Montana Standoff

by Nadia Nichols

  “Something about you fighting your last fight, and dying as hard as she did,” Walker said, unbuttoning Steven’s shirt. “I sure as hell hope he wasn’t talking about that red-haired lawyer friend of yours.”

  “No. It was someone he killed over two years ago.” Steven slumped back, relieved that Manning had implicated himself, that someone had heard him, and that Mary Pretty Shield’s death would finally be avenged.

  Someone trotted up with a flashlight, holding it while Walker peeled opened Steven’s shirt and stared at the place where Manning’s bullet had struck. “I’ll be damned,” the sheriff muttered beneath his breath. “You’re a lucky bastard, Young Bear. No doubt you have one hell of a bruise and probably some cracked ribs beneath that T-shirt, but there’s not a drop of blood. You’ve cheated death tonight.” Walker held up the remains of Luther Makes Elk’s pouch, which had been torn apart by the bullet. “What’s this thing?”

  “An amulet containing powerful medicine,” Steven said.

  Walker upended the shredded remains of the pouch and shone the flashlight on what dropped into his palm. “An old rifle cartridge,” he mused aloud, “and two equally old silver dollars, an 1879 Morgan and a 1921 Peace. If they were in mint condition before tonight, Young Bear, they sure as hell aren’t now. Take a look.” He held out his hand. “You can see how the bullet struck them. Lying together the way they were in that pouch, they saved your life. You’re a lucky bastard, Young Bear,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  Steven touched his fingers to his T-shirt, felt the large tender swelling on his chest and winced. Dead center, right where Luther’s powerful medicine had hung. Keep it close, the old man had told him. Man.

  It was another thirty minutes before Manning had been carted off and the last of the police had gone. Walker stayed long enough to make sure Steven’s refusal to be checked out at the hospital wasn’t going to end in his untimely demise, then followed the ambulance down the drive. Steven stood in the doorway until the sounds of both vehicles faded into silence, then closed the door, locked it, and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator. His message light was flashing and he played back the tape, hoping it was from Molly.

  “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk with you tonight before or after the meeting,” McCutcheon’s voice said, “but we were late getting there and things got a little hectic afterward. This news is too damned exciting to wait until morning. That rifle Luther Makes Elk gave you was issued to an officer by the name of Captain Myles Keogh, who died at the battle of Little Big Horn. And get this. A similar weapon from that battle, which was issued to an unknown soldier, sold at auction last year for nearly seven hundred thousand dollars. The person who gave me this information, and he’s a highly respected expert in his field, said that once the documentation is verified, he thinks that rifle of yours could bring well over a million dollars. Thought you’d want to know, just in case you were using it as a doorstop.”

  Steven walked into the living room, sat down on the couch, and took a sip of cold beer. He swallowed a mouthful of foam, lowered the bottle. His hand was shaking so badly that the beer was sudsing up. He wedged the bottle between his knees and sat in contemplative silence, but he wasn’t thinking about the worth of Luther’s old weapon. He was thinking about how close he’d just come to death, and how much worse things might have been if he’d been able to persuade Molly to return home with him. He sat like that for a long time, pondering life’s dark mysteries, thinking about Luther’s owl stew, and overwhelmed by a cold fear like he’d never known.

  MOLLY SPENT THE BETTER PART of the night alternately seething with anger at Steven and anguishing over the look in his eyes as she told him what she thought of him, and the sound of his voice as he called after her at the restaurant. She drifted off briefly into a troubled sleep just before dawn and saw the owl sitting in a tree, watching her in the darkness, but her 5:00 a.m. wake-up call interrupted any message the owl might have given her. She caught the first commuter flight back to Helena and took a cab to the office, dressed in the same clothes she’d worn the day before. A part of her felt so adrift and disconnected from the corporate world that she scarcely cared if her suit was rumpled. There were things in life far more important than that.

  First on her agenda of those far more important things was to meet with Jarrod Skelton and tell him of her decision to accept the position Dehaviland had offered her. She would then touch base with Dani, call her mother and fill her in on the latest, play catch-up with some office work, and begin planning a future that involved extensive travel, intensive research…and had very little to do with Steven Young Bear.

  Skelton’s secretary gave her a startled up-and-down once-over that reflected Molly’s mildly disheveled appearance. “Good morning, Mrs. Lancing, is Mr. Skelton in?”

  “Yes, but he only just arrived, and…”

  “Thank you.” Molly forged boldly forward, rapping once on his door before opening it. Skelton was seated at his desk reading the front page of the daily paper, which explained the thunderous expression on his face as he lurched to his feet uttering what sounded like a very unprofessional profanity. “And good morning to you, too, Mr. Skelton,” Molly said, closing the door firmly behind her. “I see you’ve read the headlines. The public hearing was very interesting.”

  Skelton’s countenance darkened. “That public hearing was a travesty. Young Bear’s overstepped his bounds, and this firm intends to bring charges of slander against him for those damning public statements. Furthermore, I can’t believe you actually stood up in front of that pack of bloodthirsty media wolves, while representing both this law firm and Condor International, and pledged nine hundred dollars to Young Bear’s cause. I’m afraid your actions go way beyond mere apologies.”

  “It was Mr. Dehaviland who put forth New Millennium’s buyout proposal. The idea wasn’t mine, and the cause isn’t exclusively Young Bear’s. I was merely supporting my client’s proposed compromise. And actually, I’m not here to apologize.” Molly stood before his desk, curiously calm in the presence of a man who, until yesterday, had intimidated the hell out of her. “I’m here to tender my resignation. I’ll work out my two-week notice if you wish, but I’ve accepted a job offer from Gregory Dehaviland. I want you to know that I appreciate the opportunities you’ve given me here during the past year. I’ve learned a great deal, and I’m grateful to you for that.”

  “Dehaviland won’t last out the month as CEO of Condor International,” Skelton said, his upper body rigid with anger. “He sealed his fate at that meeting last night when he sided with Young Bear’s camp.”

  “I happen to disagree, Mr. Skelton. Dehaviland may be ahead of his time, as all truly brilliant men are, but I admire his vision of the future and I want to help make it a reality.”

  Skelton blinked, then shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You may vacate your office immediately, Ms. Ferguson. We no longer require your services.”

  Molly met his flat stare for a moment longer before turning to leave, still infused with that strange calm that allowed her to exit Skelton’s office with measured grace, nod to Skelton’s secretary, and pass Brad in the corridor with an almost beatific smile. Brad fell in behind her as she returned to what would remain her office for a perilously short time. “Have you read the morning paper?”

  “Yes, on the plane this morning,” she replied.

  “And I suppose you already got it from Young Bear that Manning’s been taken into custody.”

  Molly masked her surprised relief with a brisk nod. “Of course.” There was no need for Brad to know that she and Steven were no longer communicating.

  “What did Skelton say to you just now?”

  “He told me to clear out, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Molly said, and left him standing slack-jawed behind her. Once inside her office, she closed the door and leaned against it, waited for the spell of weakness to pass, then moved to her desk, picked up her phone and dialed. Dani a
nswered on the second ring. “I have some important news,” she said, sinking into her chair for perhaps the last time. “Can you meet me for lunch?”

  Within two hours Molly had cleared the last of her things out of what had once been her office and packed them with some difficulty into the small confines of her car. She met Dani for lunch at their favorite deli and after their sandwiches had been delivered Dani said, with long-suffering patience, “Well, are you planning to keep me in suspense forever?”

  Molly drew a deep breath. “I’ve resigned my position with Taintor, Skelton and Goldstein and accepted a job working for Dehaviland as an environmental consultant.”

  Dani paused, sandwich halfway to her mouth. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “It’s an unbelievable opportunity for me. I’ll be traveling all over the world.”

  Dani gave her a quizzical look. “Wow. I guess I was way off base. When you asked me to meet you for lunch, I assumed it was because you were going to tell me that Steven had popped the question.” She laid her sandwich back down on the plate. “I’m usually right on the money with these affairs of the heart. What happened?”

  Molly’s shoulders rose and fell around a dispirited shrug. “Dehaviland was generous enough to offer Steven a position, too, but he declined, so I guess that’s it.”

  “That’s it? Don’t give me that, Molly Ferguson. For a woman who’s supposed to be all excited about landing the career opportunity of a lifetime, you’re looking pretty miserable.”

  “I’m not the least bit miserable,” Molly said.

  “Right.” Dani sat back in her chair with a frown. “I watched the late news last night and read the paper this morning. Was it what Steven said at the public hearing?”

  “He’s completely unwilling to accept the fact that the mining industry can be beneficial in any way, shape, or form,” Molly said, wishing she felt as cool and logically detached as she sounded. Wishing she’d never met the man who’d made her heart ache so badly. “He’s stubborn and set in his ways, and there’s no way we’ll ever see eye to eye on any of the important issues.”

  “Don’t forget that he’s had years of negative experiences dealing with those big mining companies,” Dani reminded her. “Look, I’m glad you have such a good rapport with Dehaviland, but you have to admit that there’s an excess of shady politics involved in any high-stakes money-making endeavor. Why is Dehaviland being so nice? Maybe he knows that two million dollars is too much money for a little group like Steven’s to raise. Maybe he made that offer just to take the heat off Condor International and give the press something warm and fuzzy to write about, instead of illegal road building and rioting truck drivers.”

  “Dehaviland is being so nice because he has a daughter that’s forcing him to become environmentally responsible, and he has a fishing camp on the right river. I believe he’s genuine in what he’s trying to do.” Molly pushed her plate away. “But what I believe doesn’t matter. It’s pointless, don’t you see?” she said, her throat squeezing up and her eyes burning. “Steven and I are so different there could never be anything real and lasting between us.”

  Dani reached across the table to squeeze her friend’s arm. “Of course there could be, Molly. There already is. Go see him. Talk to him. Don’t leave him wondering and waiting and hoping. At the very least, have the decency to tell him goodbye.”

  At Dani’s words, Molly lost the last of her composure. “I can’t,” she said, the bitter tears spilling over before she could hide her face in her hands. “I just can’t.”

  “Then maybe you’d better reconsider taking that job,” Dani said.

  STEVEN SLEPT POORLY, was drinking coffee long before the first light of dawn paled the sky to the east, and was on the road well before the sun rose over the Beartooth range. It was a Wednesday, a workday, but after the previous night of mayhem and sleeplessness, he deemed a day off was in order. Besides that, he hurt all over, though the worst of the pain was definitely localized in his heart. He headed east, toward the reservation. He brought the rifle with him, and wasn’t surprised to find Luther Makes Elk sitting on the wall bench outside his shack, wrapped in his old wool peacoat, bare headed in spite of the cold.

  “You should have gone on the vision quest, like I told you,” Luther said as Steven joined him on the bench, balancing the rifle across his knees.

  “Maybe, but the meeting last night was important,” Steven said, the vibration of his voice causing an equal vibration of pain in his bruised chest. “Grandfather, I have some information about this rifle of yours.”

  “I already told you about the rifle,” Luther said with an impatient wave of one hand. “And so. Maybe today you should climb Brave Heart. Maybe the spirits are ready to talk to you.”

  “This weapon could be worth a great deal of money, as much as a million dollars. Maybe even more.”

  Luther nodded, gazing out across the distance. “So you should sell it, if money is what you want. But go on your vision quest first.”

  “Grandfather, the money from selling this rifle could make you a wealthy man. You could live in a real house with running water and electricity, and have a television, and someone to cook your meals. You could eat Chinese food every night if you wanted.”

  “I gave you that rifle,” Luther said, his ancient eyes softening on the beauty of the morning. “I don’t need the white man’s money like you do. You can use that old thing to prop your door open, like my father did, or sell it and buy a television, if you want to sit and get fat and lazy, like Charlie Three Dogs did. But go on the vision quest before you do. Are you still wearing the big medicine I gave you?”

  Steven nodded. He tugged on the leather thong and showed Luther the new cloth pouch. “The leather pouch broke last night,” he said, “but the medicine inside is still good.”

  “Medicine that strong will always be good. One day, I will tell you about those two coins, and that old rifle cartridge.” Luther’s eyes narrowed on Steven’s. “We should smoke the pipe before you go.” He pushed off the bench and moved slowly, his joints stiff with arthritis, into the shack, reemerging with the pipe and the foil sack of tobacco. “There is one thing I want, if you sell the rifle,” he said, settling back on the bench and unwrapping the pipe. He laid it across his knees and opened the tobacco pouch. “I want a dark suit, like the ones you wear to work.”

  Steven studied Luther’s face for some sign of humor, but the old man was intent on packing the bowl of the pipe with tobacco. “Grandfather, why would you want a suit?”

  “Because,” Luther said. “Your Red Hair will want me to dress fancy for her wedding. She’s that way.”

  STEVEN DIDN’T WANT TO GO on a vision quest, but neither did he want to dishonor Luther Makes Elk, and so he smoked the pipe with the old man and departed Luther’s shack still in possession of an extremely valuable rifle that he didn’t know what to do with. Luther Makes Elk had to be one of the poorest Indians on the rez, but his poverty was measured by the white man’s yardstick, a measure that was wrong in so many ways. Luther had told him to go on a vision quest, and so he would do Luther’s bidding. He would climb Cante Tinza, Brave Heart Mountain, and wait there until he learned what he needed to learn, and maybe then the path before him would be clear.

  From Luther’s shack it was an hour’s drive to the parking area that led to the trailhead, and from there it was another two hours of steady climbing to reach the summit. He carried Luther’s sacred bundle in a borrowed backpack, along with his heavy parka, two liters of water and a bottle of aspirin that was stashed in the Jeep, half of which he had already consumed. He also carried the rifle, because he didn’t dare leave it behind, though the weight of the weapon cost him dearly on the climb. His chest burned with every breath he took, until he half expected fire to pour forth, dragon-like, from his flaming lungs. He reached the summit before noon and shrugged off the pack, taking a long appreciative moment to drink in the high beauty that surrounded him. The wind pushed against him and his
sed through the stunted growth that clung to crevices in the rock.

  It was cold, but there was a sheltered spot in the lee of a granite outcropping where he could spend the night and greet the dawn. He placed his stakes there as best he could in the shallow, flinty soil, the strips of red cloth flagging in the chill wind. He made sure to place them correctly, in the four directions, to mark the boundaries of his vision quest, but he knew the spirits would not speak to him. These things took time and patience, and he had already lost his focus.

  He was thinking not of the sacredness of the place or the spirituality of his purpose for being there, but of the red-haired woman who had taken such a strong hold of his heart. He wondered if she thought of him at all, or if Dehaviland had already swept her into his own powerful, corporate world. Perhaps she was flying back to Texas with him in his Learjet even as he sat on this lonesome mountaintop. Accepting Dehaviland’s job offer had been the smart thing for her to do, but a part of him, a big part, hoped she would change her mind and decide to stay here in Montana.

  Steven laid the rifle down, burdened by a weariness that had nothing to do with the steep climb. He knew Molly wouldn’t stay. She’d leave just to prove to him that Dehaviland was the man who could change the world for the better. She’d leave because she was angry and hurt, thinking he’d made a fool of her at the public meeting. She’d leave because that job offer had been the opportunity of a lifetime, and he’d never see her again.

  His desperate love for her had driven him to this mountaintop to kindle a tiny fire, burn the sweetgrass and sage smudge that Luther Makes Elk had given him, and purge the fever of wanting her from his blood. But it was his equally desperate belief in that same love that, two hours later, made him pull up the four stakes with the red strips of cloth flagging in the wind and pack them away. He shouldered his pack, picked up the rifle and, in the strong golden sunlight of the September afternoon, began his rapid descent of Cante Tinza.