. I'll stop at his place again on my way to your place on Saturday and I'll get a definite yes or a no from him. I promise I'll pin him down and I'll give you his answer at the barbecue.”

“Bring him with you,” Pony urged. “There will be plenty of food and he will have a chance to meet Caleb and make up his mind one way or the other. Once he meets Caleb he'll agree to our wedding, I know he will. How could anyone not like that wonderful man?”

 

M
OLLY WAS ON HER WAY
to the copy room when Brad intercepted her in the hallway wearing an apprehensive expression. “Thought you'd want to know. I just fielded a call from a journalist who writes for the Bozeman
Sentinel.
”

“About the nonexistent road-building permits for the mine?” Molly guessed.

“Yeah, only there's more. The rumor is that because the trucks are still rolling in spite of the fact that the injunction was filed yesterday morning, the citizens of Moose Horn are planning to blockade the road.”

“When?” Molly said.

“This afternoon, probably even as we speak. The journalist said she just got the heads-up from the woman who's spearheading the citizens group. Amy something-or-other.”

“Littlefield,” Molly supplied. “Can't we get Manning to stop the truckers and close down the road before the media jumps into this? We don't need this kind of publicity.”

“I can't get hold of him. He's not in his office.”

“Then I'll bring a copy of the injunction and go myself,” Molly said.

“It's an hour's drive just to get to Bozeman,” Brad pointed out.

“True, but it's only a fifteen-minute flight,” she rejoined. “I can rent a car when I get to Bozeman.” Seeing his reluctance, Molly reached out to touch his arm. “Brad, isn't it our responsibility to represent our client's legal matters and to provide a visible presence in controversial public arenas? Shouldn't one of us go? There could be trouble.”

“Look, I doubt anything will come of this. I'd go myself, but I'm meeting a client for lunch. Maybe we should just sit this one out. You could keep trying to reach Manning.” He hesitated. “I don't know if you should go down there, Molly. You know how Ken feels about you speaking in public….”

“I'll try him on my cell phone on the way to the airport, and if he wants to take over, that's fine with me. And don't worry. If Manning doesn't show up, I'll restrict my conversation to the truckers and contractors and stay out of the spotlight. Please, Brad, let me go.” Molly was
swept with a sudden, fierce need to fly to Bozeman, but her motives weren't nearly as noble as she had led Brad to believe. She wanted to see Steven. If he heard about the planned blockade, he'd go just to prevent any trouble—and she'd make sure he heard about it. This was a perfectly legitimate opportunity to get to see him before Saturday. No way was she going to pass it up.

“Okay,” Brad said. “You can go. But keep it low key. This is really no big deal.”

 

T
HERE WERE DAYS WHEN NOTHING
of a man's life measured up, and this was one of them. Steven had worked hard to reach this place, this plateau of professional respectability. He liked his office with the Ansel Adams prints on the walls, the battered old oak partners desk, the distant view of the Gallatin range. He liked it most of the time, but today he felt trapped within its walls. There was always so much paperwork, and he disliked paperwork. He was sick of rewriting real-estate deeds. He was tired of doing the same things over and over again, even though he knew what he was doing was good, the way it had been good when he'd helped Jessie Weaver write all the conservation restrictions into her ranch deed before she sold the Bow and Arrow to Caleb McCutcheon.

But today it wasn't enough that he was helping to protect everyone else's special places. It wasn't enough that he was helping Amy Littlefield and her small army of citizens battle a huge multinational corporation. He wanted something more. Something much more. He wanted to see Molly Ferguson so badly that he couldn't eat a bite of his lunch. So badly that when the phone
rang he picked it up and said, with uncharacteristic bluntness, “Yes?”

“Your phone manners are getting worse than mine, Young Bear,” Molly's voice came over the line. “Listen, I'm calling you as a professional courtesy, just in case you didn't already know. The citizens of Moose Horn are apparently planning to block the access road to the New Millennium mine.”

“I know. Amy called me earlier. She was upset that they were still using the road, but I told her to be patient and give it another day.”

“Well, she didn't take your advice. They're not waiting. They're going to block the road today.”

Steven lurched forward in his chair, clutching the phone to his ear. “When?”

“Right now, or so the journalist covering the story just informed us. I'm about to board a commuter flight to Bozeman, and Steven? I'm bringing a copy of your injunction with me just in case there's any trouble with the contractors who're working on the road, but if you're free…”

“Does Manning know?”

“I'm not sure. He's not answering his home phone or his office phone. He could be at the mine site already for all I know. Steven? I have to go. My plane's boarding.”

“Molly?” he said, but he was talking to static.

He fished a card out of his wallet and dialed the number on it. It was Amy Littlefield's home phone, and not surprisingly there was no answer. He then dialed up the sheriff's cell-phone number and on the second ring Conrad Walker's gruff voice answered. Steven succinctly related what Molly had told him. “I'm on my way, but you're a whole lot closer, and I'm afraid there could be trouble.”

“Damn,” Walker said. “Figures this'd blow up on my day off. I'm standing in the middle of the Yellowstone River in a pair of waders with a fly rod in my hand.”