“You can't have it both ways, Mr. Livingston,” Glenn said, stepping up. “I don't know much about Indian legend. But I know and trust my friends. Abeque was right, I saw these things. The man I was with was killed. I barely escaped with my life. I believe there is a battle that must be waged, and I know my place is beside the Indian fighting this evil. You face the same question, sir. But yours goes deeper; whether or not you believe in your own legends. There's either a fight that needs to be fought or there isn't. If there isn't, California is where you left it. If you believe the words of your ancestors, you must answer them. But if there is a fight against these creatures, it must be fought by all.”
The mood of the crowd was shifting, it was palpable. The outfitter felt led to help it along.
“The little people,” Two Ravens said, raising his voice to be heard. “We call them the Ninimbe. You call them by different names. But all of our people know these creatures.” Urged by the oldest among them, the crowd grew silent again and gave their attention to the outfitter. “The Umatilla call them the Stick Indians. To the Choctaw, they are Kowi Anukasha. The Cherokee call them the Rock People. To the Crow, Nirumbee or Awwakkule. The Nez Perce refer to them in whispers as Itśte-ya-ha.”
Two Ravens pointed into the crowd. “You, you of the Northern Paiute, you call them Nu'numbi.” Several in the crowd nodded an acknowledgment. The outfitter turned and pointed at another clutch of men. “You of the Gosiute, your people call them the Toyanum.” They reluctantly agreed they did.
“The Bannock,” Two Ravens said, “You call them –”
“Ninimpi,” a voice in the throng admitted, cutting him off. “Yes.”
Two Ravens pointed again. “To the Paiute they are the U-nu'-pits.”
“We know them,” a Paiute medicine man replied. “We do believe in them.”
“As I said, my people, the Eastern Shoshone, call them Ninimbe. The Algonquian and Abeque's people, the Arapaho, call them Nimerigar. It matters not your tribe or your language. Each of you know them and have given them a name. They are the demon people of the mountains; the tiny people eaters. They are Nemesis to all of our nations.”
Two Ravens looked to Glenn asking with his eyes if the ranger had anything to add.
Glenn turned to the crowd. “Lew and I are both convinced; Abeque and Two Ravens have convinced us we are in grave danger. One of your legends has come to life. They are maniacal killers and they don't care about race, sex, politics, or history. All of us are threatened by these creatures. We must put aside our differences.” Glenn touched his chest. “Anglo-Saxon.” He stretched a hand toward Frowning Fred. “American Indian.” He caught Lew out of the corner of his eye, smiled, and added, “Even a fine lady of Polish descent. All of us, men and women, are met here for a life changing reason. We must come together as one.”
“You talk a good talk,” Fred said. “But white men talking a good talk to Indians is nothing new.”
“We are not here for a new reason,” Two Ravens said. “We are here for a reason that is very old. The little people have escaped the Underworld. They are amassing provisions. They are conquering and killing, taking land they believe is theirs, trying to reclaim a chief they lost in battle two hundred and fifty years ago. It is their intention to kill the world back into the Stone Age when they ruled all. If we don't stop them here, they will continue to move outward. They will come to you.”
Beginning with the holy men, branching out to the others, the threat was suddenly real.
“The Earth cries,” Two Ravens said. “The little people are among us. History tries to repeat itself. We must act. We must write a new ending as one or die as many alone.”
Chapter 39
For some time, the activities of Glenn and Two Ravens had taken the story well away from Yellowstone, to Oregon, California, Nevada, Arizona, and beyond, which isn't to say things weren't happening in the nation's oldest National Park. They most certainly were. A heightened and completely unscheduled schedule of minor seismic events continued to rattle the condiment containers of the concessionaires throughout the park. The thermal features, the famed geysers, continued to belch both on time and off. Protesters had virtually surrounded the Administrative building at Mammoth until Superintendent Michael Stanton had no choice but to have them physically removed to the parking lot, where their protests started anew. Yellowstone Forever, read that Priscilla Wentworth, was still clinging to that same superintendent like a boil that wouldn't drain. Sleepless and haggard, poor Stanton was popping aspirin like candy Pez.
Wentworth was there now, in Stanton's office, waving a fresh sheet of paper at him, a newly printed copy of her group's latest, revised demands.
When Althea stuck her pretty nose into the office, announced that Chief Ranger Glenn Merrill was waiting outside, and asked if the superintendent would see him, Stanton said simply, “Yes, of course.” But he was thinking, Yes! It's about time! Dear God, yes! Glenn, help me!
“Glenn,” Stanton said, meeting his head ranger at the door. “Come in, please. You remember Ms. Wentworth from the other day, from before, of Yellowstone Forever?”
“Certainly, I remember. How are you?”
“I'm not happy,” the pinched blonde replied. “There've been no actions taken on my organization's demands, none at all, and I'd like to know why.”
All of his training might have kicked in just then. He might have responded as the well-trained, promoted, decorated, Yount-awarded Chief Ranger he was. But Glenn just wasn't feeling it. Instead, he took a moderately deep breath and said, “Because, Ms. Wentworth, I don't take you seriously.”
You would have needed some sort of measuring device, if such a tool existed, to determine the winner in the gasping contest that both Wentworth and Stanton entered at that moment. They nearly sucked their own faces inside-out. When they managed a breath of air, Wentworth cried, “I beg your pardon?” at the same time Stanton shouted, “Glenn!”
The ranger waved them both away. “Stay in your seats.”
“You,” Glenn said, pointing at his boss. “Have simply let this go on too long.” He turned the deadly finger on the president of Yellowstone Forever. “And you have disrupted this park too long. You're in the way of my people, trying to do their jobs effectively. And you're in the way of the people, trying to see and enjoy their National Park. If you have half the respect and concern for Yellowstone that you claim to have, you will knock it off posthaste.”
Flabbergasted, Wentworth waved her sheet of paper. “I have very clear demands–”
“Ridiculous demands that will not begin to address the concerns you say you have. Astronomically expensive demands that, if implemented, would break the taxpayers' backs. Ludicrous demands that, if implemented, would keep those same taxpayers out of the park you're forcing them to fund. Demands, incidentally, that a careful reading shows would give you and your chosen carte blanche at the same time it excludes everyone else. And why? Because there's a big volcano here that you tell everyone is in imminent danger of eruption.”
“It is!”
“Geologically speaking, you may or may not be right. If you're wrong…” Glenn blew a raspberry. Wentworth crushed her lips into a fine line not to give him the satisfaction of another gasp. Stanton just took a deep breath to reinforce his brand new poker face. “If, on the other hand, you're absolutely dead on right, that means that massive eruption will come anytime between now…” Glenn looked at his watch. “And one hundred and fifty thousand years from now, give or take a few decades; with the latter being more likely. That would give you, and your kids and, probably, their kids, quite a nice little play area, without all those pesky people that are paying for it, until the big one hits.”
Rising, Wentworth hissed, “You're going to regret these nasty cracks.”
“They're not cracks.”
“Glenn, I think you should–”
The ranger again waved his boss into silence. “I got this.”
“You don't “got” me!” We
ntworth exclaimed. “But I've got a seismic expert, with friends in New York and Washington, who says differently.”
“Have you?” Glenn demanded.
“Of course I have. You met him, you hater! Professor Avondre Hollo. And he says–”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“What are you talking about? He is firmly in our camp and says–”
“He's dead!” Glenn let it hit her – like an earthquake. “Perhaps you've been too busy typing fresh copies of your demands and passing out Kool-Aid to your hired protesters to have been informed. Professor Hollo and three others, three young Indians from the Wind River Reservation, were killed several days ago in an area northeast of here called Slough Creek.”
Wentworth dropped back into her chair looking suddenly lost.
“To aid the investigation,” Glenn went on. “For now, certain details are being kept from the public.”
Life returned to her eyes. “A cover-up?” she asked, between gritted teeth.
“If it were, it would only help you at this juncture.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“There was a survivor, an Arapaho girl, who says Professor Hollo paid their group to guide him to Slough Creek to find a gold mine.”
Wentworth stared incredulously. Stanton added his stare from the other side of his desk. Glenn met both, then continued. “Would you like to explain why your hired expert, paid by grant money and donations, spent those funds on a hunt for gold in southwest Montana? If not to me, because I know you don't like me, there are plenty of reporters loitering around your protesters. Maybe you could explain it to them.”
Priscilla Wentworth did explain it to the media when she left Stanton's office a few minutes later. She issued a short statement, thanking her supporters, her gathered protesters, and her prophets of doom, and thanking the Yellowstone Administration for being so receptive. Her organization had, she told the part of the world that was interested, met its goals on this occasion. They would continue to work for the betterment of the park and all of the creatures, animal and human alike, that passed through her borders.
Stanton was elated, beside himself. Though he wasn't entirely happy with the way his chief ranger had gone about it, he couldn't thank Glenn enough for the results.
Glenn told him not to bother. “You'll probably be taking it back in a minute.”
The grin fell from Stanton's face like antelope dung hitting the prairie. “What do you mean? Why?”
In answer, Glenn pulled the door to Stanton's office wide open, revealing the corner of Althea's desk and, beyond, the chairs where Two Ravens, Abeque, and Lew sat waiting for an audience.
Chapter 40
As the three entered Stanton's office, Glenn looked for a reaction from his boss. A bead of sweat formed at the widow's peak of Stanton's hairline and the chief ranger wondered if this was going to be too much for him at one time. Truth be told, Stanton was under an equally crushing pressure – and had less information with which to deal with it. Give him his due, the superintendent smiled politely and extended a hand to the outfitter as he entered.
“You remember Johnny Two Ravens?” Glenn asked.
“Of course.” They shook. “Good to see you again.”
Stanton's eyes floated to Abeque. They paused overlong, as eyes tended to do, stunned by her beauty, as eyes tended to be. The moment might have escaped being awkward had Lew not been there. But she was. Stanton turned beet red and his bead of sweat began to run. The seismologist grabbed his hand, shaking and smiling, enjoying his discomfort immensely and looking forward to mentioning it at some point in the future when it suited her needs. Two Ravens had come away with a jolly himself; an eyeful of the Indian princess shaking hands with the white park superintendent. All in all, it was a great start to what promised to be an unforgettable meeting.
Glenn introduced the new problem by highlighting the list of troubles that had been plaguing the park. With Two Ravens interjecting, where appropriate, he gave Stanton as much truth as it was thought he could handle. Then Glenn turned it over to Abeque to make the formal request. The ranger and the outfitter were both amazed at her demeanor. She was as calm and collected as if she'd been ordering take-out from her favorite restaurant.
“I want to thank you again for your time, Mr. Stanton,” she offered. “Quite frankly, I find it sad we need even discuss this with you because we are talking about affairs that really are of no concern to the federal government.” It was clearly a shot, delivered across the bow, but in such a diplomatic fashion it was difficult to take offense.
“You see, all of the tribes of the Great Basin will be coming to Wyoming in order to deal with the Indian difficulties. However, before they can come, it will be necessary for each to meet at their appointed holy places for ceremonial purposes.”
She was good. Her soft features, gentle voice and pleading eyes had Stanton mesmerized. He suddenly found himself leaning forward on his desk as if they were the only two in the room. He sat upright, looked to Lew with another blush, and pushed himself back in his chair. The seismologist smiled again. One day, she'd have a blast with the ammo she was collecting.
“The reason we're here regarding these matters,” Abeque continued, “is that each of the sacred sites for the many tribes have been confiscated by the government through the Department of the Interior and, specifically, the Park Service. Apparently we need your permission… to do the things we've done for millennia without your permission.”
Stanton took a deep breath, exhaled even more deeply as if he'd been deflated, and looked to Glenn with eyes that begged the question, 'Really?' The ranger nodded, making no effort to help him off the hook. The superintendent turned to Abeque. “I certainly understand your dilemma, Miss, but I'm afraid there's really nothing I can do for you. I do not have the authority to grant you permission for activities, any activities, in another unit of Interior.” He glared at the chief. “Glenn, knows that.”
“I do,” Glenn said. “But what you can do is grease the skids for us; fast-track this business. You know the other supers and you are highly respected.”
“That's not going to happen,” Stanton said through clenched teeth. “You know the rules. Even if you do have a hard time following them.” Glenn bit his tongue. Stanton's face reddened deeper, this time without embarrassment to help it along. “We have a public trust. And our public goes far beyond the Indian Nations. Besides there's already been an official decision regarding Indian ceremonies at Jenny Lake down in Grand Teton National Park.”
Stanton pointed an accusing finger at Two Ravens. “Your tribe asked permission to hold a Sun Dance claiming they haven't held one for over a hundred and thirty years on that sacred ground. The Park Service is turning down the request. The ceremony would cause environmental damage; not to mention the lack of adequate resources for the event to be legal. Permission denied, argument over.”
He returned his glare to Glenn. “We're not opening that can of worms again.” His voice cracked. He was drowning in sweat. “We're not going to open this debate in a half dozen other locations. And I'm certainly not going to 'grease the skids' for my own pink slip.”
“Wait a minute,” Glenn said, raising his voice.
“NO,” Stanton yelled. “We're done!”
“Michael,” Lew said. Everyone turned. She and the superintendent made eye contact and held it. Then she turned to Glenn. “Chief, would the three of you give us a few minutes, please?”
A few was all she needed. When summoned back into the office, Glenn, Two Ravens, and Abeque entered silently but hopefully.
Stanton stood looking out the window. As they filtered back in and took their seats, he took a moment longer at the glass then turned and leaned on his desk. The anger had left his expression, the red was fading. For that alone, Glenn was relieved; they'd brought his old friend, partner, and boss kissing close to a heart attack. Whatever, specifically, the lady seismologist had said or asked, she'd apparently made it a person
al request, and Stanton could not merely brush Lew off.
“This conversation,” the superintendent said, “never took place.” He looked to Glenn and, very slowly, said, “If anyone ever finds out it did, you and I will be standing together in the soup lines.”
He pulled a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I cannot, and will not, talk with anyone in the other units about your request. Neither will any of you.” He paused, considering his words. “If you intend doing this, keep it quiet and make it happen. I do not support your cause. But I will hear nothing and I will see nothing. Now get out of my office.”
The group had wanted more. They'd wanted Stanton's help. But they were willing to accept his concession. That said, Glenn hadn't finished spoiling the super's day.
“Michael,” the chief ranger said. “Sit down, will you.”
“Huh?”
“Sit down, please.”
Stanton did, hesitantly, on the edge of his seat. He raised a questioning and tired brow at the chief ranger.
“The question of the tribal rites was vitally important and we do appreciate your… concession. But that wasn't the only matter we needed to see you about. It's just the beginning. There's more.” Glenn didn't want to say the rest any more than the superintendent wanted to hear it.
Stanton was about to freak out.
Chapter 41
Clouds hung low over the mountains on the western shore of Lake Tahoe, Nevada, the setting sun turning their uppermost edges blaze orange. Below the profiled visage of 'The Lady of the Lake' on the opposite shoreline, only the soft breeze and gentle lapping of water against the rounded, water-worn rock could be heard. High above, on the summit of De-ek Wadapush, the silence was only broken by the crackling sound of torches set by those in attendance. With the last of daylight disappearing quickly, the flickering light cast dancing shadows on the jagged volcanic rock at their feet and reflected an odd rainbow from the black, green, yellow, and gold lichen painted on their rough, ancient surfaces.
Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2) Page 21
