“Please what?”
He gave Mr. Matthews a “damn you” look as he said, “Please, sir. As far as the sheriff was concerned, making nice was over. “I’m done playing word games. Time to get me George.”
“Not so fast.” Mr. Matthews said. He nodded towards Reba. “I believe you owe the lady an apology.”
The sheriff’s leathery face reddened in an ugly mix of hatred and revulsion. He cleared his throat and spat on the ground. “You’re pushing it, Matthews,” he said.
“The sooner you apologize, the sooner you’ll get your man.”
Sheriff Pritchard mumbled something under his breath. Dessa wasn’t sure but she thought it sounded a lot like, “I’ll get you for this.” Then, through clenched teeth, he said, “I’m sorry.”
Mr. Matthews still wasn’t satisfied. “You can do better, sheriff.”
The sheriff’s discomfort caused a few laughs to ripple through the crowd. The veins in his temples throbbed as he stared menacingly at them. Just when Dessa thought he’d refuse, he uttered the magic words: “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Mr. Matthews had won the showdown with Sheriff Pritchard, but at what cost? A humiliated man is an unhappy man. A humiliated man with a gun is an unpredictable man. But a humiliated man with a badge and a gun is an unmerciful man.
Reba’s face was one big grin. “Follow me,” she said, waving everyone on.
As Reba led them through the village, Dessa noted that the houses weren’t as dilapidated as her mother had claimed. While some of the weathered gray clapboard dwellings could be called shacks by Hillcrest standards, most looked reasonably sturdy and functional. Celilo didn’t have Hillcrest’s green lawns, cement sidewalks, and garages but it seemed to serve the villagers well. George’s house, on the other hand, was a shocking exception. It was just a small structure that looked as if it would come crashing down in a light breeze.
Several children, trailed by yapping dogs, had run ahead of the group, stirring up dust and yelling, “Sheriff’s coming! Sheriff’s coming!” By the time they’d reached George’s house, the crowd had grown larger and more agitated. The sheriff’s demeanor was subdued but his face was still flushed. The situation was no less volatile than before and could have exploded—if Chief Tommy Thompson hadn’t been there. He stood in front of the opening to George’s house and calmly greeted everyone as if nothing was amiss. He’d changed his ceremonial garb for jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt but still had his walking stick at his side.
“Stay close,” Mr. Matthews reminded the girls before addressing the chief. “Sir, we’ve come for George Featherstone. He’s—”
“Under arrest for murder,” finished Sheriff Pritchard.
That’s all it took for the frenzied shouting to flare up again. Chief Thompson raised his hand to silence the crowd and, in a testament to the respect they had for their leader, they quickly obeyed. Chief Thompson then motioned for Reba to enter the house. In short order, she emerged from the tiny dwelling with an old man who looked on the verge of collapse. Dessa and Ellie exchanged perplexed looks. It seemed impossible that someone so feeble could be an accused murderer. Nick wasn’t a he-man but youth was on his side. He should’ve been able to defend himself quite easily against George Featherstone.
As the sheriff slapped handcuffs on George, a couple of barrel-chested men broke from the crowd and rushed toward the sheriff. Sheriff Pritchard immediately drew his pistol and yelled, “Back off!”
Dessa’s heart felt as if it would leap out of her chest at any moment. Here was the danger she’d hoped for writ large. Mr. Matthews released his grip on the girls’ hands and quickly shielded them with his body. Dessa poked her head around him in time to see Chief Thompson raise his walking stick above his head with both hands. “Enough!” he said, addressing the crowd as well as the two men. “Do as Sheriff Pritchard demands. There will be no trouble here.”
“Sam Mitchell is our friend,” said Reba, taking a cue from her chief. “He has promised to protect George.” She paused for effect. “And I believe him.” As a respected healer, her words had the ring of authenticity.
Mr. Matthews faced the crowd. “George Featherstone’s safety will be my responsibility,” he said. “I will not fail him. I will not fail any of you.”
The sheriff smirked as he holstered his weapon. “There you go folks, a warm and fuzzy deal if I ever heard one.” He grabbed George by the elbow. “And now that we’ve got that settled, I’m taking my prisoner to jail.”
Chief Thompson gave his consent with a brief nod. The villagers stepped aside without further protest as Sheriff Pritchard left with his prisoner in tow.
It wasn’t the story Dessa had hoped for, but the drama surrounding George Featherstone’s arrest for murder was something she could work with. New headline: Hostile Showdown Disrupts Celilo Arrest.
Chapter Nineteen
It was obvious from the way Walter stormed over to Danny’s truck that he was angry. “You’re late!” he snapped. Punctuality had never been a priority for Walter until recently. For as long as Danny had known him, he’d been a relaxed, easy-going guy with a mile-wide smile and care-free attitude. It took a lot to get him riled enough to fight, let alone growl at his best friend for making him wait a few extra minutes. Ever since Walter got hooked up with this so-called benefactor of his, he’d been a changed man. He’d always opposed the dam, but now he was intensely focused on destroying it. He dismissed all the efforts they’d made so far as mere pranks. He claimed they now had a real chance to save Celilo Falls. If true, Danny was all for it. But he didn’t need Walter getting on his case over every little thing.
“Don’t be such a tight ass, man. So, I got to the Pit Stop a bit late. We can still make the meeting on time.” He brushed past Walter and headed for the tavern’s door.
Walter shouted, “Stop! He’s not meeting us here.”
Danny spun around and faced Walter. “Where, then?”
Walter gestured to the 1947 Oldsmobile that belonged to his uncle. “Just get in the car, Danny. I’m driving.”
Neither man spoke as Walter tore out of the parking lot and drove east on the highway. After a few miles, they crossed over a bridge to the Washington side of the Columbia River. Danny couldn’t take the icy silence any longer. “You gonna tell me where’re we headed?”
“Maryhill.”
“The museum? Why there?”
“Think about it,” Walter said. “Closing time was hours ago. No one will be around to see us. Besides, who the hell goes there anyway?”
He was right. For a secret meeting place, it was ideal. The huge structure was visible from the Oregon side of the river but was quite remote for a museum. It was originally supposed to be a house (more accurately, a mansion or castle) for the daughter of some rich guy named Samuel Hill. For unknown reasons, neither his daughter Mary, nor anyone else, ever moved into the home after it was completed in 1940. It later became the Maryhill Museum of Art. Danny had never been there and doubted Walter had, either. The museum was a white folk kind of place. Danny checked his wristwatch and grimaced. Now he knew why Walter had been upset with him. He had no idea that their meeting place would be twenty-five miles away. Even though Walter had put pedal to metal, it would be touch and go whether they would make the meeting on time.
“Sorry I was late.”
“This is serious business, Danny. Try focusing on our plans instead of making goo-goo eyes at some white chick.”
Danny glared at Walter. “She had nothing to do with it, man. Blame Sheriff Pritchard. He showed up at the village with a warrant for George’s arrest.”
“A warrant for what? I thought he was in some kind of accident.”
“More like a trumped-u
p charge . . . for murder.
Walter snorted. “Yeah, right. And just who the hell was old George supposed to have murdered?
“Can’t remember the name but it’s a white kid who worked with a realtor in town.”
“Tell me the chief didn’t let the sheriff take George in.”
Danny explained what had happened, including Sam Matthews’ role in the release. “Never thought I’d see the day a government man would go to bat for one of us. He seemed to think George had been framed. Said he’d watch out for George while he’s in custody.”
“You believe him?”
“I just wonder why he’s taking an interest. Maybe he has some agenda that we don’t know about.”
Walter grinned. “You’re such a trusting soul.”
“My dad always said, ‘Trust a shuyapu at your peril.’”
“Things change, Danny. Everyone’s not against us.”
“Then tell me who we’re meeting with tonight. I don’t like going in blind.”
“You don’t know him.”
“How come you do?” It wasn’t like either one of them spent a lot of time rubbing elbows with people outside of the village.
“I met him on a job.” Walter was a carpenter and worked construction when he wasn’t fishing. Although self-taught, he was a highly skilled craftsman, which outweighed the fact that he was just an Indian when it came to hiring. Talent pays. He could’ve had a full-time job if he’d wanted, but Walter preferred fishing over swinging a hammer. “Remember when I worked on that big housing development in town called Hillcrest?”
“Sort of.”
“The guy we’re meeting tonight oversaw the entire project. He owns a lot of property in town besides Hillcrest.”
“Are you serious? A bigwig from The Dalles wants to help us destroy the dam?” The notion was so preposterous that it would have been laughable if it weren’t so dangerous. The influx of workers who’d streamed into The Dalles to build the dam was a boon to the town’s commerce—from saloons to churches, all had cashed in. Especially property owners. Why would someone profiting from the golden egg-laying goose want to kill it? The answer was obvious: no one. Danny was skeptical when Walter first suggested that there were powerful people outside of Celilo who wanted to help their cause. He suspected it was a trap of some sort. Now he was convinced of it. Tonight’s meeting would be a fatal mistake. Heart pumping and palms sweating, he yelled at Walter. “Turn the car around! We’re being set up! Just like George.”
“No, we’re not,” Walter said harshly. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as if he thought Danny would wrench it away from him.
“You’re crazy, man.” When Danny grabbed the passenger-side door handle, Walter pressed down harder on the gas pedal. Unlike Danny’s beater, the Olds was in tip-top condition and hit seventy-five miles an hour with ease. The dry and barren hills lining the winding roadway were just a blur as the car flew past. Unable to escape, Danny braced himself for the wild ride but could not control the anxiety broiling in his gut. Overhead, a full moon silently witnessed their race toward certain ambush. As they approached the entrance to the museum’s parking lot, Danny made a last-ditch effort to stop the meeting. “Dammit, Walter!” he blurted. “This is a bad idea. We need to get out of here. NOW!”
Walter sighed wearily. “Come on, Danny, you need to cool it, okay? Tonight’s meet isn’t some kind of frame, trap, or set-up.” A lone pickup a few yards away flashed its headlights at their car. “That’s him,” Walter said. “Just listen to what the man has to say and then decide if he’s legit or not. Listening ain’t gonna hurt us.” Walter stared at Danny with a fierce intensity that matched his tone. “This is war, man! We’re warriors, aren’t we?” He didn’t pause for an answer before taunting, “Or, are you nothing but a little chicken shit?”
Stunned, Danny looked his friend in the eye for a tense moment. The urge to lash out spread through his body like a deadly fever. If it had been anyone besides Walter, he wouldn’t have attempted to rein in his growing fury. He would’ve relished a bloody fight. “I may be many things,” Danny said in a steely voice, “but I will never be a chicken shit.” He opened the car door and climbed out. “I’m a warrior just like you.” He gestured toward the idling pickup with its passenger waiting inside. “Let’s go do this.”
Chapter Twenty
With Walter’s “chicken-shit” taunt still ringing in his ears, Danny charged across the parking lot to confront whatever unknown plight awaited them. According to Walter, Stanley Feldman was the richest and most powerful man in The Dalles. But he sure didn’t look the part. Judging by the clothes he wore—dirty overalls, scuffed boots, and a sweat-stained hat—he could’ve passed for a farmer who’d just finished plowing forty acres. The truck he stood alongside was as beat up as Danny’s 100,000-mile bucket of bolts. He was short—maybe five-foot-six, if you counted the extra height his boots gave him—and girlishly thin. Danny didn’t know what he’d expected a rich and powerful man to look like but this lightweight wasn’t it. “I have just one question for you,” he snapped. “Why?”
Walter seemed embarrassed by Danny’s brash outburst. “Danny, calm down. Let me introduce—.”
Feldman dismissed Walter’s attempt at civility with a raised hand. “It’s okay. I like a man who gets right to the point.” For a little guy, Feldman had a deep voice, confident and strong. He met Danny’s steely-eyed stare and said, “I assume you are referring to the dam and why I’m opposed to it.”
“Walter said you want to destroy it. The question remains, why?”
Feldman fished a pack of Camels from his pocket and took his time lighting a cigarette. “It’s a legitimate question,” he said, exhaling deeply. “But the premise is flawed.”
Danny and Walter looked at each other. “Huh?” they both said at once.
“I represent a group which, like the two of you, is passionate about our cause. But realistically, you have to admit that it isn’t possible to destroy the dam at this stage of the game.”
Danny’s patience was reliably short-lived. “Then what the hell are we doing here?” he demanded.
Feldman picked a flake of tobacco off his lower lip. “Because the U.S. government has failed you.”
“You’ll get no argument from us on that point,” Danny admitted. “But what exactly are you proposing?”
“You can’t stop the dam from being built but you can disrupt the process and make it so difficult and expensive that lengthy delays are inevitable. We’re talking delays of several months or more. I believe you will agree that expressing your outrage at the government with what we have in mind will be much more effective than the tactics you’ve used so far.”
Destroying the dam had never been a real possibility and Danny had reluctantly come to that conclusion himself only recently. He’d never expressed that opinion, however, and didn’t plan to do so. It felt like failure. Walter and the others would have to make up their own minds about the end game. Their pranks hadn’t satisfied their need for revenge but would costly delays be any different? And just what did Feldman’s group get out of it? He reined in his growing frustration and said, “I’ve asked it several times now and I still don’t know why. Why would this group of yours want to help us express our outrage as you put it?”
Feldman crushed out his cigarette and lit another. “It’s an attention-getting device. The first of many we have planned. Yours isn’t the only cause we’re backing. You see, our group isn’t just opposed to the government that is building the dam. We are opposed to the capitalist way of life.” He paused to take a drag on his cigarette. “But it’s more than that; we want to destroy the capitalist system itself.”
The man talked in riddles. “If what I’ve heard
about you is true, it seems to me that capitalism is your way of life. Danny eyed his truck and shabby clothing. “All outward appearances aside, I imagine it’s a pretty good life.”
Feldman smiled for the first time. “Yes, I’ve profited from the capitalist system. Some would even say I’ve achieved the American dream. My wife would beg to differ. She doesn’t think I spend enough on her or our lifestyle. But I am making money.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
He crushed out his half-smoked cigarette. “There is no problem with milking the system for the greater good.”
“The greater good?”
“A system that rewards everyone for their hard work and not just the privileged few.”
Walter had let Danny and Feldman carry the conversation ball until now. “I don’t get it,” he said. “What are you talking about?”
“Communism,” said Feldman. “I won’t bore you with a discussion of Marxist or Lenin economic theories, but the main thing to know is that we believe in ownership of all property by the community as a whole. Basically, a classless and stateless society and the equal distribution of goods through revolutionary means.”
Danny was still skeptical of Feldman’s motives but the term revolutionary appealed to him. A revolution was exactly what it would take to keep the government from destroying Celilo. “And just how do we figure into this revolution of yours?” asked Danny.
Feldman walked over to the bed of his truck and pulled back a blue tarp to reveal what it had covered. “Take a looksee,” he said.
***
Two days later, Danny was still unsure about the merits of joining Feldman’s so-called revolution. Maybe it wasn’t a trap; maybe it was something worse. He wasn’t especially keen on aligning themselves with the Communist Party. Walter pooh-poohed Danny’s concerns. “All that Commie talk is just a bunch of mumbo jumbo,” he said. Who the hell cares? He’s got his reasons and we’ve got ours. The goal is the same: destroy the dam. Feldman and his group offer the best chance we have of doing just that.”
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