Montana Standoff

by Nadia Nichols

  “I called him. I wanted to be sure he knew about Ken Manning breaking into your apartment.”

  Molly paused, then said, “Manning was so angry. He said that I was no more a threat to him than that other flame of yours. Was he talking about Mary Pretty Shield?”

  Steven kept his eyes on the road but she saw his knuckles whiten as his grip tightened on the wheel. “I don’t want you staying alone at your apartment.”

  “Dani’s already made me promise to stay with her. She and Jack have a big house with lots of room and two wonderful golden retrievers. Steven, were you in love with Mary?”

  Steven’s glance was fleeting but Molly was jolted by the depth of expression in his eyes. “I’ve only ever been in love with one woman,” he said. “Her name is Molly Ferguson and she’s the red-haired daughter of an Irish laborer and a Scottish dreamer.”

  Molly stared, overcome with emotion at Steven’s statement. When he said, “Here we are, the end of the road,” she jerked her eyes to the front and was astounded to see an old cabin of rustic, weather-bleached logs that looked as if Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid might have holed up there a time or two, in another century.

  Steven parked beside a late-model pickup and cut the ignition. They sat for a few moments in silence, studying the cabin and the sparkling dance of sunlight on the river just beyond, and Molly was about to reemphasize that no way on earth a man of Dehaviland’s wealth would live in a place like this when the cabin door opened.

  “Saints be praised,” she breathed. “Sure and it’s himself. It’s Dehaviland.”

  DEHAVILAND WAS CLAD in blue jeans and a red-and- black buffalo plaid flannel shirt. He was filling a pipe with tobacco from a small foil pouch and looked as if he had no more pressing business in the world than to read a good book beside the banks of the Yellowstone and ponder which fly to use at his favorite fishing hole. “The fish are biting today,” he said by way of welcome as Steven and Molly approached. “I’d have kept a few if I thought you liked trout rolled in cornmeal and fried in bacon fat, but I keep more conventional fare on hand.”

  “Thanks,” Steven said. “But we didn’t come to eat your food, or fish the river.”

  Dehaviland tamped the tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe, tucked the foil pouch in his shirt pocket, struck a match on his thumbnail, and puffed on the stem while blue smoke curled into the air. “No,” he said amiably. “You came to save Madison Mountain, but that doesn’t mean we can’t eat lunch. I think we could manage both quite nicely.”

  “I’m starving,” Molly said, casting Steven an apologetic glance.

  “So am I,” Dehaviland said with a grin, his strong white teeth gripping the pipe’s stem. “How about a pepper-steak sandwich and a cold beer?”

  They ate lunch on a rickety porch that practically hung out over the river, affording them a breathtaking view of the rugged Rocky Mountains. Steven grudgingly felt his cynicism dissolving as he shared Dehaviland’s humble fishing camp, ate his home-cooked and very good pepper-steak sandwich, and drank a cold, bitter Heineken. Dehaviland, in spite of his enormous wealth and power, seemed like the genuine article. He talked straight and didn’t beat about the bush, repeating almost verbatim everything he’d said to Molly.

  “I travel all over the world meeting with businesspeople, diplomats, and politicians,” Dehaviland said. “I’ve dined in some of the swankiest restaurants, slept in the fanciest mansions and palaces, but this—” he raised his beer bottle to indicate in one broad sweep the river, the mountains and the wilderness “—this place is what keeps me sane. When I came back from two tours in Vietnam I retreated here and hid from the world for nearly a year. I want to preserve the wildness as much as you do, Young Bear. Bottom line, my interest in your cause is purely selfish, but that’s okay, because if by making Madison Mountain off-limits to mining operations we protect this river’s watershed, we all come out winners. Even more important than that, this compromise could mark the beginning of a new environmental policy amongst gas, oil and mining interests.

  “If the biggest, toughest, wealthiest corporation starts greening up, the other players are going to sit up and take notice, and more than a few will follow suit. The public is focusing more and more on environmental concerns, and rightly so. Even money-hungry corporate entities can’t continue to ignore the fact that this planet’s resources are finite. We need to look at the big picture and change our way of life to develop and promote renewable energy sources. We need to make sure our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be able to breathe clean air, drink clean water, and experience places just like this.”

  After a brief silence Steven said, “Who wrote that speech?”

  Dehaviland laughed. “My daughter. She’s in her final year of law school, and there’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll be following in your tracks, Young Bear. She loves me, but lets me know often and in no uncertain terms what she thinks of who I work for and what I represent.”

  “She might soften up a bit when she learns about this,” Molly said.

  “What if we can’t raise the two million dollars in time?” Steven asked.

  “You’ll raise it.” Dehaviland drained the last of his beer and set the bottle on the porch railing. His eyes were keen. “I’ve studied up on you, Young Bear. If you make your pitch tonight in front of the media, you’ll probably have a good chunk of that money in hand by the end of the month.”

  “And if we raise the funds, the sale of your patented mining claims on Madison Mountain to our group is guaranteed?”

  “I have the agreement in writing.” Dehaviland pulled a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket and handed them to Steven. “The board of directors faxed me a copy last night, before I drove in here. We can sign these papers tonight at the meeting. I’ve arranged for a notary to be present.”

  “What about Ken Manning?” Steven said, his eyes scanning the legal forms.

  “He’s permanently out of the picture as far as Condor International is concerned,” Dehaviland replied. “I’ve known him long enough to realize that I don’t want him in my corner. He’s blatantly bent every law, bribed every politician, and he let Molly take the public hit for his own transgression. I fired him because he deserved to be fired.” He shifted his gaze to Molly. “If Manning comes anywhere near you again, if he so much as calls you on the phone, you let me know.”

  “I’ve placed a restraining order on him, but I don’t think he’ll try anything,” Molly said. “He was drunk, that’s all.”

  “Being drunk doesn’t excuse him from threatening you,” Dehaviland said. “As far as I know, the police are still looking for him, but when they find him they’ll charge him with criminal threatening. I doubt he’ll bother you again.”

  A pair of ravens flew over, wings swishing in strong, purposeful strokes as they headed toward the wall of mountains to the west. Steven watched them for a moment and then glanced at Molly. “Well,” he said, pondering the infinite mysteries of the universe. She just gazed into his eyes and smiled.

  IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON when they left Dehaviland’s cabin on the banks of the Yellowstone, Steven still mulling over the conversations they’d had, rehashing them, searching for hidden deception but finding none. He’d met with Dehaviland expecting political duplicity and gotten straight talk instead. Molly sat smugly in the passenger seat, looking well pleased with how the meeting had gone.

  “Admit it, Young Bear,” she said before they’d even navigated the first of the many treacherous washouts. “I was right. Dehaviland’s a genuinely nice person, and he’s going to help you save Madison Mountain.”

  In spite of himself, Steven felt a stab of jealousy. Molly was clearly taken with the power and importance of the man, and he couldn’t blame her, but the fight for Madison Mountain had begun long before Dehaviland had flown his Learjet into Helena to meet with her over lunch. What Dehaviland had done had been effortless; a few phone calls, a few political strings pulled. What Steven had done had been grunt work, tha
nkless and unpaid. Yet if Dehaviland hadn’t happened on the scene, all that thankless and unpaid work might well have saved Madison Mountain, too. At least, Steven liked to believe as much.

  “Not that you couldn’t have done the same,” Molly added as if reading his mind, instantly easing the twist of tension within him. “But he saved you so much work.”

  “Yes,” Steven admitted.

  “Soooo much work,” she repeated.

  “Point taken.”

  Molly kicked back in the seat and smiled. “I think it’s wonderful. It proves that Big Business isn’t made up of a bunch of heartless monsters.”

  “It proves that Dehaviland isn’t a heartless monster,” Steven amended.

  “But for all intents and purposes, Dehaviland is Condor International,” she said. “He’s CEO of one of the most powerful companies in the world.”

  “He hasn’t held that job very long, and they could give him the boot if they don’t like how he’s steering their boat.”

  “Still the cynic, eh, Young Bear?”

  “I’ve been in this business for a while, Molly. I like the man, don’t get me wrong, but I still find it hard to believe that all of a sudden we’re standing in the shadow of a rainbow.”

  Molly shifted in her seat to face him. “Sometimes you just have to believe. It’s all about faith. Your grandfather knows that far better than you. We both should have eaten some of his owl stew.”

  Steven felt the Jeep begin to dip forward and he braked, his eyes locked with hers. “We still could.”

  “Think there’s any left?” Her eyes reflected a depth of mysticism and spirituality that far exceeded his own.

  “He’s probably expecting us for supper,” Steven said.

  “Do we have time to go there before the meeting tonight?”

  “Yes.” The Jeep was idling. Molly’s eyes were soft and bright with a myriad of emotions, and she leaned toward him even as he reached for her. Her lips moved against his, warm and soft and sweet, and her fingertips brushed his cheek in a tender caress. She drew back to regard him somberly.

  “Then let’s go.”

  THEY DIDN’T REACH Luther Makes Elk’s shack beside the little-traveled dirt road until late afternoon. Luther was sitting in his customary place, wearing his old wool peacoat and dark hat and watching the sporadic traffic go by. He was silent as they approached. Steven held up a paper sack. “We brought you some Chinese food.”

  “I was hoping you would,” Luther said. “I’ve been thinking about Chinese food all day. They say that kind of cooking makes you hungrier, but I like it.” He nodded at the shack. “I saved some of that owl stew for you. It tastes better, now that it’s aged some. I put the pot on the stove a while ago. It should be hot by now.” This last he spoke to Molly, who nodded and went into the shack to dish up the stew, leaving the two of them alone.

  Steven lowered himself onto the bench and leaned back against the tar-paper wall of Luther’s shack. In spite of his reticence with Luther, being in this place always made him feel as if, in the end, when all the battles had been fought, victory would fly its noble flag upon the pure mountain winds. The slanting rays of sunlight felt good. He half closed his eyes, imagining Molly’s bewilderment inside the cluttered shack. “Grandfather, there’s something I need to ask you,” he said.

  “I know.” Luther broke into the bag and pulled out the containers of food, setting them side by side on the bench. “Boy, this smells good. Did you get egg rolls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I like egg rolls with that sweet sauce on them.”

  “About the owl stew…”

  “You should have had some when you came the other day.” Luther dug deeper into the bag. His ancient brow furrowed with concern. “Did you get the sweet sauce?”

  “It’s in there somewhere.” Steven shifted on the bench. “Molly had a dream about an owl just before we came here the other day.”

  Luther held something up and shook it. “Good, it’s a big container. There’s nothing worse than running out of sweet sauce for the egg rolls.”

  “The owl flew through her dream, and last night, a man broke into her apartment. She might have been hurt if she hadn’t run away.”

  “Did you get fried rice?” Luther interrupted.

  “Fried rice, egg rolls, beef with pea pods, chicken lo mein, and there are plastic forks and paper napkins.”

  “Yeah. I got ’em.” Luther sat back with a contented sigh. “Boy, this stuff smells good.” He began to eat. “And so,” he said after a couple mouthfuls. “You think she got in trouble because you didn’t eat the stew?”

  “You told me once that an owl was an omen of death.”

  Luther took another forkful and chewed slowly, with obvious relish. “And you are afraid Red Hair will die?”

  Steven watched an old pickup whip past. Dust swirled and was whisked away on the light wind. He shook his head. “Ken Manning’s a dangerous man. If there’s anything you can do to protect her…”

  Luther opened a different box and poked inside it with his fork. He sampled the contents of the new box and grunted with satisfaction, sitting back again. “Red Hair doesn’t need protecting. But you?” He shook his head. “You should eat a lot of that owl stew. Are you carrying that pouch I gave you?”

  Steven reached to tug the leather thong that hung around his neck and showed Luther the pouch.

  “Good. That’s big medicine.”

  Molly emerged from the shack, carefully balancing two tin bowls of the stew. She handed one to Steven, then perched beside him on the bench and balanced her bowl on her thighs. “Sorry it took so long. I could find only one spoon.”

  “That’s because I only need one spoon,” Luther said.

  “We can share,” Steven said, handing her the spoon that she’d nestled into his stew. Molly smiled her thanks and then tasted Luther’s cooking for the first time. Her expression remained unchanged. She hesitated only fractionally before diving in and rapidly finishing off her portion, after which she handed Steven the spoon and raised her empty bowl with a smile of gratitude.

  “That was good,” she said to Luther.

  Luther nodded. “A man living alone learns to be a pretty good cook.”

  “Well, thank you. That was delicious,” Molly said, “but I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t have a refrigerator. How do you keep things from spoiling?”

  “I don’t worry about stuff like that,” Luther told her. “I’m too old. You know, I’m so old that tonight, I could die in my sleep. And so. I’ll eat all this Chinese food first, before it has time to spoil.”

  Steven regarded the spoon Molly had handed him. He dipped it into the stew and took the obligatory taste, swallowing quickly. “Grandfather,” he said, feeling sweat prickle his forehead as his stomach turned, “you may be old, but you can’t die in your sleep until you’ve married my sister.” He rose to his feet, setting his bowl upon the wall bench. “We have to go. We have a meeting to attend tonight.”

  “Another meeting.” Luther shook his head. “It would be better if you went on a vision quest instead.”

  “I’ll go soon, Grandfather,” he said. “We can’t be late for this meeting tonight. It’s very important. Thank you for the stew.”

  “You go to your meeting if you have to, but climb the mountain soon. There is much wisdom that needs to find you, but when you hide yourself in the white man’s world, the spirits get confused.” Luther shifted his solemn gaze to Molly. “You have already had your vision, Red Hair,” he said, “but you don’t know what it was you saw. The owl sees in the night and flies on silent wings to bring you his message. And so. If you want to come here again, that would be okay.”

  “THAT WAS JUST LUTHER’S WAY of saying you didn’t bother him too much,” Steven said in response to Molly’s prodding questions as they drove away. “He was telling you that he liked you. You cleaned your bowl. You ate all your stew.”

  “And that was enough to make him like
me?” Molly said.

  “Yes. Like I said before, most white people think he’s a crazy old man.”

  “But he told me himself that he was a good cook,” Molly pointed out. “It shouldn’t have surprised him that I cleaned my bowl.”

  “If it weren’t for his friends bringing him food to eat on a regular basis, Luther would probably starve to death. All the meals he cooks for himself taste like that owl stew.”

  “That’s because he’s poor. He doesn’t even have a refrigerator, or a bathroom with running water. I looked while I was inside, and that shack of his isn’t fit for a junkyard dog—”

  “Luther wouldn’t live any other way,” Steven interrupted. “He has no need for what he calls all your modern inconveniences. He’d live in tepee, go back to the old ways and the time of the buffalo, and be happy. That’s why Pony wants to be married by him. He’s the last of his kind, and she’s the last of hers.”

  Molly frowned. “What did he mean about the owl?”

  “I told him about the dream you had on the way to the Bow and Arrow. An owl is a powerful omen.”

  “Yes, but what was the message I was supposed to learn?”

  “Luther speaks in riddles, but I think he meant that you should listen to me, and obey me at all times.”

  Molly glanced at him. “Nice try, Young Bear. So when are you planning to climb Cante Tinza?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Can I come with you when you go?”

  “A man can’t have a vision unless he’s alone. Besides, you’re still lame from your ride.” Steven concentrated on the road. “Don’t worry. We’ll climb a mountain together, but we should start with one that’s not as tall as Brave Heart.”

  Molly’s chin lifted. “I can climb your spirit mountain, Young Bear. Just tell me when, and I’ll be ready.”

  THE PUBLIC MEETING in Bozeman was so well attended that afterward, the media dubbed it opening night on Environmental Broadway. All the major TV news crews were on hand, as well as a whole slew of journalists from across the country who’d had the time to hop a flight to Montana. The only person missing was Dehaviland.