Celilo's Shadow

by Wilcox, Valerie

  One of the kids lining the roadway scampered away from his parents and made a beeline for the helicopter. “Hey, son, not so close!” Gross yelled. He intercepted the boy and waited by the copter until the boy’s father caught up with him. “This bird’s a damn nuisance,” he said when he rejoined Sam, “but it gets me where I want to go faster than the rental car they foisted on me.”

  Sam looked at the growing crowd with concern. Several of the folks had their Brownies out and were snapping pictures. The whirlybird was too fascinating not to be captured on film. Sam turned away from the picture-happy throng to talk to Gross. The longer he could keep his face from being associated with the project, the better.

  “How many graves are we talking about?” asked Gross.

  “About 700.” They would be interred at Wish-Ham in a common concrete tomb along with the other unidentifiable remains. Memaloose Island was a more recent burial site, but it had its own unknown bodies. Only 124 graves out of 2,500 had been identified and would be given a marker. Reba’s parents and husband were among them.

  “How many bodies to a box?” asked Gross.

  The question struck Sam as callous, but the man had a legitimate right to ask. The pilot needed to know how much weight he’d be carrying. Truth be told, the whole operation bothered Sam. Although he’d anticipated some objection by the Indians, he hadn’t really understood what moving the bones meant until Reba brought it up. She was adamantly opposed to the reburial. He’d listened to her talk about Memaloose and Graves Island without comment, but not without guilt. His involvement was just one more secret to keep.

  Reba told him that there were three large graves on Memaloose which served as a common burial ground. “In centuries past,” she explained, “our practice was to leave the bodies of our loved ones out in the open.” Among the ancient bones were the bones of a few horses. Reba said that when a chief died back then, it was customary to send his favorite steed with him to the life hereafter. She went on to explain that over the years storms and winds and occasional grave robbers disturbed their peace so the mass graves were the result. Some of the more recent burials continued to be above ground, but generally the dead were wrapped and put under shed-like shelters.

  “It’s only an estimate,” Sam said when Gross prompted him again, “but I think you can figure on fifteen to twenty remains per box.” There’d be another mass grave for the unidentified bones. This time it would be a concrete tomb. That’s what angered Reba the most. “We’ve had to use mass graves ourselves,” she admitted. “But concrete? It’s not nature’s way.”

  “Fellas!” Gross and Sam turned in the direction of the shout. A portly man had pushed through the crowd and lumbered their way. He wore a professional-looking camera on a leather strap around the thick folds of his neck.

  “Well, well,” said Gross. “I wondered how long it would take for the press to show up.”

  “The press?”

  “His name is Hiram Potter. Works for The Dalles Chronicle.” Gross chuckled and shook his head. “I’ve met his hairy eyeball before. He’s like an old sow rooting for corn. Won’t give up until he’s found the story.” Gross whacked the dust off his pants. “We’d better grant him a quick interview and photo or he’ll never give us a moment’s peace on this job.”

  Sam pulled his hat lower on his forehead. “No!” He turned toward his pickup. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Oh, come on, Matthews. Give the guy a break. It won’t hurt none and a front-page story is good for business.”

  “Not for my business,” Sam said, noting that Potter had almost made his way across the field. “Do me a favor, Gross. Keep my name out of this.” Sam scrambled into his pickup, gunned the engine and took off.

  ***

  Dodging the local press was a losing strategy. The Chronicle’s star reporter had been hounding Sam’s every move for days and it had become obvious that he would not rest until he got the interview he wanted. The man had somehow learned that Sam was in charge of the reburial project and had been on his trail ever since; it wasn’t surprising that he showed up at the Wish-Ham site. Although Sam had preferred to keep his name out of the public record for as long as possible, he knew that it was only a matter of time before he would be identified as the government official overseeing the project. Given the reporter’s dogged pursuit, it was something of a miracle that he hadn’t uncovered Sam’s FBI role also. Nevertheless, the photos of the helicopter and the pilot’s willingness to talk had all the makings of a front-page story.

  Now that his involvement in the project was likely to be exposed sooner than he’d hoped, Sam knew he had to tell Reba. It was not a conversation he was eager to initiate. It would have to be handled with a lot more skill than he believed he possessed. The relationship that had developed between them, while good, was fragile. As a white man and a government employee, his motives were already suspect. He was reluctant to do anything to cause her to doubt him—and the reburial project was bound to do just that. He had plenty of doubts about himself for both of them. Motives that had been so clear upon his arrival in The Dalles had become as murky as day-old coffee.

  As he left Wish-Ham and drove toward town, he mulled over his situation and how he would broach the subject with Reba. The truth wasn’t always easy to admit, especially for someone like himself whose life’s mission was built on subterfuge and lies. Ever since he’d rescued George and gotten to know Reba, he’d begun to question everything he thought he knew. Was the dam necessary? Were the Indians really the problem? Was his mission in The Dalles a help or a hindrance? How could the government justify destroying a centuries-old way of life? How could he justify his role in that destruction? Most important, how could he ever explain who he was to Reba without losing her in the process?

  Since he hadn’t been there in a while, Sam decided to make a quick stop at the jail before heading to Celilo Village. His talk with Reba was overdue but he needed some time to get his thoughts together before what would surely be an awkward, unpleasant conversation. He told himself he wasn’t procrastinating; he was just preparing. As soon as he saw the unruly crowd that had gathered on the courthouse steps, he knew visiting George and Reba would have to wait. The ugly anti-Indian demonstration was close to escalating out of control. Preventing this type of situation was a primary reason he’d been sent to The Dalles in the first place.

  So far, he hadn’t been able to do much to quell the mounting public outcry that the murder of Nick Rossi had generated. There’d been plenty of attacks against the “Celilo bunch” in the local media when George was arrested and almost daily demonstrations outside of the jail calling for justice. The crowds were growing in numbers as George’s trial date approached. Today’s crowd was more agitated than he’d ever seen them. Knowing that the sheriff couldn’t be counted upon to do anything to defuse the situation, Sam realized that he’d have to take control. He could kick himself for not interceding more forcefully before now.

  Pushing his way into the fray, he cornered one of the sign-waving demonstrators near the entrance. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Impeccably dressed in a crisp summer suit and tie, the protester looked like a successful businessman, maybe even a lawyer on his way to court. He didn’t appear dangerous with his glasses and slight build, but the crudely written placard he carried and the hateful taunts he spewed, told a different story. “Damn redskin! Murderous savages, the lot of ‘em,” he shouted.

  Sam had a sinking feeling that George’s safety was at serious risk now. “Who are you talking about? What redskin?”

  “Danny Longstreet, that’s who!”

  Sam cursed. He should’ve expected this. The boy was determined to stir up trouble. “What’d he do?”

  A woman standing nearby grabbed Sam by the arm. “Haven’t you
heard? It was bad enough they murdered that young man, but now they’ve added insult to injury. They destroyed our Pioneer Cemetery last night.”

  “That’s not the worst of it. They want to do the same thing to the dam,” finished the man. “Already killed a foreman who worked there. They’ll destroy us all if they get the chance. Murder us in our very own beds!”

  Another protester chimed in, “But we’re not about to let that happen, so help us, God!”

  A burly guard stood behind the glass doors blocking the entrance, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. All it would take was for one of the agitators to throw a large rock through the glass and the guard would have a stampede on his hands. Sam figured he had no choice but to identify himself. Removing his wallet from his back pocket, he held his credentials against the door’s glass pane. “Let me in,” he demanded. “FBI.”

  The guard skimmed the ID quickly and then opened the door wide enough for Sam to squeeze through. “Man, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “I need all the help I can get.”

  “Where’s the Sheriff?” asked Sam.

  The guard shrugged. “Haven’t seen him yet. He called me late last night, more like closer to dawn. Said I was needed for guard detail today, but he never said nothin’ about dealing with these rabble rousers.”

  Sam gestured to the guard’s pistol which was still secured in his holster. “Make sure they can see your weapon,” he said. “And don’t be afraid to fire if necessary.”

  “I never shot nobody before.”

  “A warning shot will get your message across,” Sam said as he headed for the stairs. “They need to know you mean business.”

  “Hey, where’re you goin’?” the guard asked. “I thought you were here to help.”

  “I’ll be right back!” Sam flew down the stairs and burst into Sheriff Pritchard’s office.

  The sheriff sat with both feet propped on his desk as he flipped through the pages of a girly magazine. He tossed it aside and stood as Sam made his hasty entrance. “Hey! You have no right to barge in here like you own the joint! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Saving your butt. The protesters outside are about to storm the place. Your guard upstairs needs some reinforcements.”

  Sam wasn’t sure whether the man was unconvinced or simply unconcerned as he settled into his chair again and picked up the discarded magazine. “Ralph can handle it,” he said.

  “No, he can’t.”

  Pritchard let loose with a string of profanity. “You’re not going to tell me how to run my business.”

  Sam had to restrain himself from pulling the man out of his chair. “Somebody has to.”

  Pritchard slammed the magazine on the desk. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  “The Fed, that’s who,” Sam said, brandishing his FBI credentials in Pritchard’s face. His shocked expression was satisfying, but Sam didn’t have time to savor the moment. “I have jurisdiction. That means it’s my responsibility to act when the situation warrants. And the situation you have outside warrants. I’m ordering you to get upstairs and help your man maintain control.”

  Pritchard glared at Sam and then stomped out of the office. Sam hustled after him, but instead of proceeding to the stairs the sheriff turned toward the holding cells. “I’ve got visitors in here,” he snapped when Sam protested the detour. “Their safety is my responsibility.”

  Despite the sheriff’s sarcastic attitude, he had a point. Jail visitors couldn’t be left unattended, especially with trouble brewing. Sam figured Pritchard was more interested in reasserting his authority than any concerns for visitor safety. It was a convenient way to defy Sam’s jurisdiction claim. Nevertheless, whoever the visitors were, they had to leave.

  Sam expected to see George’s tribal lawyer, Thomas Youngblood, when they reached the cells. He’d recently arrived from Yakima and was the only visitor George had ever had besides Sam. When the sheriff by-passed George’s cell and stopped at Danny’s instead, Sam was brought up short. He and Reba exchanged startled looks as Pritchard unlocked the cell. “Visitors out!” he ordered.

  “What’s going on?” Danny asked.

  The sheriff pointed at Sam. “Ask the FBI,” he said, smirking. “And while you’re at it, ask him what he’s planning to do with your ancestors’ bones.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As soon as Sam left the jail, he stopped at the liquor store and bought the first bottle of whiskey he saw on the shelf. The look on Reba’s face when the sheriff revealed Sam’s treachery was more than he could take. If Danny hadn’t been locked up, he’d have attacked Sam with the righteous wrath of the wronged. Sam wanted to forget the whole ugly episode and the only way he knew how was to drink—go on a bender so bad that he blacked out, unable to remember who Reba and the Indians were or why he’d ever cared about them. But first, he called his A.A. sponsor.

  “I need your help, Mike.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sitting at my kitchen table staring at a fifth of whiskey. I want to drink the whole damn bottle as fast as I can.”

  “Whoa, you don’t want to do that.”

  “I sure as hell do.”

  “No, you don’t. You wouldn’t have called me if you did. Like you said, you need my help. Give me your address and I’ll be right over.”

  Sam gazed at the bottle for several moments without speaking. “Okay,” he said with a resigned sigh. “But you won’t be able to talk me out of this.”

  “Maybe so, but promise me you won’t do anything until I get there.”

  Sam and Mike were an unlikely pair. The lawman and admitted criminal had nothing in common except their addiction, but somehow their relationship worked. They’d met at the first A.A. meeting Sam had attended in The Dalles and, shortly thereafter, Mike had volunteered to be his sponsor. He’d been sober for over five years and his commitment to the 12 Step Program was unequivocal. Sam was impressed with how much the man seemed to be enjoying his sobriety. For a role model, Mike was just what Sam had been looking for. As an A.A. saying suggested, “Stick with the Winners.” Most of all, he was one person who understood Sam’s situation fully and truly cared. Sam could turn to him without embarrassment when doubts, questions, or problems linked to alcoholism arose. They had quickly developed an easy, open relationship in which they could talk freely and honestly with one another.

  Mike knew that Sam was charged with the responsibility for the Indian’s reburial project, but not his FBI role. Now that Sheriff Pritchard had outed him to Reba, Sam believed he wouldn’t stop there. Soon the whole town would know and his mission in The Dalles would be over. Sam’s world was crashing down around him and nothing Mike could say would change that. But he would listen to him. Mike’s one condition upon sponsoring him was that he’d always call him if he was ever tempted to take a drink. And he was tempted all right. More than tempted. So, he’d made the call.

  “Knock, knock,” Mike said as he barreled through the front door and plopped in a chair facing Sam. If there was a typical Irishman, Mike fit the bill. He had thick red hair, a round ruddy face, an impish grin, and a great repertoire of Irish songs and jokes. He wore an eyepatch, which he said came courtesy of a deadly drunken brawl that caused him to finally turn his life around. “That and the bloody cops,” he’d joked. He was supposedly still running from the law when he landed in The Dalles and opened a tavern. It seemed incongruent for a recovering alcoholic to tend bar, but Mike said it kept him focused. Being around booze all day, every day was a constant struggle but one that strengthened his resolve to maintain his sobriety.

  “Thanks for waiting,” Mike said, registering the unopened bottle in front of Sam. “Now that I’m here, tell
me why you’re so eager to throw away all the progress you’ve made.”

  “I really wanted The Dalles to be different,” Sam said. “I promised myself and my daughter that we’d have a fresh start here. But I’ve already failed.”

  Mike eyed the bottle again and said, “I see that you haven’t taken a drink yet. That’s not failure in my book.”

  “But I will drink. No doubt on that score.”

  “Okay, I get it. Something has happened to upset you greatly. Something that makes you think you’re a loser. Something so bad that you’re willing to go back to the one thing that caused your problems in the first place—demon alcohol. I’ve been there, me lad. Felt the same way you do when life gets unbearable. Then I remember the First Step—we are powerless over alcohol and our lives have become unmanageable. But together we can do what you or I could not do alone—stay with the program; stay away from the first drink. That’s why I’m here, Sam. Together we can work through whatever has happened without making it worse by drinking. I’m going to shut up now and listen. Tell me what has happened.”

  And Sam told him. Told him about saving George and his subsequent arrest on a trumped-up murder charge. Told him about the promise he’d made to Chief Thompson and the Wy-ams to keep George safe. Told him about how he’d fallen for Reba. Told him how his relationship with her had made him question his role in building the dam and the reburial project. Told him about his undercover job with the FBI and how it had caused the end of his budding romance with Reba. Told him about his partnership with Jess Harmon and how he’d been offered a chance to redeem himself by helping solve the Chambers’ murder. “But all that doesn’t matter now. My cover’s been blown, the Indians don’t trust me anymore, Reba can’t stand me, and I’m unable to fulfill my mission as assigned. Worst of all, I’ve failed my daughter. She thought I left the Bureau and all the subterfuge behind when we moved here.”