Washakie, Chief of the Shoshone Nation, had wanted to get along. He wanted peace for his people. Washakie was a good man and he did what he felt was right but Norkuk said Washakie was weak. Silverbear agreed with the young leader. Treaties were simply lies put on paper.
Within the last cycle of the moon the yellowlegs had broken their promises again. Nearly a thousand Arapaho had been marched onto the Shoshone Reservation beneath the stern eyes and many guns of the pony soldiers. The Arapaho and Shoshone were bitter enemies. Even so, Norkuk was disgusted with the way in which those people had been treated. The Arapaho were nearly starved, their clothing tattered and offering little protection from the harsh weather. Among them were less than two hundred braves. The rest were women, children and aged, sickly men. All that they owned, even their horses, had been stolen from them. The yellowlegs pointed to the Shoshone Reservation and told the Arapaho, “Live here.”
Chief Washakie should have refused. Instead the chief said his people would endure. Norkuk would not endure. He'd had a belly full of the white man's presence and their lies. Gathering his party, of which Silverbear was the spiritual leader, they left the reservation and returned to the land the Great Spirit meant for them to occupy.
Washakie was now telling the whites that Norkuk and his people had gone to Utah “to get washed.” Norkuk and Silverbear believed it was their chief who was in need of washing. Washakie was dirty with the filth of the white man and his lies. Norkuk had known his ancestors were unhappy with the conditions of his people. Now that the eagle had sent its message of freedom for the Shoshone, Silverbear knew Norkuk had been right all along.
Though the holy man had received his message from the eagle, one day yet remained of his journey. The Great Spirit had asked for three days. Silverbear walked on.
*
“In the Stinking Country,” Two Ravens said, “Silverbear became an animal. Thereafter he roamed the land protecting it from the white thieves.”
“Wait,” Glenn said. He couldn't help but wonder if Johnny was messing with his head. “He turned into an animal?”
“Indian legends are replete with stories of shape-shifting and animal spirits intervening for men. Mankind itself is said to have come from the Coyote when it was in human form.”
“And you wonder why I think it's all bull?”
“Think what you will. It's no secret that all legends are based in some part upon fact. What if my people were more right than they knew?”
“More right then they knew… about what?”
Two Ravens sat forward in his chair. Glenn was growing annoyed, and he was sorry for that, but he felt his own thoughts growing clearer. He wanted his friend to see what he was beginning to see. “About the spiritual world,” the outfitter said. “It's no secret we're screwing up this world. Maybe the Great Spirit has decided to punish us for what we've done.”
“You can't be serious?”
“I spoke with my father about this,” Two Ravens said. “He is concerned and thinks that you and I should talk with Snow on the Mountains.”
“Who is Snow on the Mountains?”
“A powerful shaman. A medicine man. His given name is Bill Pope, but his Indian name is Snow on the Mountains. He is a wise man and a great healer. I think you should meet him.”
“What for?”
“Maybe he can help us to understand what is happening in Yellowstone?”
“No, thank you.” That would have been an exit line for most, but Glenn settled back and cupped his glass with both hands. He and Two Ravens were friends more than anything. They could say what was on their minds. “There's a real explanation for what is happening, Johnny. I just haven't found it. But I will. When I do this situation will be solved with good police work – not with beads and rattles.”
Two Ravens nodded. “Answer one question, will you?” he asked. “I ask because you have not said and I would like to know. At Firehole Falls, where the white rancher was killed, did you also find the feather of a golden eagle?”
Glenn's features tightened. He emptied his glass and closed his eyes. Then slowly, almost painfully, he nodded and whispered, “Yes. Yes, we did.”
*
Glenn Merrill knew every sound in Yellowstone. He was familiar with the hollow, high-pitched warning issued by the stalking bobcat; had filed into memory the misty thunder of the Upper Falls; the clockwork whoosh of Old Faithful; even knew the muddy whine of a tourist's RV mired axle-deep in a rain-soaked No Parking area of a campground. Yet as he sat in his leather recliner, bathed in the rhythm of Tumbling Tumbleweeds crooned by Roy Rogers and the Sons of the Pioneers, and sipping the foam head off a mug of freshly poured beer, Glenn heard a sound that was rare indeed in this neck of the Mammoth Hot Springs complex; the chime of his doorbell.
He caught sight of the microwave clock, declaring 8:00 pm in bright red digits, and wondered who it could possibly be. Who did he know that could operate a doorbell? The chief's second surprise of the evening came when he opened the door. J.D. stood in the entryway wearing exhausted eyes and a nervous smile. He couldn't help but ask, “Slumming?”
“I thought I'd see how the other half lived. Is this a bad time?”
“Not at all. I'm just trying to unwind a little. Would you like to come in?”
“Well, okay. Yes.” J.D. shuffled her feet. “If you're sure it's all right?”
“Well, what do you know,” Glenn said, grinning. “The little lady is bashful after all.” He stepped back, opening wide the door, and bowed as he waved her into the room. “Enter, please.”
J.D.'s face flushed. She hesitated, took a breath, and stepped in.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Glenn said headed back toward his recliner. “I'm having a beer. Would you like something?”
“Sure.”
“Everything is in the kitchen.” He pointed. “Help yourself.” He sat and grabbed his mug. “You'll have to excuse me. I'm a terrible host and a worse bartender.”
A lot of women might have felt less than flattered. But Jennifer Davies was not a lot of women. Glenn's casual manner was just the ticket and already helping to ease her tensions. She found the small kitchen, a glass and, by snooping, tasty ingredients. All was suddenly right with the world. Except… “Do you have ice?”
“Ice?” Glenn repeated. “That's made of water, isn't it?”
She poked her head out with a questioning stare. Glenn laughed. “Never mind,” he said. “It's an old Indian joke. Try the freezer.”
“I tried the freezer.”
“Well, try again. Behind… whatever's in front of it.”
Victory. J.D. cracked ice from a tray, calling, “I hope you don't mind the intrusion,” above the noise. “But it dawned on me tonight that if I watched one more cable movie or ate one more deli sandwich in that musty old apartment of mine, well, I'd lose what little bit of sanity I still possessed.” She emerged with drink in hand. “Besides, chief, I hate to admit it but I don't know a soul here. You're the closest thing to a friend I have. Pathetic, huh?”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I didn't mean it the way it sounded.”
Glenn laughed and took a long swig from his beer. Following the heavy conversation with Two Ravens, he needed both. And he didn't mind J.D.'s company at all. “Have a seat.”
To their mutual surprise, talk came easy. They visited a dozen topics; old jobs, old friends, old adventures, and even new hopes. It had been some time since either had indulged in the luxury of hope. It was nice to forget the park's problems for a while. But, as they knew it would, the subjects of Yellowstone, and Yellowstone bears, eventually found their way into the conversation.
“Bear have been my life. Bear, specifically,” J.D. confessed, “for as long as I can remember. This is the first time I've ever been afraid. The fact that people have been killed is horrible, horrendous, choose your adjective, but that rancher, Walton… From what we found, from what his friends said, it's clear that he was hunting. He was
experienced, he was armed, and he was hunting for the bear when it killed him.”
Glenn shook his head. “I'm missing your point.”
J.D. sighed, disgusted he was going to make her say it. “You're hunting the bear too, idiot. I'm worried for you, okay?”
Glenn opened his mouth and then closed it without speaking. He didn't know what to say.
J.D. shook her head. She forced a laugh but it couldn't disguise her fear either. “I just hope you're a better shot than the drunken rancher.”
“My gun isn't meant for bear,” Glenn snapped. “I carry a weapon to protect myself and others from the kooks of this world. None of them are covered with silver-tipped fur.”
J.D. looked up in surprise.
“I'm sorry,” Glenn said. “I'm not acquainted with the notion of someone being afraid for me. And, despite the fact that I often am, I don't usually admit to being afraid myself. Your comparison of me to Billy Walton is a little cattywampus. His hunting is not my hunting. Besides, have you any real idea how little use a handgun would be against a grizzly bear in the wild?”
“I study bear. I sometimes sedate them. I don't blow their brains out.”
“I said I was sorry.”
J.D.'s stare softened. She blushed and nodded.
His apology accepted, Glenn went on. “We're talking about nine hundred pounds of enraged muscle. It's faster than a racehorse. And, coming at you, its head would be bobbing like a toy dog in the rear window of a '57 Chevy. I'm a marksman and I'd have a better chance of hitting a ping pong ball swinging on a string than I would of hitting a charging bear. Drunk or sober, this Walton was supposedly a heck of a shot. He got off one round with a scoped rifle and we're trying to explain what happened to his widow. That says something.” Glenn sank back in his chair, bone-tired. “We've both seen too many people hurt over the years out of sheer ignorance. You know, better than I do, the best defense against a charging grizzly is to eliminate whatever it is you're doing that he perceives as a threat. They protect their own like any other living creature. Remove the threat and the bear no longer feels the need to charge.” Glenn rubbed his temples. “Somehow,” he said. “Somehow we've got to remove whatever it is that's threatening this bear.”
“This bear?” J.D. asked. “These bears, plural?”
Glenn shrugged. “Who knows? My old pal, Johnny Two Ravens, thinks it's one. But not a bear made of flesh and blood. Add that to the mix. What good is a piece of lead going to do in the brain of a bear that doesn't exist?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” J.D. said. “But I wish you hadn't said that.”
“Yeah. I'm not sure what I'm talking about and I wish I wasn't thinking it. I have to admit, J.D., this is one of those times when I feel like I should pack up and go. We're in over our heads and I don't know what to do next.”
“Glenn,” she said, “the day we met you told me something that stuck with me. You said, `If you take the time to let it, Yellowstone will help you cope.' Do you remember?”
“I do,” Glenn said with a chuckle. “You're not going to haunt me with my own words, are you?”
“Did you mean them? Do you believe it?”
“Yup.”
“Then maybe you should take your own advice.”
Glenn nodded. The conversation and the night slipped away. Then Glenn nodded off. J.D. nursed her last drink until the bright red digits on the microwave read 12:30 am. Glenn was sunk, sitting up, in the corner of the couch, breathing softly, sleeping peacefully. The first peaceful sleep, J.D. imagined, he'd had in some time. That was how she left him when she let herself out.
Chapter 16
Well before the sun appeared, Glenn awoke, alone but no longer lonesome. How many people, after all, had friends like Two Ravens and J.D. to tell their troubles to? He showered, shaved, and dressed in a clean uniform; his ritual of `putting on the game face.' But today would be different. His friends had given him direction. That, and his own words, offered back by J.D. when he was lost; Yellowstone will help you cope.
He needed some time, in and with the park, before anyone else arose that morning. To make sure he took it, his logical brain had even invented an excuse. The lakes and waterways needed checking. With the run-off from the rain they were getting the water levels could become dangerously high and put tourists at risk. In recognition of the favor J.D. had done him the previous night, and wanting very much to return it, he made an early stop to ask her to join him.
Together they traveled south through Norris and then east through the Canyon Village. For the first time, as they passed the developed areas, Glenn saw his surroundings with a more judicious eye. In the midst of paradise, they had erected suburban malls with gas stations, gift shops, cafeterias, Visitor's Centers, ranger substations, campgrounds, and even a post office. He wasn't a hypocrite, he was a modern man. But the ravages of progress could not be denied. They were intruders and, in many ways, offenders. Mankind had a right to live but needed to find a balance. There was a balance to all things. To help the park, he needed to return to the park, to draw strength from all it was and had been.
They continued to a one-way loop road and made the first left at a directional sign that read: Inspiration Point. The road narrowed then twisted down through a heavy green pine forest to finally open into a clearing and a small parking area. Glenn parked and shut off the Suburban.
“Inspiration Point?” J.D. asked.
“I assure you,” Glenn said, “my intentions are entirely honorable.” He winked and then grabbed a pair of binoculars. “One of my favorite spots in the park. Come on.”
The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone snuck up on you. From thirty yards away, all that could be seen were a few odd-shaped and colorful rock formations surrounded by a vast canvas of open air. On an approach to the edge of the north rim, however, the Canyon reached up and grabbed you – pulling you into its depths.
The Minnetaree Indians called the area “Mi tsi a da zi,” the Rock Yellow River. A more fitting name could not have been found. The sheer canyon walls, set afire by the early morning sun, glowed in spectacular golden hues. The contrasting bands and bars of orange, rust, brown, red, green and other molten colors only enhanced their beauty. Falling off for hundreds of feet below, the Yellowstone River snatched the mind and sucked the viewer into its turbulence as it labored, eternally carving the canyon deeper into the earth.
In the extreme distance to the right was the Lower Falls. Its muted roar mixed and danced with the canyon winds singing a song of power and domination. The three hundred foot drop of the Lower Falls dwarfed even the famous Niagara as it spilled its contents in a crashing, swirling riot of motion at its base. The mists rose like spawning salmon, fighting a hundred feet and more back up its face, then fell again to the pool below. The water then coursed its way in sparkling serpentine fashion for twenty-four miles between the towering walls of its own creation. Below their position on the rim, an osprey soared on lifting thermals. The mind took wing with the magnificent bird gliding on the wind in that last bastion of Eden.
They stood in silence and awe as nature unveiled its beauty and power below. Holding the railing to maintain her balance, J.D. finally broke the silence. “It's unbelievable. It's beyond words.”
He nodded his agreement, then smiled, took her arm and said, “That isn't all. Let me show you something.”
“Where are we going?” J.D. asked as he led her away from the falls and into the timber.
“To see the pride of Yellowstone,” he answered with a grin.
They'd gone some distance into the trees, down a rise then up again, when Glenn stopped and, using the field glasses he'd brought, scanned some high, open meadows. “The time,” he said, adjusting the focus, “should be about right for his morning appearance.”
“Who?” J.D. asked.
“Why, Hercules, of course. And there he is; as reliable as Old Faithful.”
Glenn handed the binoculars to J.D., held the branches of the nearest
tree back to clear the way, and pointed toward a distant ridge. She searched. She rotated the focus. She gasped. “An elk. He's huge and… Oh, my God,” she lowered the glasses and gawked at Glenn. “He's completely white.”
Glenn nodded. “He's an albino.”
J.D. gasped again and returned to the glasses. Hercules was beautiful; an enormous animal, with a brilliantly white coat, and a towering rack of antlers like a crown. He was a king.
“Do you have any idea,” Glenn asked, “what the odds are of an albino bull elk living to adulthood in the wild?”
J.D. was suddenly all biologist and all business. Staring through the binoculars, still captivated by the sight of Yellowstone's prize, she replied, “The odds of any albino mammal being born is something like one in ten thousand. But they rarely survive. An adult bull elk? I doubt if it's even calculable.”
“Actually, J.D., I was just being funny,” Glenn said. “You see, I ask what the odds are. Then you're supposed to say, `I don't know, what?' Then, I say, `I don't know either, but they must be really small.' Then we laugh, because it's a joke. What nerd would really know the odds?”
J.D. lowered the glasses and gave the chief ranger the undivided attention he apparently wanted. Then she rolled her eyes and returned to the binoculars.
Glenn laughed; his first real laugh in a long time. “Here's one stat I do know,” he said, returning the spotlight where it belonged. “Other than Old Faithful, Hercules is the single most photographed image in the park.”
“I can see why. He's beautiful!”
“It's what I tried to tell you, but told you so badly, without emotion, the day we met. This is a hard place to work. The hours are long, the problems immense, and the people all too often tiring. Forget the incredible things that have been happening. Just the daily grind can make you want to pack up and go. Then I visit a place like the canyon, or stop and take a look at Hercules, and I remember why I have to stay. And just now I remind myself why it is so important we stop whatever is happening here. It is a magical place. If you take the time to let it…”
Apparition Lake Page 16
