Celilo's Shadow Read online

  Sam found a parking spot in front of the Wasco County Courthouse and walked up the front steps. Built in the 1800’s, the courthouse was a solid red brick building on the corner of Front and Main which, like in those early years, also housed the sheriff’s department and jail. Once inside the main lobby, Sam paused a moment to locate the nearest water fountain. The ride into town had been hot and uncomfortable and his throat was bone dry. Thirst quenched, he followed the signs to the lower level of the building where the sheriff’s office was located.

  It was Sam’s practice to meet with local law enforcement wherever he was stationed. The reasons why a construction foreman (or whatever other undercover role he’d undertaken) would have need to introduce himself sometimes required a certain amount of creativity. It was worth the effort because Sam needed to know exactly who he’d be dealing with if things got rough later. Sheriff Pritchard’s comments in the newspaper about an Indian named Danny Longstreet concerned him. It wasn’t the first-time Sam had heard about the kid and the problems he’d caused. Sam had been planning to look into the matter, but Chambers’ murder upped the urgency.

  Although destruction of Celilo Falls had the Indians extremely agitated, payment for loss of their fishing grounds had been made to most of the tribes and Sam figured it was only a matter of time before Chief Tommy Thompson of the Wy-ams accepted the government’s assistance as well. Besides determining if there were an employee or Communist link to sabotage at the dam, it was also Sam’s job to make sure that the Indian situation didn’t get any uglier. If Danny Longstreet and his gang were somehow connected to the murder of Pete Chambers, then things had already spiraled far beyond the ugly stage.

  When Sam had called to make an appointment with Sheriff Pritchard, he hadn’t told him the exact reason for his visit, preferring to get a read on the man and situation before divulging too much information. He’d heard rumors that the sheriff was an Indian hater and not averse to stirring up trouble himself. His statements in the newspaper about the Longstreet kid weren’t exactly non-confrontational. Sam wasn’t inclined to totally discount the scuttlebutt. It was his experience that gossip often contained a grain of truth. On the other hand, it was always possible that the sheriff was misquoted or the article’s harsh tone was more a reflection of the reporter’s own bias than anything else. Sam was willing to withhold judgment until he’d dealt with the man first-hand.

  The courthouse basement was in stark contrast to the polished marble floors and pleasant sage-green walls upstairs. The sheriff’s windowless domain was strictly low-rent with peeling paint, dirt-encrusted floors, and an overpowering musty odor. It would’ve been easy to get a bad impression of the sheriff based solely on his work environment. Since the dingy trailer that served as Sam’s office wasn’t much better, he dismissed such evidence as apropos of nothing. He found the sheriff’s office at the end of the dimly lit hallway and knocked on the door.

  “It’s open!” came a shout from the other side of the door.

  Sam took the declaration as an invitation to enter. Pritchard sat behind a cluttered gunmetal gray desk with his nose buried in a newspaper. He didn’t lower the paper until Sam introduced himself. The sheriff was much older than Sam had expected. Either the job was aging him fast or his narrow craggy face had seen sixty years and then some. He’d made a futile attempt to conceal a nearly bald head by combing a few wispy strands of white-streaked hair over the top. A similarly colored thin mustache lined his upper lip. What he lacked in physical presence was offset by a crisp and spotless tan uniform that shouted officialdom. The man’s gray eyes homed in on Sam with a wariness that bordered on hostility. Hoping to set the man at ease, Sam extended his hand. The sheriff brushed his offer aside and told him to take a seat.

  Pritchard picked up a pack of Camel cigarettes on the desktop and shook one out. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Like I told you when I phoned, I’m new to the area and work as construction foreman out at the dam.” He pointed to the newspaper Pritchard had been reading. “I saw the article about the drowning at the falls. Looks like there’s some trouble brewing with the Indians.”

  The sheriff tore a match from a matchbook emblazoned with Dizzy’s Tavern on the cover and struck it. “Trouble’s always brewin’ when you got a bunch of redskins around.” He lit the cigarette, took a deep drag and exhaled. Squinting at Sam through the blue haze he said, “What’s it to you?”

  The arrogance behind the question irked Sam but he let it pass. “It’s called due diligence.”

  “Huh?”

  “Since I’m in charge of resettling the Indians’ burial grounds, I want to ward off any potential problems that might arise.”

  Pritchard leaned back in his chair and laughed until he began to cough. “You poor devil,” he said after a round of labored hacking. “How’d you get saddled with that job?”

  Sam flashed him a sheepish smile and shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  Pritchard crushed out his half-smoked cigarette and straightened his shoulders. “The lucky part as I see it,” he said, tapping his thumb against his chest, “is that you’ve come to the right man for advice.”

  Sam considered his next words carefully. It might be possible to use the sheriff’s self-important air to his advantage. Flattery often worked well with men like Pritchard. However, Sam wasn’t in the mood to schmooze. Better to let the man know his intentions up front. “I’m not seeking advice, sheriff.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then why are you here?” He made a show of checking his wristwatch. “I’m a busy man.”

  “I appreciate that so I’ll get right to the point. I need information about potential problems that we might encounter when relocating the Indian graves. You were quoted in the paper as saying that it was just a matter of time before opposition to the dam got someone hurt.”

  “Or killed. I heard you lost a man recently.”

  Sam nodded. “Foreman Pete Chambers.”

  “Damn shame. I’ve known Pete for a long time and I’ve been sheriff here even longer, but the federal boys pulled rank on me. They can’t handle a murder investigation any better than local law enforcement, but what the hell? If they have any smarts at all, they’ll recognize that they need my help soon enough.”

  The sheriff’s ego was clearly bruised but Sam did not intend to discuss Chambers’ murder with him. That was Jess Harmon’s call. “What can you tell me about Danny Longstreet?”

  Pritchard lit another cigarette. “Ha! How much time you got?” What followed was a spirited diatribe similar to what had been printed in the newspaper article. He said Longstreet was the leader of a gang that would do whatever they could to disrupt the completion of the dam. He told a story about Danny’s father and how he’d gotten blind drunk and tried to stab two good citizens for no reason whatsoever. “The apple don’t fall too far from the tree, that’s for sure. The Longstreet clan has always been bad news, and now they’re agitated big time.” He wagged his cigarette at Sam. “I can flat out guarantee you that they’ll be looking for ways to foul up your operation. But don’t you worry none. I’ve got a handle on the situation. The days are numbered for those red bastards.”

  Sam sighed wearily. The sheriff’s annoying bravado reminded him of Beckstrom’s know-it-all attitude. Not a good sign. The self-serving recitation convinced Sam that his visit had been wasted. The cooperative relationship he’d hoped to form with Sheriff Pritchard was going to be difficult at best. He was about to cut short their meeting when the telephone rang.

  “Sheriff Leonard Pritchard here,” he said with stiff formality. “What? Where’d you say it was? Okay, I’m on it.” He ended the call promptly and rose from his chair.

  “Trouble?”

  “Some kind of disturbance out at Baker Bluff. ‘Fraid our li
ttle chat is over,” he said, checking his gun belt. “Duty calls.”

  “Mind if I follow you out there? I have my own transportation.”

  Pritchard’s eyebrows shot up. “What the hell for? This is police business. Not the government’s.”

  The territorial jab was not lost on Sam. “No argument there, sheriff,” he said, raising his hands palm-side up. “But Baker Bluff is one of several properties that the government is considering as a possible site for the new cemetery. I’m interested in anything that goes on out there that might affect our decision.”

  Pritchard looked him over and then shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, donning his hat. “Just make sure you don’t get in my way.”

  Baker Bluff was located on five acres of verdant grassland about ten miles from The Dalles. Sam had toured the property twice and favored its purchase over the other choices under consideration. The Columbia River Gorge view was breathtaking, but the serene grandeur of the property impressed Sam much more. He was struck by the overwhelming peace he felt when walking the grounds. He didn’t consider himself a religious man but there was no other way to describe the feeling except that it was spiritual. For that reason alone, Baker Bluff seemed an appropriate setting for a final resting place.

  Sam had driven a motor pool pickup into town after advising Phillip Beckstrom that he needed to check out another possible cemetery site. At first, the engineer had balked at Sam’s frequent field trips but now that he was Agent Harmon’s point man, he no longer kept tabs on Sam’s comings and goings. Sam chuckled to himself as he climbed into the pickup. The duties Harmon had given his point man were nothing more than make-work but were presented in a way that appealed to Beckstrom’s out-sized ego. The tactic worked perfectly and allowed Sam the freedom to get things done for a change.

  Pritchard led the way through town in his patrol car and traveled west for several miles. It was a scenic drive, but Sam didn’t have time to sight-see. He had to floorboard the truck just to keep the sheriff’s speeding car in sight. When they reached the turnoff to Baker Bluff, Sheriff Pritchard brought his vehicle to an abrupt stop. A huge “For Sale by Owner” sign had been yanked from its post and discarded in the dirt. Pritchard got out of the car to examine the damage. “Crazy punks have done it again,” he said, when Sam approached. The sign was awash with red paint that obliterated the owner’s name and phone number.

  There was no mistaking who Pritchard meant by punks, but Sam asked anyway. “You think Longstreet and his gang did this?”

  The sheriff pointed to the graffiti scrawled across the sign’s surface. “See them arrows dripping red like blood? That’s Danny’s signature.” He spit a blob of yellow mucous onto the ground. “Looks like I better get on down to the bluff and see what else they’ve been up to.”

  When they arrived at the bluff, they came upon a Ford truck that had crashed into a sturdy Douglas Fir. The accident had ignited a small fire that was mostly smoke, but if left unchecked, threatened to engulf the entire property. Sam grabbed the fire extinguisher that was required equipment in a government vehicle and scrambled from the cab. The sheriff followed behind him with a second extinguisher from his patrol car. Within seconds, the fire was out and the men got their first look inside the wreck. An old man was slumped over the steering wheel. A nasty gash on his forehead had bled onto his wool-plaid shirt.

  “Good Lord,” said Sam, prying open the dented and blackened door. “I think I’ve seen this guy before.” He looked exactly like the sick Indian he and Ellie had encountered their first day in town.

  Pritchard stuck his head inside the door. “Well, wouldn’t ya know. It’s Old Injun George. Deader than a doornail in a stolen truck.”

  “Stolen?” asked Sam while feeling the Indian’s neck for a pulse.

  “This here is Tony Rossi’s truck.”

  “Let’s get him out!” shouted Sam. “He’s still alive.”

  “If he ain’t dead, then he’s shitfaced. Can’t you smell the booze? It’s stronger than the smoke.” He stepped away from the truck and kicked aside an empty wine bottle that lay on the ground. “Stupid redskins will drink any old cheap sauce they can get their hands on.”

  The bottle broke at Sam’s feet. It wasn’t “any old cheap sauce” judging by the label. Wine wasn’t Sam’s alcohol of choice, but he knew that this brand sold for a lot more than he could afford. It was a curious detail, but the man’s drinking habits weren’t important. His head wound still bled profusely and needed immediate attention. “There’s a first aid kit in my truck,” Sam said, easing the injured Indian onto the ground and kneeling beside him. “I’ll try to stop the bleeding while you fetch the kit.”

  Sheriff Pritchard snorted. “Fetch it yourself. I’m nobody’s gofer.”

  Sam was momentarily stunned. Bravado is one thing, but the sheriff was deliberately uncooperative. He didn’t know if it was because Pritchard was an Indian hater or if he just resented Sam’s interference in official police business, but he didn’t have time to debate the issue. Resisting the urge to fire off an angry retort, Sam spoke as reasonably as he could manage, “This man is hurt bad. If we work together we might be able to save his life.”

  “Yeah, and then what? He’ll just get drunk and steal someone else’s truck. Next time it might not be a tree he runs into.”

  Sam concentrated on helping George instead of engaging the sheriff further. After temporarily staunching the blood flow with his handkerchief, he raced back to his truck for the first aid kit. When he came back, Pritchard was leaning over George. “What’re you doing?” Sam asked.

  The sheriff waved a pair of handcuffs at him. “I’m arresting this low-life for drunk driving, trespassing, and stealing Rossi’s truck.”

  “The hell you are. I’m going to patch him up and take him into town. He needs to see a doctor. Now get out of my way. I’ve got work to do,” he said, opening the aid kit.

  Pritchard started to say something, but lit a cigarette instead and watched Sam apply antiseptic and a bandage. Afterwards, he said, “You’re lucky I don’t arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

  Sam stood and faced the sheriff with fists clenched. “Try it.”

  Pritchard rested a hand on his gun holster. “Back off, mister. You’re threatening the wrong man here.”

  Sam was tempted to flash his FBI badge but relaxed his clenched fists and tried a less confrontational approach. “Look, Sheriff, I don’t want any trouble. I just want to help the old guy. He needs to see a doctor.”

  “Then you better take him out to Celilo Village. There ain’t a doctor in town who’ll touch the bum.”

  Sam couldn’t believe that was true, but conceded the point. “Fine. Help me get him into my truck and I’ll take him to Celilo.”

  Pritchard ground out his cigarette. “All right,” he said. “But I’ll be coming down there later. He’s under arrest and I’m holding you responsible for him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Music Box hosted a sock hop at the store every Friday afternoon during the summer. The weekly dances were a big draw for bored teens in The Dalles. Ellie wanted to go as soon as she heard about them. “I love to dance!” she said. She rattled off a bunch of rock n’ roll dances she favored, including the Lindy Hop, Stroll, and the Bossa Nova. “But my absolute all-time favorite,” is the West Coast Swing. She was surprised that Dessa didn’t know any of the popular dances and wasn’t even interested in learning. “Come on, you have to give it a try. Look at all those kids on American Bandstand. They’re having a blast!” Dessa liked rock n’ roll as much as Ellie but she had no natural rhythm. Just walking across the room without tripping over her own two feet was a major effort. Dancing was out of the question. Why subject herself to unnecessary ridicule?

&n
bsp; Mr. Matthews had fixed Ellie’s broken record player, but he was opposed to letting her attend dances at The Music Box. His refusal was hard to figure. Yes, he was overly-protective but Ellie could usually talk him into whatever she wanted to do. “Does he know about Tony Rossi’s offer to take you to the Music Box?” asked Dessa. Ellie claimed that she hadn’t mentioned his visit or gift. “I don’t lie to my father and it’s not a lie if I don’t say anything,” she insisted. Dessa assumed Ellie had never heard of the sin of omission. “I’m not worried,” Ellie said after another round of fruitless pleading. “I’ll get him to change his mind.” Dessa got the impression that Mr. Matthews was fully aware of the realtor’s interest in his daughter with or without lying. It was entirely possible that someone had seen Tony’s flashy car parked outside their house the other day and tattled. Or, maybe he was reacting to the number of boys in the neighborhood who’d been chasing after Ellie ever since they’d moved to Hillcrest. It could be that he just thought his little girl was growing up too fast. Whatever the reason, Ellie wasn’t allowed to attend the sock hops. But, as Ellie predicted, Mr. Matthews eventually relented. All it took was a week of teary-eyed entreaties and emotionally charged turmoil to wear him down. Mr. Matthews had only one requirement: Dessa had to go with her.

  Maureen Feldman was thrilled with the idea. She saw her daughter’s growing friendship with Ellie as a pathway to the social acceptance which had eluded Dessa for so long. Dessa thought her mother was delusional. Ellie’s popularity wasn’t going to magically raise Dessa’s status. It just didn’t work that way with the teenage crowd. They might tolerate her as Ellie’s sidekick, but that would be all. Yet, despite her aversion to dancing and low expectations for an improved social life, Dessa agreed to accompany Ellie as Mr. Matthews required. The arrangement was simple: In exchange for Dessa’s attendance, Ellie would create pencil drawings for the Heard on the Hill newsletter.

  For Ellie, deciding what to wear to the first dance took almost as long as the dance itself. She changed outfits several times before finally selecting a black felt poodle skirt and sleeveless pink blouse plus small pink neck scarf. Maureen insisted that Dessa wear a similar outfit. “All the girls are wearing those skirts now. It’s important that you fit in.” She took her to shop at Mrs. Peabody’s, which she said was where all the popular girls bought their clothes. It would take more than a full skirt with a poodle appliqué for Dessa to fit in, but it was pointless to argue with her mother. She walked out of the store with an outfit exactly like Ellie’s.