For precisely that reason, the Sagebrush Saloon was the favorite drinking establishment in town. It was a half block north of Main Street. Mike Tyson couldn't hit you hard enough to knock you into the park from there.
The Sagebrush was more than a bar. It was a social center, the social center. One of the first buildings hammered together in the early days of settlement; it held more reverence to some than the church on the hill. While early miners and trappers lived in wall tents or slept in the back of covered wagons, they could always warm their outsides, as well as their innards, at the Sagebrush Saloon.
To enter the saloon was to step back to a different time and place. The walls were weather-stained pine mostly in shadow as the sun stealing in from the lone front window couldn't reach the corners of the room. The few electric lights offered little help. The south wall was a mirror, fronted by stacked bottles, glasses, beer mugs, and a small hand-painted sign reading: Don't Spit on the Floor. Several feet out from the mirror, running the length of the room, stood the dark mahogany bar. Polished by years of beer soaked bar towels, dirty elbows, and the tears of heartsick patrons looking for advice from their favorite barkeep; the bar was the altar in Gardiner's church of life.
Long before the sun came up the Sagebrush coffee pot was on. The regulars rolled in early and helped themselves to a cup. They found their chairs around their tables. That is to say, their chair, the same chair, every morning, with the seat worn to fit the cheeks just so. It was a chair not available anywhere, for any price, in the outside world. The day would start when it got there. Until it did nothing happened without java.
Over biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs, cakes and sausage and hot black coffee they talked; and only the names changed. Who was doing what, who shouldn't have been doing it, and how the poor fool's wife was going to react when she found out just exactly what it was he was doing. It was a friendly, relaxed group of neighbors. They spoke the same language and said the same things, day in and day out in Gardiner, Montana.
This day, however, was different. This day those same, usually relaxed, people were black hornet mad. They were deathly afraid and, it appeared, their troubles weren't going away anytime soon. The bar stools had been pulled out from the altar, all the chairs were taken, and people filled the corners. They milled about talking, drinking coffee, cold soda or, in the case of a few, their first beer of the day. Latecomers squeezed in where room allowed.
Silas Miller was the mayor of Gardiner. His family had settled there when the town was only a notion. There were few old-timers left and it was only fitting he should run it. He asked John, the owner of the Sagebrush Saloon, for a roofing hammer. It made a good gavel and got everybody's attention. He put it to use, pounding on a short chunk of 2x4 so as not to mar the surface of the bar. “Looks like most everybody is here,” Silas said. “Let's get started.”
“I've got something to say,” came a shout.
Silas followed the booming voice to the back of the room. Then he frowned. “Dang it, Billy. Everybody's probably got something to say. Just rein it in a minute. I ain't ready to listen to you preach yet. I ain't had but one cup of coffee.”
There were spotty chuckles throughout the room. Billy Walton reddened a shade and settled back into his chair. Billy was a rancher. His livestock bore the Bar 7 brand; one of the first registered in the Montana Territory before it had even earned statehood. His was a proud heritage and there weren't many people he'd take a tongue lashing from. Silas was one of the few. He respected Silas.
There were fewer still that would cross trails with Billy, even when inclined to do so. He was a monster of a man, over six feet tall and rock hard. Four decades of throwing hay bales and wrangling horses would do that to you. Age had added a hint of a gut but no more. He was mostly muscled and mostly mean. Ask anyone, Billy had the disposition of a mad dog.
Silas poured his second cup of coffee, set the pot down on the bar, and addressed the crowded room. “For those of you who ain't quite up to speed, we had another bear killin' yesterday. He was a ranger; one of our hometown boys.”
The room grew silent as the severity of the situation settled on the minds of those present. Silas took a sip of coffee and surveyed the crowd. The people were depending upon him and he had to show some strength. He just wasn't sure he was up to it.
“Now,” Silas said, searching for the words. “We got a total of three dead people from bear attacks and the park has three dead bears. The Billings Reporter is callin' Yellowstone a war zone. I'm sure I ain't the only one that's seen traffic fallin' off. We have to talk about what we're gonna do or how we're gonna make the park do somethin'.”
Joe Caleb, the owner of the Gas & Go, stood with his hat in his hands. “Silas, have you talked to the park? What do they say?”
“I called the superintendent's office yesterday, after I heard about Bart,” Silas said. “Mr. Stanton wasn't in but his secretary told me they were doin' everything they could.”
“What does that mean,” Joe's wife stood as she spoke. Joe sat down. “Everything they could?”
“Probably not a blasted thing.” Billy was yelling again from the back of the room.
Silas ignored Billy. He reached for his coffee cup, spilled it across the bar, and muttered. Stan Harju waved Silas off and wiped the bar with the rag he carried in his back pocket for such occasions. Stan was one master bartender.
“I don't know what that means, Mary,” Silas said feeling inadequate. “Mr. Stanton hasn't called me back yet. Obviously the man is busy.” He immediately regretted defending the park superintendent. All indications were Stanton was in over his head, but that wasn't his problem. The people of Gardiner were his look out. “I'm expectin' him to call soon,” Silas continued. “In the meantime, we need to decide what, if anything, we can do.”
Mary Caleb, looking wholly unsatisfied with the answer she'd received, sat again.
“Silas, we've got to do something,” Tiny Tim Turner said. His calm manner and mousy voice made a liar of his 385-pound body. “My tour business is going straight into the toilet. Those two kids I've got working for me are afraid to go into the park anymore. Nobody wants to be bear bait but I've got a mortgage to worry about. Isn't there something we can do?”
Jim Bashford owned a gift shop two doors down from the Sagebrush Saloon. An elderly gentleman living out his retirement with a small business, he was respected for his wisdom and easy manner. “I think that we should all avoid going into the hills alone,” Jim said thoughtfully. “There is safety in numbers and we should take advantage of that.”
“Numbers didn't give that yuppie no edge,” Billy hollered. “Course, you can't expect much from yuppies.” He beamed at his own wit. When nobody else smiled he went on. “The park needs to suck it up and get rid of that bear.”
Janice Stapleton eyed Billy with contempt. Janice was new to Gardiner, a Florida artist moved to the mountains for inspiration. “Mr. Walton, it isn't the bear's fault. Killing it would be wrong. After all, they were here first.”
“What a bunch of bull,” Billy screamed. “Why don't you take your paint brushes and your high society attitude and move back where you came from.”
“That's enough, Billy,” Silas said. “We don't need to be arguin' amongst ourselves.”
“Well, for Pete's sake, Silas. Didn't you hear what she said?” Billy's disgust had him pleading. “It ain't the bear's fault. Well, whose fault is it then? If it was me killing folks like they were jackrabbits, bet she wouldn't waste any time stringing me from some big `ol tree!”
“She's entitled to her opinion, Billy,” Mary Caleb said. “Whether you agree with it or not.”
“Look, folks, can't we carry on like adults here?” Silas said. Tempers were getting too hot and he was feeling more like a referee than a mayor. “These are rough times but we've seen 'em before.” He sounded lame and Silas knew it. Why should they listen when he didn't believe it himself?
“Can't we go see the superintendent?” Stan asked. �
��You know, a bunch of us, Silas, not just you. Then he'll know we mean business and that we expect to see some results. They've trapped bears before. There ain't no reason they can't catch this one, is there?”
“That's a good idea.” The mayor laid his hand on the barkeep's shoulder. “We can put together some delegates and I'll set up a meeting.”
Tim came out of his chair as fast as his large frame would allow. He lost his balance momentarily and caught himself against the chair in front. “Meetings are fine, Silas,” he said. “But what am I supposed to do in the mean time? Isn't there something else we can do?”
“You bet there is,” Billy hollered, no longer able to contain himself. “We can take care of this grizzly problem ourselves. Everybody knows them tree huggers out of Washington have Stanton's oysters tied up in knots. If he isn't man enough to handle the problem, we got real men living up here. I ain't afraid of no bear and them greens can go straight to hell.”
“Just what, exactly, are you getting at?” Silas asked.
“What d'you think I'm gettin' at? Shoot, shovel, and shut up,” Billy said. “That's what I'm gettin' at? Or do you boys all have your oysters tied up too?”
“Silas,” Amy Johnston called out. She was a widowed mother of two young girls who'd already had all the grief a woman could stand. All she could think of just then were her girls playing in the yard with a murderous bear on the loose. “I think Mr. Walton might have a point.”
A hushed whisper followed her comment around the room. “No, Amy,” Silas said. “I understand your fear, I really do, but that's not the answer. We can't have everybody runnin' off half-cocked. Why, we'd end up shootin' each other every time somebody heard a creakin' stair or crackin' tree limb.” He turned to the rancher. “Besides, Billy, you know good and well the rangers would be on us like ducks on a June bug if they thought we was goin' to hunt down that griz.”
Billy stood towering over the crowd. Momentum was swinging to his side and he wasn't about to give up now. “First off,” Billy said, “I ain't talking about everybody. We all know Silas couldn't shoot a rabid dog. But I've got cattle to protect. Them grizzly are gonna run out of tourists and then they'll be looking for beef. There's too many bears around here anyway.”
Billy saw a few silent nods about the room and took encouragement.
“And I'll tell you right now,” he continued, “I ain't afraid of them no-good rangers. All them boys are is politicians with badges; and I hate politicians. They care more about their bunnies and bears than they ever gave a hoot about us working folks. I've had enough, and I'm going to do something about it. Now who's with me?”
“Wait a minute,” Silas said in desperation.
“No, you wait,” Billy hollered. “My family settled in this country before there ever was a park. My granddaddy killed lots of griz, and lots of wolves, too, making it safe for everybody that followed after. We cut a life out of this valley and I ain't about to let some hoity-toity from Washington D.C. come in here and tell me that my cattle are any less important than some worthless bear. To hell with the park! And to hell is where I'm going to send that bear!”
Billy stomped out the door of the Sagebrush Saloon into the drizzling rain.
He was fuming. To hell with them too, he thought, I don't need their help. When Billy Walton kills that murdering bear they'll change their tunes all right. They'll see… They will see.
Chapter 13
Fort Washakie lay south of Crowheart and for the most part, passed its time as uneventfully as every other reservation town, with the exception of Tribal Council nights. On those occasions, Indians from communities throughout the Wind River Reservation gathered in Fort Washakie to discuss the problems of business, and the problems of life, as they were unique to the reservation.
In the center of the meager Fort Washakie business district stood the Community House. It was a large, single story, concrete block structure. Truth be told, it looked more like a bomb shelter than a community center. As with most government projects, its construction had been funded and then forgotten. Maintenance had never been budgeted and any care the building received was from a proud few. Dollars were short but the building was a central point of self-respect for those who still cared about such things. Eggshell white paint must have been the bargain because that was the color chosen for both the exterior and interior of the Community House. Though it had been a number of years since its last fresh coat, it was nonetheless kept clean and had a quiet air of respectability. The concrete walkway at the front of the building was swept clean, the weeds had been pulled from the cracking asphalt parking lot, and the debris and garbage always carried on the wind had been policed from the grounds. The building was presentable and ready for the evening's meeting.
Two sets of gray steel double doors were the only entrances to the structure; one set squarely in the middle front of the building, the other its mirror image at the rear. The only other openings through the solid walls of symmetrical concrete blocks were two small, sliding-glass windows, one on each side of the front doors. Function, not fancy, had been the order of the day when this brainstorm was conceived and architectural genius was certainly not a necessity in designing this gift to the reservation people.
Upon entering the front doors one was greeted by a single, huge room lit by harsh, fluorescent bulbs strategically and precisely placed on the ceiling to assault the sensibilities of anyone and everyone who entered. To the far left and back corner were separate doors for the two rest rooms while a small alcove took up the remaining space in the front left corner. In this space stood a tiny folding card table upon which lay a half-dozen paper plates of home baked goodies; cookies of three varieties, brownies, and cupcakes. On the air was the sweet, delightful odor of banana bread, compliments of the Tribal Elders' wives.
Beside the plates were two pitchers of fruit drink and a stack of paper cups, simple but satisfying. Those in attendance could ill afford the luxury of treats in their regular diets but Tribal Council nights were special. They were not merely business meetings they were social gatherings. One of the few occasions when the people met their extended neighbors and brethren on their own turf, in their own time, and for their own purpose.
A tapestry, woven by the ladies of the town, hung colorfully on the far right wall. Though other adornments were found throughout the room, the tapestry was the atmospheric centerpiece.
When the building had first been put up, the government brought in a well-meaning but none too bright decorator to make the setting pleasing for the Council meetings. In her ignorance, she'd hung a huge painting of the heroic white Governor, Caleb Lyon of the Idaho Territory, offering a reservation treaty to local Indians in 1866. Apparently she considered it fitting in a building meant to foster good relations with these people. She failed, however, to consider that she was not in Idaho, that the Indians in the painting were neither Shoshone nor Arapaho, that the treaty depicted had never been signed, and that the whites did not keep the treaties later signed. All in all, the local residents considered it a hollow, if not entirely insulting, gesture.
Somebody, probably a village youngster on a self-conceived medicine journey, renamed the painting Governor Lyon Lyin' with a can of black gloss enamel. Bureau officials removed the slightly altered work of art and an undersecretary of the undersecretary of the Secretary of the Interior wrote a letter of apology to the governing Council. The letter had been placed with most other documents initiated by the overseers of the reservation, in File 13.
The resulting blank wall stared over many Council meetings until finally, the village ladies took it upon themselves to brighten the atmosphere. The tapestry, actually a large blanket, featured a traditional and brightly colored banded design around its edge and a repeating pictorial motif of bighorn sheep across its body in honor of the early Shoshone way of life.
A long folding table with gray painted steel legs and a faux wood-paneled top sat below the ornamental blanket and, behind it, a row of chairs for
the Council Chairmen and Tribal Elders.
Folding wooden chairs, that would have been antiques had they been cared for, were arranged in two sections separated by a center aisle which took up the middle of the room and faced the head table. The back of each chair screamed out in vivid, white-stenciled lettering: PROPERTY OF U.S. GOVERNMENT. Apparently, the Bureau didn't want any of their valuable furniture being absconded with for the purpose of decorating private residences.
To the right of the rear doors hung an oil painting of Chief Washakie in full ceremonial dress, brightly framed and surrounded by accouterments of the traditional way of Shoshone life; a peace pipe, a battle axe, a beaded headband and belt, all in brilliantly colored beads and multi-hued feathers. The few Arapaho that occasionally complained about it were routinely overruled. To the left of the same doors was a portrait of the President of the United States and nothing more. On the floor beneath the President's serious expression lay a cardboard box containing out-of-date magazines and adjacent to it a scratched and dented blue recycling bin, containing only dust. The two walls spoke of the battle carried out in the heart of each reservation Indian, the ancient versus the new, the eternal and the temporal. Decisions about their chosen way of life could not be made in this public forum; they were subtle and personal.
Each of the eighty chairs now held an anxious Indian, four times as many people as usually attended the Council. Dozens more filled the aisles, making short work of the space reserved as standing room only. The din was numbing.
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