DURING THE NEXT few days the federal and county investigations into the murder of Seth Masterson produced evidence that seemed to aim at only one conclusion: Johnny American Horse’s odyssey into the Garden of Gethsemane was just beginning.
The AR-15, the civilian equivalent of the military-issue M-16 rifle Darrel McComb had found on the hillside, was stenciled with Johnny American Horse’s fingerprints. In addition, the call made to Seth Masterson’s cell phone, supposedly by Amber, was traced back to Johnny’s house. There was another problem, too-Johnny had no alibi.
He claimed to have been building a chimney of river stones for a rancher, up the Blackfoot, at the time of Seth’s murder. But he had been working by himself and he could provide no witness to corroborate his story. His explanation about the presence of his fingerprints on the AR-15 presented other complications. Johnny told both the FBI and the investigators from the sheriff’s department of the man who had tried to sell him an AR-15 out of a panel truck. But the two boys who worked for him could not identify the kind of rifle Johnny had been handed by the driver of the truck, and neither of them remembered Johnny picking up an ejected shell from the dirt, which was the only explanation-provided Johnny was innocent-for the fact that a latent on a.223 cartridge fired from the murder weapon was Johnny’s.
By Wednesday of the following week he had been questioned at least five times by federal agents. He came into my office just before noon, wearing frayed jeans and a black shirt with silver stripes in it, his coned-up straw hat clenched in his hand, his face pinched with anger.
“You okay?” I said.
“Two agents just rousted me in front of the courthouse. I told this one guy he puts his hand on me again, he’ll wish he stayed in college.”
“You told that to an FBI agent?”
“I don’t know who he was. Just get them away from me.”
“Make a stop at the watering hole this morning?”
“So what?”
“It’s what your enemies want you to do, Johnny. If you want to really tie the ribbon on the box, punch out a federal agent.”
“I told them the truth. A guy tried to sell me the AR-15. Somebody got in my house and used my phone to set up this guy Masterson. These guys can’t figure that out? Nobody’s that stupid.”
“You’re not under arrest. That means they haven’t reached any conclusions. Give them a break. Maybe they’ll surprise you.”
Wrong words. “Why would I kill an FBI agent in my own house? What if Amber had been there? She’d probably be dead too,” he said.
“Sit down,” I said.
He started to argue again, his eyes hot, a smell like fermented fruit on his breath. But I cut him off. “All this goes back to that research lab Amber and your friends broke into,” I said. “Seth Masterson went to your house to try to persuade you and Amber to give up the computer files that were stolen from Global Research. It cost him his life.”
“I can’t help that,” he replied.
I could feel my own temper rising now. “We’ll talk later,” I said.
“You ever see photographs of Saddam Hussein’s mustard gas attacks on the Kurds back in eighty-eight? Our government armed that motherfucker.”
“I’m not making the connections here, but I think you’re charging at windmills, partner,” I said.
“Tell that to the friends of mine who were killed in Iraq.”
“Seth was my friend, Johnny. He died trying to help you. But I don’t think you’re hearing that.”
He wiped at his nose with the backs of his fingers, his eyes narrowing. “Nobody cares,” he said.
“Cares about what?”
“What they’re doing to the earth, what they’re doing to the human race, what they’ve done to Indian people for three hundred years. You don’t see it, Billy Bob. In your way you’re part of it.”
“I think I’ve had about all of this I can take in one day,” I said.
“I’m letting you off the hook on my bond. A couple of tribal bail bondsmen are taking it over.”
“That’s the way you want it?” I said.
“Yeah, that’s the way I want it,” he said.
“Maybe you should seek other counsel while you’re at it.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” he said.
“Vaya con Dios,” I said.
IT HAD BEEN a bad way to end a conversation with a man whose causes I admired. But Temple and I had put up our ranch as surety for Johnny’s bond, and his cavalier and ungrateful attitude about the risk we had incurred made me wonder about my own sanity. I also wondered if I had become one of those people who needed to hurt both himself and his family in order to convince himself of his own integrity.
Maybe it was time to make a clean break with Johnny and his ongoing self-immolation. I told that to Temple at lunch. “Giving up on water-walkers?” she said.
“I didn’t say he was a water-walker.”
“Yeah, you did. That’s why you won’t let go of him, either.”
“Watch me,” I said.
She chewed a piece of salad, raised her eyebrows, and looked innocently out the window.
BUT JOHNNY WASN’T the only person for whom events were going out of control. Darrel McComb had to explain why he was following an FBI agent when supposedly he was pursuing a lead on the two men who had assaulted Wyatt Dixon. He also had to explain how he had gotten involved in a firefight, one that had left the agent dead, without calling for backup. Instead of being cited for bravery, he received a formal letter of reprimand in his jacket. He was also put on the desk until Internal Affairs concluded an investigation into the shooting.
But oddly enough, his receiving recrimination rather than commendation seemed to lift a burden from him. I saw him in front of the drugstore on West Broadway that afternoon, eating from a bag of lemon drops while he gazed at a pair of hang gliders floating on the windstream above Mount Sentinel.
“Sorry about your bud,” he said.
I nodded and didn’t reply.
“Take a lesson from me, Holland,” he continued. “If you work your heart out for the G, if you hump a sixty-pound pack and an M-60 in a hundred-degree jungle with ants crawling inside your skivvies, if you’re a good cop who has to get by on speed and booze because broken glass is chewing up your guts, you eventually come to a philosophic conclusion about the realities of life out there in Bongo-Bongo Land: We’re not only expendable, we’re the people nobody even wants to hear about.” He smiled and cracked a lemon drop between his molars.
“You mean nobody cares?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“It’s funny you put it that way, because Johnny American Horse told me the same thing today.”
“I got news for American Horse. He’s going down for Masterson’s homicide. A done deal, my man.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“They’ve got the weapon, his latents, a phone call to Masterson originating at his house, and his lifetime record of throwing buffalo shit through window fans. You don’t believe the U.S. attorney is going to run a meat hook through both of this guy’s buns? Wow, why would they do a terrible thing like that?” He laughed out loud.
AFTER THE RAIN and heavy snowmelt in the spring, the weather had turned dry and hot, and fires had started to burn in Idaho. As I drove home from work that evening, the sky was hazy with dust and smelled of smoke, and freshly exposed rocks along Lolo Creek were white and webbed with river trash and the scales of dead insects. When I turned up the road that led to our ranch, locusts flew in clouds from the knapweed in the ditches and the normally beautiful evening seemed as stricken and poisonous as my thoughts.
I wanted to be gone from Johnny for many reasons-his messianic attitudes and his indictment of me as a white person being only a couple of them. From a legal and professional point of view, I was entirely justified in letting him go. I believed Johnny was knowledgeable about what could be considered an ongoing criminal conspiracy involving his wife and the Indians who had broken into Global Research. In the eyes of the Department of Justice these were ecoterrorists, and, as such, short shrift would be given them by the Office of Homeland Security. As an officer of the court, I had ethical obligations with which Johnny was not concerned.
Maybe it was a cheap and self-serving way to think, but any attorney who ends up in front of the bar or in jail because of his client probably deserves his fate.
I cut and watered the grass in the front and back yards, and scattered feed for the wild turkeys that came down from the hills in the evening to drink from the aluminum horse tank by the barn. But I couldn’t free myself from my problems of conscience about Johnny American Horse.
Then the phone rang inside and Johnny took me out of the box I had thought myself into-at least temporarily. “You’re hiring Brendan Merwood?” I said incredulously.
“He’s doing it pro bono,” he said.
“Merwood wasn’t conceived, he was poured out of a bottle of hair oil.”
“So he wheels and deals. He’s working for free. I’m not knocking it.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Maybe I don’t want to pull you down.”
“Merwood doesn’t do anything for free, Johnny.”
“Ever hear this one: What’s the difference between lab rats and lawyers? Lab rats have feelings. Just kidding. See you around.”
After he hung up I stared out the side window at the gloaming of the day, the horses in our pasture, the dry lightning that flickered above the hills. Temple came through the door with a bag of groceries. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
I told her of Johnny’s phone call.
“Maybe you should respect his decision,” she said.
“He’s doing it because he doesn’t want to hurt his friends.”
“Let it go, Billy Bob. For just once, stop protecting people from themselves,” she said. She began pulling heavy cans of peaches out of the sack and setting them down hard on the kitchen table.
THAT NIGHT I SLEPT without dreaming and woke at first light, rested and empty of thought or concern about the day or all the problems that had beset me the previous evening. Temple had been right, I told myself. It was time to let go of other people’s quixotic struggles and to enjoy the day and the work I did and all the fine gifts a cool morning can bring. A doe and her fawn were drinking at the horse tank. A raccoon was scraping sunflower seeds out of the bird feeder on the deck; the trees behind the house were full of birdsong. Life could be a poem, if you’d only let it, I thought. Why live in conflict and endless self-examination?
I kept that mood all the way to the office. I was still confident about my new attitude as I crossed the street to the courthouse. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of someone’s rubber-stoppered crutches thudding on the sidewalk behind me. “Slow down there, Brother Holland. I’m pounding my vitals to jelly trying to catch up with you,” a voice said.
“Don’t want to hear it, Wyatt,” I said.
But he cut me off at the corner, aiming one crutch at me like a pistol. “Got to have your hep. This is serious, counselor. Ain’t many people I can go to on this one,” he said.
I knew I would have no peace that day unless I heard him out. I sat down with him on a steel bench under a maple tree. He looked in both directions, his jaw hooked, his eyes perplexed. “I got word them two yardbirds that put a shank in me was up holed up with a vet’inary in Ronan. But when I got up there they’d done flown the coop,” he said.
“I’m not real interested in this anymore, Wyatt. Johnny American Horse is using another attorney now,” I said.
“Won’t change nothing for him. Won’t change nothing for me or you, either. You was baptized by immersion. Not only baptized the old-time way, you’re an honest-to-God believer. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Wyatt, but I don’t like you talking about my personal life.”
“They’re gonna come after me with guns and such. With you it’s probably gonna be different. They’re out there, counselor, probably watching us right now.”
“Who?”
“The ones working for this man Mabus.”
I tried to read his eyes. Perhaps he was insane, I thought, or he simply spoke out of the demented cultural mind-set that was characteristic of his class, called white trash in the South, a term that has much more to do with pathology than socioeconomic status. But I had come to learn that Dixon was not a stupid man. His lips were parted slightly, like strips of rubber pasted on his face, his empty eyes waiting for me to speak.
“Whatever cause you’re trying to enlist me in, I won’t be a part of it. You committed a vicious, unforgivable act against my wife. That’s never going away,” I said.
He let his hands hang between his thighs and stared at the sidewalk. Then he gathered up his crutches and got to his feet. “Tell Miss Temple I’m sorry. And you go to hell, counselor,” he said.
With that, he stepped off the curb into the traffic, jaywalking across the street to a café, jabbing a crutch into the door of a taxi that had blown its horn at him.
I COULD AFFORD to pay Lucas’s board and tuition at the university, where he had the improbable double major of music and dairy husbandry, but he would not allow it. Instead, he played several gigs a week at nightclubs and sometimes waited tables while carrying eighteen academic hours. His schedule took its toll, and often he was tired and barely able to stay awake when he came to dinner at our house.
But on Friday afternoon he was beaming as he came into my office.
“Win the lottery?” I asked.
“Pert’ near,” he replied, taking a torn envelope from his back pocket. “I got a full scholarship, all tuition and out-of-state fees paid, plus five hundred dollars a month living expenses.”
“How you’d pull that off?”
“Applied for every kind of financial assistance they got. This one just happened to come through.”
He handed me the awards letter. It was written on gold-and-silver-embossed stationery and was from a group called the Rocky Mountain Educational Foundation in Denver. “That’s great, Lucas,” I said.
“I’m taking y’all to dinner. The Golden Corral has got all-you-can-eat fish tonight,” he said.
“Sounds swell,” I said.
“Want to ask Johnny and Amber? I reckon they’re feeling pretty low these days.”
“I’m not Johnny’s attorney anymore.”
“Y’all have a blowup or something?”
“Johnny has his own time zone. I need to stay out of it.”
“You used to tell me a guy can have all the friends he wants when he’s in tall cotton. You always said your real friends are the ones who stick with you in hard times. When did you change your mind?”
A WEEK PASSED and still Johnny had not been charged in the death of Seth Masterson. I busied myself with other cases, fished in the evenings, and thinned out the trees and undergrowth around our house as we entered the fire season.
At sunset the heat rose from the ground and broke up in the wind, but even though the nights were clear and the stars bright, we could smell smoke lingering on the hillsides and see the glow of forest fires burning out of control in Idaho.
On the Fourth of July, Temple and I attended the Indian rodeo and powwow up on the res, ate buffalo burgers, fried bread, and snow cones, and watched hundreds of ceremonial dancers in heavy, feathered regalia perform in ninety-five-degree shade. I was sure I saw Johnny and Amber in the crowd, but when I waved they showed no sign of recognition.
Perhaps it was the heat and dust and the constant pounding by the elders on a giant rawhide drum, but I felt like a interloper at the ceremony, an effete sojourner little different from the tourists whose chief interest was buying Indian jewelry as cheaply as possible. After the dance ended, I tried to catch sight of Johnny and Amber amid the concession stands or by the rough stock pens adjacent to the bucking chutes.
Instead, I saw Wyatt Dixon perched atop a slat fence, his bad leg supported precariously, a solitary crutch balanced on his loins. His bare arms were red with sunburn, his face shaded by a white, lacquered, high-crown hat he wore low on his ears. He looked at me momentarily, then made a snuffing sound in his nose and turned his attention back to a couple of wranglers trying to load a bull onto a cattle truck.
I didn’t think Temple had seen him and I made no mention of his presence. But very little escaped her eye. “What’s with Dixon?” she said later.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie.”
“He came to see me a week ago. He’s got some notion I’m a river-baptized crusader or something. He said to tell you he was sorry for what he did.”
“You believe this guy’s horseshit?”
“No.”
“Then don’t tell me about it.”
We were in the parking area now. The air smelled of livestock and heat and dry manure, and the sun was red and veiled with dust over the western hills. “I can’t keep him from coming around,” I said.
“I can,” she said. “He’ll be the deadest ex-convict in the state of Montana.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Because Dixon can read you like a map. Your causes come before your family. Sometimes you break my heart.”
We drove home in silence. I believe it was the worst Fourth of July in my life.
THE NEXT MORNING was Saturday and I got up before Temple did, packed a lunch, and drove up Rock Creek, which is rated by outdoor magazines as one of the ten top trout streams in the United States. But I didn’t fish. In fact, I was not even sure why I was there, except for the fact the morning was cool, the woods deep in shadow, the riffle flowing over a smooth, pebbled creekbed streaked with green moss.
Soon I was back into my old, futile habit of trying to think my way out of conflict or worry. There was no doubt that Dixon had set the hook, either consciously or by accident. I was baptized at age nine under a canopy of hardwood trees that were turning to flame against the blue outline of the Ozark Mountains. The preacher who leaned me back under the water had a face like a horse and teeth like barrel slats. The water was spring-fed and cold, and my skin burned as though it had been held over a cool fire. I broke the surface gasping for air and my father wrapped me in his World War II Army shirt, one with an Indian-head Second Division patch on the sleeve, while the preacher clog-danced on a wood platform, Bible in hand, and the congregation thundered out “I Saw the Light.”
But perhaps the ritual was less important than what the preacher told me afterwards, or at least as I recall his words: “You done been joined in spirit to God, to earth, to sky, to water and trees. Jesus is your light, your sword and shield. There ain’t no place in his kingdom you don’t belong. You ain’t never got to be afraid again.”
But I cannot say my baptism made me a good Christian. I know for certain L. Q. Navarro and I killed at least seven men. I believe they deserved what they got and the world is a better place without them. But my latent desire for violent recourse did not die with them. The Hollands were violent people, going all the way back to our patriarch, Son Holland, who fought against Santa Anna at the Battle of San Jac-into. The penchant in our family for red-black rage and the shedding of blood lay as strong a claim on our souls as a genetic desire for alcohol. Except that drunkards are consumed by their own energies. The Hollands were not.
A helicopter flew by overhead, low over the canopy, filling the canyon with the roar of its blades. I watched it tip upward into the sunlight, climbing abruptly over a wooded hill, then circle back toward me, the pilot as tiny as a bug inside the Plexiglas. Deer and a moose spooked out of the trees, clattering over stone, then the helicopter lifted once again over a hill and was gone.
It was after 8 A.M. I called home on my cell phone, but Temple didn’t pick up. A family in a campground was cooking breakfast, and an old man and a young boy who was probably his grandson were fishing in a pool behind a beaver dam, the current cutting around the tops of their waders. The old man helped the boy unhook a rainbow and put it in his creel, then the two of them walked up on the bank and joined their relatives in the campground.
I thought of my own father and mother, both gone now, and the town in the Texas hill country where I had grown up, a place of green rivers, fried-chicken picnics, and downtown streets that still had elevated sidewalks with tethering rings set in them. I fed my packed lunch to a family of red squirrels and walked back toward my truck. The mystics may have found solace in the meditative life, but I think there are days when memory and solitude are not one’s friend.
I was only a short distance down the road when a black car with tinted windows cut me off and a second one pulled in behind me. Two men in suits and shades stepped out of the first car and approached both sides of my truck. The one closest to me opened his identification. “Mr. Mabus would like to invite you for coffee or a brunch,” he said.
Farther up the road a steel-gray limo was parked in the dappled shade of cottonwood trees. Beyond the trees, I saw the helicopter that had buzzed the creek sitting idly in an open field where the grass was turning yellow, the pilot smoking a cigarette.
“That’s a P.I. badge, partner. It doesn’t carry a lot of weight on a rural road in western Montana,” I said to the man at my window.
“Whatever you say, sir. But Mr. Mabus would like the pleasure of your company,” he replied. He was thick-necked, his blond hair neatly combed, his gaze focused down the road so as not to give the impression his eyes were being invasive behind his shades.
“Need you to move your vehicle,” I said.
“Yes, sir, we’ll gladly do that. Will you first walk over and speak to Mr. Mabus?” He removed his shades and tried to smile. His facial skin was like pig hide, his eyes dead-looking in the same way a barroom bouncer’s are.
“All right, brother,” I said.
He opened the door for me and continued to hold it while I got out on the road. “You want to take your hat, sir?” he asked.
“No, because I’ll be coming right back. Then we’ll have this bullshit behind us,” I replied.
He smiled again, his eyes unfocused.
But I was making a point to the hired help, a man for whom restraint was built into his paycheck. The very fact that I was approaching Karsten Mabus’s limo indicated I was accepting his imperious behavior. He pushed open the back door and waited for me to get in. He was dressed in the soft, earth-tone fabrics of a gentleman rancher or horse breeder, one arm propped across the top of the creamy, rolled leather seat. Two young women in pin-striped suits and white hose sat across from him, their knees close together, their hands folded in their laps. “Please join us for a late breakfast or an early lunch,” he said.
“Where do you get off bracing me on the road, Mr. Mabus?” I said.
“I don’t believe they did that, did they? It was meant to be an invitation. Congratulations on your son’s scholarship,” he said.
“How do you know about my boy’s scholarship?”
“I contribute to a few educational endowments. The paperwork floats across my desk sometimes.”
“You mentioned my father’s accidental death on a previous occasion. Frankly, I resent the hell out of your intrusiveness into my family’s history.”
“Let’s clear this up, Mr. Holland. I own several ranch properties in western Montana. Their worth is somewhere around one hundred million dollars. I plan to subdivide and put the property up for sale over a five-year period. I need a good local attorney to oversee those sales, not someone from New York or Los Angeles-someone like you, a fellow who knows cattle, horses, indigenous grasses, irrigation methods, and land values. These two ladies here looked into your background. That’s how I knew about the circumstances of your father’s death. My purposes were purely business-oriented and professional. I apologize if I gave you any other impression.”
His speech was husky, as though in spite of his wealth he was perhaps a shy man, a bit diffident, but sincere and forthright. “Get in. Please,” he said, opening his hand to me.
It was warm inside the cottonwoods, and insects were worrying my neck and eyes, a shaft of sunlight shining into my eyes. I sat down on the leather seat, inside the coolness and leather comfort of the limo. The perfume of the two young women smelled like flowers in a garden. “Can you handle another client?” he said.
“I’m a one-loop operation. You need a firm,” I replied.
He laughed. “I like the way you talk, Mr. Holland. I’d rather pay you six percent on those ranch sales than a bunch of fraternity fellows in Denver.”
I realized he was offering me a situation worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not eventually millions. I started to speak, but he cut me off. “I’ll tell you a fairly well known secret. Terrorists will attack us again. Every government official and everyone in federal law enforcement knows it. It will be large scale and aimed at another American city, perhaps several of them. When that happens, half of the West Coast will want to migrate to small towns in Montana, Idaho, and Utah. What do you think the value of this property will be then?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m not a speculator, Mr. Mabus. On that note I’m going to thank you for your offer and say good-bye.”
“What can I say?” he said, lifting his hands in good-natured surrender. “Have a fine day. I admire your principles. My guess is you’re a hell of a guy.”
He shut the car door behind me, then rolled down the window on its electric motor and snapped his fingers several times at the men who had stopped my truck. They climbed wordlessly into their vehicles and drove away, the dust from their wheels floating back into my face.