Celilo's Shadow Page 22

  “No,” Danny said.

  “What?”

  “I said no.”

  “What’s gotten into you?” asked Henry, plainly irritated.

  Danny surveyed the destruction around him. They’d been busy. The ground was littered with the damage they’d inflicted. “It’s wrong,” he said.

  Ernie scratched his head. “Huh? What is?”

  “All of this,” Danny said, spreading his arms to indicate the downed tombstones.

  Walter snorted. “This was your fucking idea, brother. It’s too late to back out now.” He nodded to Ernie and Henry and they resumed their struggle with the monument. “Come on, Danny, we need you.”

  Danny stood his ground, attempting to block their efforts with his body.

  “Get outta the way or you’re gonna get hurt.”

  A siren’s piercing wail interrupted the impasse.

  “It’s the sheriff!” yelled Henry.

  They all stared at Ernie. “You spill the beans about our plans again?” asked Walter.

  At first, Ernie denied talking to anyone, but quickly backtracked when confronted with their skeptical looks. “Okay, okay. Maybe I said something to someone I shouldn’t oughta,” he admitted. The siren’s loud cries made him jump. “But it doesn’t matter now. We gotta get out of here!”

  “No one’s going anywhere.” ordered Walter. “Keep pushing.” As the ground finally gave way, the base teetered and then fell, pinning Danny beneath it. Walter stood over him. “You stubborn fool! I told you to get outta the way.” The siren screamed closer.

  “Take off,” Danny said. “I’ll deal with the sheriff.”

  “We’re not leaving you behind, no matter what,” Walter assured him. With Ernie and Henry’s muscle adding to Walter’s effort, they lifted the stone off Danny’s leg. Together, they propped him upright, and with his arms wrapped around Walter and Henry’s shoulders, helped him hobble to his truck. The siren’s warning cry was deafening now. “Get going, man!” Walter urged as they heaved Danny inside his cab. “We’ll meet you back at the village.”

  Danny nodded, but the pain shooting from his ankle to his hip was severe. Feeling suddenly woozy, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the seat back. His friends jumped in their trucks and took off in a billowing cloud of dust as the lawman’s siren drew ever closer. Seconds later, Danny opened his eyes to flashing red lights in his rear-view mirror. He groaned and closed his eyes again.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Sheriff Pritchard leaned inside the open cab window and shined a heavy-duty flashlight at Danny. Getting no response, he hit Danny’s shoulder with the butt of the light. “Wake up and get out of the truck! You’re under arrest, punk.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Reba smiled as she unbraided her hair. She knew she was the subject of much talk around the village, but she didn’t care. She was happy. The feeling was like a long-forgotten song that had suddenly come to mind, filling her soul to over-flowing with its sweet melody. Losing Jimmy was a lonesome ache that was as constant as the seasons and, over the years, had become a jealous guardian of her heart. She’d had many opportunities for romance since Jimmy’s death, but no one had ever been able to undo the restraints that tied her heart to the past. All that changed when Sam Matthews came to the village. He’d brought such an unexpected joy to her life that she refused to let old memories, no matter how good, ruin her new-found happiness. She had no idea where their relationship might lead, but she was willing to let the melody ring on.

  Oscar and Danny had both voiced their disapproval of how friendly she’d become with “that government man” and none of the villagers were going out of their way to include her in any of their gatherings or every day interactions. Since it was customary, she went berry picking with the rest of the women today. The lively conversation she was used to during the outing was subdued. At least she hadn’t become an outcast. Her role as village healer saved her from such a fate, but the chattering ravens still caused her difficulties. Reba understood the reasons they were distancing themselves from her. The last time someone from the village had become involved with a white person had caused a lot of grief. The ensuing scandal still caused the villagers problems from time to time. They had to look no further than Sheriff Pritchard when pointing fingers.

  She couldn’t blame the villagers for being wary of her relationship with Sam. Despite the happiness he’d brought into her life, she was wary, too. It was hard for her to trust a shuyapu, but he seemed so different from the tourists who came to the village to buy salmon or attend their powpows. Standing up to Sheriff Pritchard couldn’t have been an easy thing to do. If nothing else, Sam had protected her honor when the sheriff called her a squaw. For that she would be forever grateful. Anything more would be a blessing.

  When she was through brushing her hair, Reba finished cleaning up. She was tired after the long day of berry picking, but it was a good tired. Despite the strained relations with the other women, she’d enjoyed herself. Berry picking was one of her favorite activities and there were plenty of opportunities available. From the early summer elderberries to the fall blackberries, there was always some kind of berry growing in abundance in the nearby low hills. Huckleberry time was a major social event, but not as much as it was in days gone by. Oscar said that when he was a youngster his family and others would load up horses and wagons and move to the mountains.

  Everyone picked, and as baskets were filled, the men would build a fire for drying the berries. Screens were laid across logs near the fire’s edge and the berries were poured out onto the screen. The berries were turned with a long wooden spoon made especially for this purpose. When the berries were sufficiently dried, they were transferred to another screen, cooled and finally stored in baskets. The huckleberry leaves were also collected and dried for tea. This berry-picking event would last several weeks.

  Nowadays, it was just the women who gathered the berries and brought them back to the village for processing while the men stayed behind to fish. The times had changed, but Oscar’s stories kept the past alive. Reba wondered if some day Danny would tell his grandchildren how he’d fished when Celilo Falls was still a raging torrent overflowing with sacred, life-giving salmon. Would he recall the past with fondness, as Oscar did or would his bitterness overshadow all the good they’d known? She knew the answer and it made her sad every time she thought about it. The good mood she’d had earlier was close to slipping away when a knock at the door diverted her musings.

  When she opened the door, Walter greeted her without the usual smile he was known for. This was not a good sign. “Danny’s not here,” she said. It wasn’t unusual for her son to be out all night, and sometimes she didn’t see him for days at a time. She was used to his absences even though she still worried about his safety. His fight with the government had attracted a lot of dangerous attention.

  “I know,” he said. “I’d have come sooner, but Danny said you’d be berry picking all day.”

  “What happened?” she asked. Walter’s grim-faced explanation didn’t do anything to reassure her. Oh, Danny. I knew your anger would bring trouble. Reba had a lot of confidence in her healing skills, but she knew she’d never be able to calm the fury that raged within her son’s heart. Hearing that he’d been arrested was bad enough, but to think he was in pain was almost more than she could bear. “How is he hurt?” she asked. At least she could mend his bones, if necessary.

  “He might have broken his leg when the marker fell on him.”

  Reba hadn’t ventured into town for many years, not since Jimmy was killed on the street by two drunks. She’d gone in search of Danny’s dog, Tito, that time and vowed that she’d never return. The Dalles held nothing for her. Sam had tried to coax her into goin
g to a movie or to dinner with him, but she’d always refused. She knew he didn’t understand her reluctance since she couldn’t bring herself to talk about Jimmy’s murder. She couldn’t even explain why she’d never set foot in the Granada Theatre. Her cousin had been in full-dress army uniform when he went to the movies after serving in the war. He’d just settled into his seat when the usher ordered him to get up. “No Injuns can sit here,” he barked. “Balcony only for your kind.”

  Reba bit her lip as she pondered what to do. Meeting up with Sheriff Pritchard at the jail would be difficult. Without Sam to protect her, she would be at the sheriff’s mercy. The thought was disturbing, but her son’s plight was even more disturbing. “Take me to Danny,” she said.

  The closer they got to The Dalles, the more nervous Reba became. She knew she’d made the right decision to come to town, but she questioned whether the sheriff would let her help Danny. She’d brought her medicine bag and the necessary supplies to set his leg if it was truly broken. As worried as she was about Danny, she couldn’t help but notice how much the town had changed since she’d last been there. Driving down Front Street toward the courthouse, she counted a string of new businesses that had sprung up during the recent boom years. She noted with some satisfaction that none of the windows carried signs prohibiting Indians. Her satisfaction was short-lived when they arrived at the courthouse. A crowd had gathered on the steps carrying signs of some sort. Walter told her they were protestors. This did not sound good for Danny. “What are they protesting?”

  Walter shrugged, “Same ol’, same ol’: us.” He told her he’d find a parking spot in the alley behind the courthouse. There was a back entrance they could use that would be safer, given the circumstances. Once inside, he led her downstairs to the jail. She was grateful that Walter knew his way around the white man’s territory, but it wasn’t a comforting thought. They didn’t fit in and never would. Sheriff Pritchard proved her point when they entered his office. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

  Walter said, “We’ve come to see Danny.”

  “Visiting hours are over.”

  “Sheriff, please,” said Reba. “We’re not here for a visit.” She held up her medicine bag. “I’ve been told he’s injured. I’d like to take care of him.”

  “The kid’s okay. He don’t need no tender loving care from his mama.”

  “Five minutes,” Walter said. Give us five minutes to check him over. If he’s okay as you say, we’ll leave.”

  Pritchard lit a cigarette as he considered the request. “Five minutes,” he said, exhaling smoke. “But I’ll have to inspect that so-called medicine bag first.”

  Reba handed it over.

  After making an elaborate show of ensuring that she wasn’t sneaking any contraband into Danny’s cell, the sheriff said, “All right.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette and narrowed his eyes. “Just so you understand, I’m not obligated to let you anywhere near my prisoners. So, don’t try any funny stuff while you’re back there. I won’t be able to guarantee your safety if that crowd outside thinks you’re up to no good.”

  Walter and Reba followed him to Danny’s cell before he could change his mind. The hallway was dirty and dark, the floor stained with something sticky, while the odor of urine and sweat permeated the confined space. A crushing despair gripped Reba as she passed George’s cell. She’d steeled herself to cope with whatever situation she found at the jail, but seeing George and then Danny lying so still on his bunk scared her. He looked up as they entered the cell. His young face seemed older; perhaps it was due to his injury, but the anger he usually wore like a badge of honor was gone; in its place was a weary sadness.

  As soon as the sheriff had locked them inside, he said, “Remember, only five minutes.” Turning to leave, he looked at Walter and issued a final warning, “And don’t give me no trouble or—”

  “We get it,” Walter said. “Or you can’t be responsible for what happens to us.”

  Sheriff Pritchard shot him a cold look, “You’ve been warned.”

  As soon as he left, Reba rushed to Danny’s side. He sat upright when she touched his shoulder. As mother and son embraced, he said, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t have to say more. Reba knew his heart. Her son was ashamed that he’d caused her worry, but grateful that she’d had the strength to come for him. It occurred to her then that they were both warriors. No matter how impossible the battle, they would never give up. She embraced him again and whispered in his ear, “I’m proud of you, Danny. Always.”

  “Hey, brother,” Walter said, as Reba examined Danny’s injuries, “How’re you doing?”

  “A little tired is all.”

  To Reba, “How’s his leg look?”

  “Some bad bruising and a sprained ankle, but no broken bones.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Good for now,” Danny said, “But I can’t be responsible for later.” He glanced at his mother and then winked at Walter.

  Reba sighed, but said nothing. Hadn’t her son learned anything from his arrest? She had no doubt that his comment meant he was thinking of another dangerous plan. And, as usual, Walter was more than willing to follow his lead.

  “Are we clear about that, Walter?”

  His friend laughed. “Crystal!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sam checked his wristwatch for the third time in five minutes. His meeting with the California contractor selected for the reburial project was scheduled to begin half an hour ago. Frustrated and sweltering in the afternoon sun, Sam got out of his over-heated pickup to seek some shade while he waited. It was a fruitless search. The site of the new cemetery, to be called Wish-Ham, didn’t have one tree or even a tall shrub to offer. The grounds were located alongside Highway 14, a barren, desolate patch of nothingness that had been deemed appropriate for the mission by the powers that be.

  The hubris of the U.S. government embarrassed Sam, but there wasn’t a dang thing he could do about it. When the Indian tribes objected to Baker Bluff because of the blood that had been spilled there, Sam had pushed his superiors to select his second choice for the gravesite. It wasn’t as good as the Baker property, but it was a lot better than this dried-up wasteland. The only thing going for the highway site was the dirt-cheap price, which had settled matters. Sam, like the Indians, would have to accept it whether he liked it or not.

  Leaning against the side of his pickup, Sam checked his watch once again. He’d hoped that the meeting would be almost over by now. If the contractor didn’t show up soon, Sam wouldn’t have time to go out to Celilo Village. He always had some excuse for his frequent visits to the village, but there was only one reason that mattered: Reba. He couldn’t count the number of times he and Ellie had been invited to a Hillcrest neighbor’s house for dinner. There was always an extra lady at the table who just happened to be single. It embarrassed Ellie and irritated Sam. It was Reba he wanted to have dinner with. He’d asked her several times to accompany him to town for dinner and a movie, but she’d always refused. She didn’t have to explain why; he understood her reluctance—bridging the cultural gap between her world and his wasn’t easy. He couldn’t speak for her, but he was willing to keep trying.

  Sam looked up each time a car approached, in hopes that it was driven by William Gross. He checked his watch again as another car barreled past. It was too hot to be waiting out here much longer. If the contractor didn’t show up soon, he’d pack it in. A loud buzzing like a million bees on a murderous rampage caused Sam to look skyward. Within moments, the source of the frenzied, whirring noise was apparent. The California contractor had arrived.

  “Damn,” muttered Sam, grabbing hold of his hat. He didn’t realize Gross would come to their meeting in the helicopter. The unusual sight was boun
d to attract unwanted attention. Several cars had already stopped alongside the highway to watch it land. Although he’d talked with Gross by telephone, this was the first-time Sam had seen him or the yellow-tailed craft that would transfer the Indians’ remains from Memaloose and Graves Islands. Dubbed “Operation Whirlybird,” Sam and Gross had estimated that the process of transporting the Indians’ bones would take two days, possibly three, followed by a ceremony the Indians had planned on the last day. After Gross shut down the engine and hopped out, the men shook hands, and exchanged a brief word about the weather. “Hotter than the hinges of Hell,” complained Gross. For a California man, Sam guessed he wasn’t much of a sun worshipper. He had a pale, round face that, while sweaty, was as smooth as a baby’s butt. He was younger than Sam had expected, maybe twenty-five or so with an easy smile and firm handshake. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face while Sam eyed the crowd. They’d exited their vehicles now and were gawking at the impressive machine from the edge of the road. Sam suggested they get down to business before the gawkers became too much of a bother.

  The agreed upon logistics were straightforward: beginning at nine o’clock Friday morning next, the first two of the 170 newly constructed pine boxes containing the remains would be strapped to the landing skids of the flying rig for transport. “I figure I can make four to five trips an hour carrying two boxes on each trip,” said Gross.

  Sam advised him that the first half of the project would start at Graves Island. “The most ancient graves are located there,” he explained.