Wild Inferno (14 page)

Thursday, 1845 Hours

The representative for Native American Cultural Affairs from the governor's office had already arrived at the ICP when I got there, and she had not been idle. Shirley Walkingtree was a member of the Arapaho Nation, and she had let Roy know, in no uncertain terms, that the governor wanted the Native Americans at Chimney Rock to be protected and left undisturbed at any cost, unless and until flames were licking right at the walls of the Great House Pueblo up on top.

“Is a representative of your fire management team on-site?” she asked.

“No,” Roy said. “Initially, we tried posting a lookout in the fire tower up there, but we ended up having a better view from the Piedra Rim across the river, and out of respect for the Native Americans, we didn't want to intrude on their ceremonies. Jamaica's been up there several times, and so have the resource advisors, but we don't have anyone up on top all the time. Besides, that's directly above an uncontrolled area of the fire, and I've tried to explain that nobody should be up there until we get that flank contained.”

“What about at night?” Ms. Walkingtree asked.

“They haven't requested anyone stay up there at night,” Roy said.

“What if they needed something? Had a medical emergency? Saw flames approaching?” Her voice was gaining volume.

“Now, Ms. Walkingtree, we've tried to show respect and attend to any needs or wishes of those folks, but they haven't especially wanted any of us to be there. They have cars, they're free to drive down to the visitors' center or even out of the gate.”

“But I understand that if they leave the area, your fire crews won't let them back in.”

“That's correct. But in an emergency—”

“So they're not going to leave unless it's a life-and-death situation,” she said.

Roy tipped his hat back a bit on his head. “We'd be more than happy to put someone up there with a satellite phone or a radio, if that would be something they'd want.”

Shirley Walkingtree leaned down and picked up her leather briefcase, set it on the chair, opened it, and took out a notepad. “I had a call from their liaison. He said that they would like to have Jamaica Wild—is that you?” She turned to me.

My mouth came open at the request. I quickly recovered. “That's me, and I'm sorry I'm late getting here. I was working with the FBI. A liaison for the tribes called you?”

Ms. Walkingtree raised her chin high and looked down her nose at me, making it clear she was suspicious of me and was making a mental file of my face for future target practice. “You're the liaison to those tribes for this team, are you not?”

“Yes, ma'am, I am.”

“And
their
liaison has to call me, all the way in Denver, to get something?”

“Well, I asked for them to let me know if there was…”

She shook her head rapidly back and forth. “They appointed a liaison specifically to work with this team.” She consulted her notebook again. “His name is Bearfat, he's Southern—”

“I know Bearfat. But he hasn't asked me for anything I was able to provide, and I didn't know—”

“Well, perhaps you haven't been willing to listen. You're late and you just interrupted me—that's considered rude in almost any culture.” Done with me, she turned to Roy. “You have been given the authority to manage this fire, to control or contain it, and to make sure that it does not threaten or destroy valuable resources. This sacred Native American ritual ceremony is as valuable as someone's home or a section of forest. Great sums of money have been authorized to make sure that you have everything that you need so that you can do your job. The governor of the State of Colorado requests you to provide any support you can to make sure the Native Americans are allowed to complete their ceremonies. If this is not possible, I'm sure he will expect your personal phone call with a summary of the reasons.”

Roy reddened. “Well, I'd just be delighted to do that, Ms. Walkingtree, if it comes to a question of putting my firefighters in danger to protect someone who refuses to evacuate when a fire is coming right at 'em, which is what we'll be talking about if the eastern flank of this fire erupts again. And the governor can just come figure out how to manage this fire hisself if he doesn't like how I'm doing it.”

She gave a terse smile, picked up her briefcase, and walked toward the door. “In a few minutes, I believe you will be hearing from Senator Iris Littlebasket Carlos, a member of Nambe Pueblo. Her office indicated that she would be calling you personally to add her support for allowing the Native Americans to continue with their sacred rituals, as she has two family members participating in the ceremonies. I'll be in touch,” she called behind her.

Roy turned to me, shaking his head. “Damn! Somebody who looked like me must have stolen her land.”

I snorted. “Somebody who looked like me must have stolen her
man
.”

Roy grinned, but quickly sobered again. “So, get your gear, take your satellite phone, and spike out on top with the Indians tonight. I don't have time to hold their hands, so you're going to have to do it. I gotta go up to the highway. They're having a helluva fight trying to keep the fire from getting in under those power lines.”

My sat phone rang, and Roy hurried away as I was answering it. I heard a click, then silence.

Thursday, 1900 Hours

I got in my Jeep and drove to the cabin where my torn tent was still pitched. I knelt on the grass, leaned in the small opening, and started to gather my things when I realized that my red bag was open. I examined the contents. It was clear to me that someone had gone to great pains to repack my things after looking through them. The pants were still rolled, but they were positioned down the middle. The yellow shirts were split on either side of the bag. And the shoes were turned upside down.

I sat back on my heels and looked around. As the security officer had promised, the civilian campers had been moved to another campground and there was no one but fire personnel in this part of the park. And I couldn't believe that a firefighter would have done this. I saw no one nearby. Most of the day crews were at chow, and with the fire still raging out of control, the overhead staff would work long into the night.

I gathered my gear and put it in the Jeep, then headed for the chow tent. On the way there, I saw Steve Morella and Elaine Oldham walking slowly along the road toward the cabins. I pulled over and leaned out the window. “How'd you do with the Navajo Hotshots?” I asked Elaine.

She spoke so softly, I could barely hear her. “Fine. There are only three known sites in that division, so I was able to locate and flag them within a couple hours.” Her face was drawn and sooty, and she slouched and leaned against the side of the car.

“You must be tired,” I said. “It's hot and smoky, and it's hard work out there on the line.”

“I'm exhausted,” she said, her voice rising. “I'm too old for this. My head is throbbing and my back hurts. And my feet! The Ground Support driver took my gear over to the cabin for me while I had some dinner. I don't think I could have carried it another minute. I'm going to take a shower and fall into my bunk.”

Steve Morella spoke up. “I was just telling Elaine about the little bear. What an incredible find!”

“Yes, it was.” I looked at Elaine. “Steve said you were there when the site was excavated some years ago. Did you find anything similar then?”

Elaine shook her head. “No.” She rubbed her eyes. “I wish I had.”

I felt sorry for her and tried to perk her up. “I'm sure you did find some interesting things when you excavated.”

She shook her head again. “Besides the pueblo itself, and an even older pit house, all we found were some very basic things—a metate, some flaked stone, pot shards, that kind of thing. No effigies.”

“A discovery like that could launch a career,” Steve said, rubbing the palms of his hands together. “I can't wait to get it back from the FBI so we can analyze it.”

I remembered his puzzlement about the piece being so close to the surface. “So you believe the bear was missed during the original excavation?”

“We'll never know for certain, but we can do a clay analysis and carbon dating and see if it is likely that it belonged to that site.”

I wanted to ask more:
How would Grampa Ned have known where to dig?
But I hadn't been here at Incident Base for the main evening briefing, so I wasn't sure if any information about the death had been released.

“Well, I'm tired, too,” Morella said. “I'm going to hit the hay as soon as I wash up.”

“Okay,” I said, putting the Jeep in gear. “See you, guys. Have a good night's rest.”

“Are you going up to the ICP?” Elaine asked.

“No, I have to run in to Pagosa Springs, and then I'm going to spike out on Chimney Rock,” I said.

Morella looked surprised. “Really? Is it safe up there? I thought they were still fighting to get a line around the east side of the fire.”

I shrugged. “Someone has to be up there from the team. I guess it's me.”

On my way to Pagosa Springs, I drove up the highway from Navajo Lake toward Chimney Rock. The sky was dominated by a titanic tower of billowing smoke, churning gray and brown and white, illuminated red in places by flames and sunset. Like an immense, evil giant looming over the land, the plume from the Chimney Rock Fire had sucked up all the space in the sky until what was not smoke was merely a small frame that served to focus the eye ever more on the herculean wrath of Nature toward those of us who might have forgotten Her power and our place in the scheme of things.

I would have passed right by Division Bravo if the wheels of my Jeep had not somehow turned left at the dirt and gravel road toward the abandoned mine and the trailhead.

When Kerry saw my Jeep, he broke from his conversation with another man and came toward me. I got out and met him at the front bumper. “I'm going up to spike on top with the Indians,” I said.

“What? You shouldn't do that! We don't have containment on that slope! It's bad enough we have the Indians up there, but every firefighter knows better than to sleep ahead of the fire.” His eyes were wide, the stubble on his face was dark, and he looked a little mad.

“I know. The governor's office requested a team member be up there with communication capability in case someone needed help or something happened. I'm the logical one to go hang with the Indians.”

Kerry grabbed my arm, a tight grip on my biceps. “Look, babe, don't do this. Think of the hotshots that got burned over. Think of that guy whose body you found. What are you doing going up there?”

He was squeezing my arm hard, and it hurt. I looked down at his hand, and he loosened his grip. I was suddenly questioning whether I should go myself. I tried to exude confidence. “Look, the other side of that cuesta is all shale and very sparse vegetation. There's a winding road that makes a perfect firebreak. All a person would have to do would be to run a few yards and there'd be a safety zone.”

“I'm going to call Roy,” he said, and he turned around and headed back for his truck.

I hurried to catch up with him, but he kept walking—and this time I grabbed his arm. “Kerry, wait a second. Will you just stop a second and look at me?”

He stopped and turned to face me.

“I'll be okay. I'm taking my pack and shelter, I'm taking my radio and a sat phone, and I'll be with a whole bunch of Indians who are going to be up half the night doing a storytelling ceremony.”

As I spoke, he reached in his pocket for his can of dip. He took a pinch of tobacco between his fingers and stuffed it inside his lip.

“And Mountain will be there. I trust his instincts. I'll monitor the radio. Here…” I took out my small pocket notebook and wrote down my sat phone number, tore off the page, and handed it to him. “I've got to go into Pagosa Springs first. Then I'll head up on top of Chimney Rock for the night. Call me.”

He reached for the slip of paper and squeezed my hand as he took it.

“Kerry, you need to get some sleep tonight.”

He tucked the slip of paper in his pocket and reached over and smooched my cheek. I felt the bulge in his lip, reached my hand up and touched his jaw, drew my fingers down to his chin. His green-flecked brown eyes looked tired. “I might be able to sleep a little,” he said. “The choppers don't fly at night.”

Thursday, 1945 Hours

At the shelter at Pagosa Elementary School, I asked the woman from the Red Cross if there were any Southern Utes staying there who'd been evacuated. She pointed to a man outside the school doors, propped against the building smoking. He looked lean and haggard and he had obviously not shaved or changed clothes in a while. “I don't know how many times I've told him there's no smoking on school grounds,” she said, shaking her head as she walked away.

I went outside to talk with him. “I'm the liaison officer for the fire management team,” I said. “Jamaica Wild.” I extended my hand.

He looked down at it and thought for a moment, then reluctantly took it. His hand felt cold, his grip was limp, and I felt as if I'd just taken hold of a large clam. “Gary Nagual,” he said. He threw his cigarette butt on the ground.

“It's dry here,” I said, stepping on the butt with my boot. “You could start a fire doing that.”

“When are we getting back in our houses?”

“When it's safe. Where do you live, Mr. Nagual?”

“Right next to me,” a man's voice said. I turned to see Oscar Good, the rancher Mary Takes Horse had pointed out earlier that afternoon.

“Jamaica Wild,” I said, “liaison officer for the—”

“I know who you are,” he said, smiling, gripping my hand and shaking it. “Mary Takes Horse told me all about you.”

“Oh, she did?”

At this, Nagual straightened. “I'm outta here,” he said, and he strolled toward the parking lot.

“Don't worry about him,” Oscar Good said with a wag of his hand. “He's not nice to anyone. He probably really needs a drink right about now.”

I nodded my head. “I see.”

“And if he had any cash, he'd be at the casino with the money burning a hole in his hand. Guy gets fifty thou every year without doing a lick of work, and he still manages to be broke nearly all the time.”

I pressed my lips together, but didn't comment.

“You're the one who tried to go after Ned Spotted Cloud?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“They said at the press conference that he'd been murdered.”

“That's what the FBI and the coroner determined.”

Oscar Good put his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and tilted his head up to look at the sky. Smoke from the Chimney Rock Fire had blown into Pagosa Springs, and with the air cooling slightly as evening came on, it had settled on the town.

“Can't say that I'm sorry. And Gary Nagual probably isn't either.”

“The guy who just left?”

“Yup. Ned owned the land right next to mine, between me and the quarry. Gary rents the little house on that piece. Or he squats there, more like—I don't think he's paid Ned any rent in a long time. So Ned got tired of hounding him for money, and about two months ago, the old coot came over and threw everything Gary owned in the Piedra River. Television set, dishes, clothes, personal papers, everything. Just took it out back and pitched it in the water. When Gary got home from the casino that night, I had to call the sheriff or he would have went right over and killed Ned right then. Sheriff talked him down. Gary's still wearing the same clothes, after two months. I don't think he has any others.”

“Well, that explains…”

“And if you're wondering about me, I'll tell you straight out. I tried to do a land deal with the Utes about fifteen years back. I own a little half-acre piece of land on the other side of Devil's Creek, right on the edge of their youth camp. It's landlocked by their land and the creek, and I can't even get to it, but it sure would have been nice for them to expand that youth camp a little bit. I offered to trade my half acre plus some cash for Ned's place, which is the same size. The tribe was going to compensate Ned some, too. He would have got well above market price. At the time Ned's land wasn't even being used—that little house was sitting vacant.

“Grampa Ned was on the Southern Ute Tribal Council back then, and so was Mary Takes Horse—of course, she still is. And they had a rule that anything to do with tribal assets had to be a unanimous vote. Well, guess who blocked the deal?”

“Grampa Ned?”

“You got it.”

“That's too bad. But it doesn't seem like…”

“A reason to want to kill somebody?”

I nodded.

“Well, that's not all. Things got pretty heated between me and Ned, and we exchanged some angry words over the whole thing. And then…” Oscar Good bit his bottom lip and lowered his head.

I was quiet, waiting.

Good swallowed audibly, and then went on. “And then one day my two dogs suddenly developed seizures, all at the same time, and before I could get the vet out there, they both died. They twisted up and contorted in pain, and for an hour, they shook and yelped and foamed at the mouth, and then they finally gave out. We found a pan of antifreeze over on the other side of the fence, on Ned's land.” He lowered his head again.

“That's terrible.”

“I don't know if you can understand this, Miss Wild, a lot of people can't. But I don't have any family. My wife had died in childbirth a few years before that, and the baby died with her. Those dogs were my family. They were there for me when I hurt so bad I didn't want to get up some days. I guess I put all the heart I had left into those dogs. They were all I had.”

I thought of Mountain, how dear he was to me, how he had filled my lonely life with joy, and I felt a tug in my chest. “I do understand, Mr. Good. I'm so sorry.”

“I watched those dogs suffer something terrible. It was a horrible way to die, and there was nothing I could do. I still feel it to this day. Well, I would have killed Ned right then and there if I could have found him, but the weasel went somewhere and didn't come up for air for a couple months. Mary Takes Horse got him kicked off the tribal council after that. I've had a death wish for Ned Spotted Cloud ever since, and that's a fact. Everyone knows it. But I won't hesitate to add that I didn't act on it. Don't expect me to cry at his funeral, though. I hope the sonofabitch suffered at least half what my dogs did. At least half.”

At that, Oscar Good tipped his hat to me and walked away.