She couldn’t see Norman. He had disappeared into the hazy heat and the growing swell of the crowd. The thud of drums and the voices of singers filled the air and reverberated off the empty plains running into the distances. Then she spotted the white shirt on the makeshift steps at the side of the stage, the plaid shirts following in single line. The dancers had started dancing their way down the steps on the other side. She pushed through the crowd—excuse me, excuse me—and tried to ignore the startled and disapproving looks as the Indian people moved aside to give her a clear path. She felt like a white woman— moving forward, not registering anything, going away from whatever was behind her. She waved her notebook like a flag to get the attention of the man in the white shirt striding across the stage.
It was then that she saw the television reporters and the photographers, black cameras hoisted on their shoulders, Channel 7 and Channel 4 and Channel 9 emblazoned on the backs of their shirts. On the far side of the TV crews were two photographers she recognized from the Mirror, and next to them, the Mirror’s front-page byline reporter, Dennis Newcomb, the long, gray braid trailing down the back of his blue shirt. Norman had made sure the press was here in force for the announcement of the real story—the story she had missed. The land claims were nothing but an attempt to get a casino.
The rest of the press had also missed the story, but she was the one who had interviewed the elders and written about the Sand Creek Massacre. Genocide, the elders had called it. Genocide changed everything. Genocide meant Congress might renegotiate the settlement made forty years ago. It meant the people in Colorado might welcome a casino.
Norman bent into the microphone and pulled it toward him at the same time. The drumbeats stopped, the voices of the singers died back. A high-pitched wail rose out of the microphone. He tapped at the mouthpiece, splitting the air with a deafening thump, then gripped the neck as if he might strangle out the noise. Silence fell over the crowd— the silence of the plains, she thought, the earth and the sky and the breeze all in perfect balance.
Catherine shouldered past the photographers and stationed herself at the foot of the stage. She could have reached out and touched Norman’s black boots and the hem of his blue jeans, splattered with brown dust. He caught her eye a moment, then looked away—out over the crowd.
“I wanna thank everybody for coming out today.” His voice boomed through the mic. “We’re here to let people know—well, to let ’em know that Indian people are still here. Just like in the Old Time when this was the land of the Arapaho and Cheyenne. Now what do we see when we look across the plains?” he said, sweeping one hand to take in the four directions. “Off in the west, the skyscrapers of a big city.”
Catherine found herself glancing around, obeying the direction of his hand. The skyscrapers shimmered like a mirage. They looked disconnected, floating free against the backdrop of blue mountains.
“Suburbs creeping over the land in every direction,” Norman said. “Highways crossing to the north and south, roads cut everywhere . . .”
A jet screamed overhead, so low that Catherine could see the row of small gray windows.
“Jets taking off and landing day and night at Denver International Airport. There’s more people here than the ancestors could’ve ever imagined. They’re still here, the ancestors, watching over us and guiding us, and they must think all the people in the world moved onto our lands. There might be skyscrapers and houses and all kinds of buildings and roads, but there are still tipi rings where our villages stood. You can walk over the plains and see the circles of stones that held the tipis down on the earth. There are fire pits, with the stones black from smoke. You’d think the women were cooking on the fires yesterday. The old stands of cottonwoods that had given ’em shade are still here.”
He paused and stared off in the distance a moment, as if he wanted to confirm that the cottonwoods were there. Catherine followed his gaze. Cottonwoods not more than a hundred yards away, branches bent and gnarled, leaves gray with dust. They had always grown alongside the creeks, but the creeks had been tapped dry by irrigation pipes. Still the cottonwoods hung on, sucking out of the dry land whatever moisture was left.
“Our ancestors are buried here,” Norman said. “The graves are everywhere. Every time they build another highway or excavate another building, they find the bones of our ancestors.” He jammed his mouth against the mic. “The ancestors are still with us!”
He paused. His breathing sounded like a bellow through the microphone. “What’re they telling us? That the earth is life itself. The earth gave us the buffalo, and that’s how we lived, from the buffalo. The buffalo days are gone now. But the earth still gives us life. Now we’re saying to the government, give us back our lands so we can live. The government says, you a bunch of crazy Indians? We say, this land is ours. But we’re willing to trade all our ancestral lands for this parcel right here.” He pounded his fist toward the ground. “Five hundred acres right here where we’re standing. We’re gonna build a first-rate resort. Hotel. Restaurants. Shops. Indian cultural center. And a casino. Casinos are the new buffalo.”
The sound of a gunshot split the air. Catherine hunched forward, pulled in her arms, and curled around herself. Then she realized that someone in back had clapped, and now the rest of the crowd was joining in. The clapping rolled around her like the gusts of a firestorm, buffeting and enveloping her until she felt as if the wave of noise would smash her into the edge of the stage. She straightened herself, ignoring the glances thrown her way by the photographers. Her heart pounded in her ears.
Norman waited until the clapping had stopped and the quiet settled in again. “We had to make some hard decisions,” he said, his tone low and serious, his mouth close to the mic. “The Treaty of Fort Laramie that our ancestors signed in 1851 said this is our land. All this land was covered with buffalo herds. The elders say the great herds looked like brown clouds hanging low on the plains. We could’ve lived here for generations if the gold seekers and homesteaders and farmers and all the other get-rich-quick settlers hadn’t come and taken the land. By rights the government oughtta give all this land back to us.”
He took another moment and ran his gaze over the expanse of flat, open prairie, as if he expected to see the brown clouds of buffalo. His features might have been sculpted out of brown marble, Catherine thought: the prominent cheekbones, the cliff of a forehead that shadowed his dark eyes. She had the sense that he was summoning a memory from the edges of his consciousness, like a blood memory that could no more be forgotten than the memory of his own boyhood.
Then he cleared his throat, dropped his gaze, and surveyed the crowd before looking directly into the television cameras. “The government broke all the treaties and promises. They sent troops that attacked our people at Sand Creek, and we call that genocide. They killed our people, they drove us off our lands. The government says, we already settled with you Indians, but we got lawyers that say that genocide makes that settlement null and void. We’re here today to demand that the government honor the treaty of 1851. This will be the site of the Arapaho-Cheyenne Casino!”
Catherine heard the roar rising around her again, the clapping and the shouting. Norman shouted into the noise: “We demand the government purchase five hundred acres and return that small part of our land to us. We will give up our claims to the rest of our ancestral lands. The Indian gaming law says that tribes can build a casino on any land that’s part of a settlement for land claims. If Congress ignores our demand, we will fight for the title to the rest of our ancestral lands in federal court. Folks that think they own the lands will have to prove the titles belong to them. It’s gonna mean years of litigation, but we’re prepared to follow through. We say, it is time for justice.”
The crowd was clapping and stomping. Catherine could feel the ground shaking, as if a herd of buffalo were approaching. Norman and the plaid shirts headed across the stage and down the left steps. Another dancing group whirled behind them, and the music start
ed again, drums beating and singers screeching into the noise.
“Who’s behind this?” Newcomb shouted as Catherine started past. “C’mon, Catherine. Let’s work together.” She waved him off and kept going. Norman stood on the last step, the plaid shirts piling up behind him. Newcomb pressed behind her and shouted at Norman: “What are the chances Congress will agree to your demands? How’s the government gonna get possession of this land?”
“Every chance.” Norman looked out over the crowd. “They can take the land the way they took it from us. ‘Eminent domain,’ they call it.”
“You used me,” Catherine said.
Norman regarded her for a long moment, then stepped down, forcing her to move to the side. She felt the weight of his hand on her upper arm steering her toward the rear of the stage. “Later,” he called out, giving a backward wave to Newcomb and the television crews. The plaid shirts bunched together, and Norman led her across a patch of bare brown earth toward a semi with an empty flatbed parked parallel to the stage. They were at the rear of the flatbed before she felt him let go of her arm. He slipped a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, found a lighter somewhere, and bent his head toward the sputtering flame, cupping a broad hand around the lighter.
She had expected Newcomb and the TV reporters to push past the plaid shirts and follow Norman, shouting out questions, which was what she would have done. Instead she could see them circling the other Indians, scribbling in pocket-sized notebooks, backs curved into the task. One of the TV reporters thrust a microphone into the center of the circle. The cameras were all trained on the Indians.
“What are you talking about?” Norman said. He stuffed the lighter into the front pocket of his blue jeans. The stoic look about him made the anger swell inside her.
“This is about a casino!” She was shouting. Two of the men adjusting the electrical cords that ran from the loudspeakers on either side of the stage to the amplifier on the ground turned and stared at them a moment. “You handed me a story about an old massacre that would soften up the public and influence Congress so you can get a casino. Only you forgot to mention the casino part.”
Norman lifted his chin and blinked into the sun. “We got a right to our lands,” he said. His voice was calm. He took a long draw on the cigarette and blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. Catherine had to glance away from the quiet confidence and self-possession shining through his features. “Seems like the government forgot what they did to us, but we never forgot. Peter Arcott can help us make things right.”
“What! Build a casino?” She could hear her own voice, tense with anger. “The way he’s built casinos for other tribes around the country? Found some loophole in the law so they could get title to part of their so-called ancestral lands. And what did he get for all of his trouble? The right to build and operate the casinos for a large share of the profits? Have I missed anything?”
She stopped. There was something else she’d missed. The tribes were also being used. If they went along with Arcott’s plan, they would give up any legitimate land claims they might have for a few acres and a casino. She could picture the elders slumped in the plastic chairs at last week’s interview. She could almost hear their voices talking about the Old Time and the beautiful prairie lands where the people had lived, and the horrible attack at Sand Creek. She’d been struck by the tones they’d used, tones of disinheritance and loss.
“When you gonna decide who you are?” Norman flicked the ash off the tip of his cigarette and stared at her out of eyes as black as agates.
“We’re not talking about me.”
“We’re talking about Indian people getting justice,” he said.
Catherine looked away. A new group of dancers was performing on the stage, the bright colors of their regalia twirling like pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope. The voices of the singers rose over the rhythmic thump of the drums.
Norman waited until the drumbeats had died back before he said, “We’re talking about the ancestors that were thrown off our land. Your ancestors, too.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Catherine said, meeting his gaze.
“Maybe you oughtta look into your own story.” For an instant, she thought he was about to twist his large frame around and walk off, but he seemed to think better of it. He stood still, as if he were rooted in the earth. “I seen your picture in the newspaper, and I could tell you were Hi’nono eino, Arapaho like me. I figured you’d understand. You’d want everybody to know what happened at Sand Creek. You’d want justice.”
Catherine didn’t say anything. He was wrong. What she had wanted was the story, the exclusive interview with the elders. Whatever had happened to her ancestors was far away and forgotten. No more a part of her than the blur of traffic moving along the highway in the distance. She hardly knew anything about the woman who had given her birth, nothing about the man who had fathered her, and she hadn’t wanted to know. Her life had begun when she was five years old and went to live with Dad and Marie. They’d called her “squaw” in middle school, a couple of the girls, and she hadn’t known what they were talking about because she’d never thought of herself as anything but white. She remembered going home and crying, though, because of the emptiness inside her and the effort it always seemed to take to belong.
“The elders didn’t mention a casino,” she said.
“They didn’t make up their minds to give the okay until last week. Sure, Arcott met with some of us”—Norman poked the cigarette in the direction of the other Indians still encircled by the reporters—“and we thought it was the solution we’d been looking for. But it wasn’t our decision until the elders agreed. It took a while before they admitted things were different now. We could fight Congress for years and hope to get enough land for ranches. But even the biggest spreads aren’t gonna generate the income of a single casino, and our people need some security, something of our own, and we need it now.” He didn’t take his eyes from hers. Catherine had the sense that they were the only people in the vast emptiness of the plains.
“Do all the Arapahos and Cheyennes agree on this?” Norman had made it clear at the interview with the elders that the government had sent part of the tribes to reservations in Oklahoma—reservations later sold back to the government—but the rest of the Arapahos had been sent to the Wind River Reservation in Wyoming, and the Cheyennes were in Lame Deer, Montana.
“Tribes had an election in Oklahoma. Big majority voted to go ahead with the land claims and settle for the casino.”
“What about the Arapahos and Cheyennes in Wyoming and Montana?”
“Arcott’s talking to ’em. They’ll be on board. Senator Russell’s gonna support us.” He turned toward her. “Maybe you’d get behind your own people if you went to Sand Creek.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Homecoming run coming up, week from Saturday. Arapaho kids gonna run in relays from Sand Creek across our Colorado lands and up to the Wind River Rez in Wyoming. They run every year to remember the dead at Sand Creek. You might wanna see the blessing ceremony before the run gets started. And see the place where the villages stood. After you see Sand Creek, you’re never the same.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
Norman was staring out across the crowd again, and she followed his gaze. A black SUV was bouncing across the plains, balloons of dust spitting around the wheels. She thought about Senator George Russell, the senior U.S. senator from Colorado. He had just announced his intention to step down at the end of his current term.
A little group of Indians dragging folded chairs in the direction of the parking lot jumped aside as the SUV roared past. Then the SUV turned northward and came to a jerky stop on the left side of the stage. She expected Russell to emerge. Instead, a tall, angular man at least thirty years younger than Russell, dressed in dark slacks and a pinkish shirt with short sleeves, drew himself out of the front seat and clasped hands with several of the Indians crowding around.<
br />
The dancers seemed to have noticed him, too, because the lead dancer twirled about and headed down the steps on the other side. Two other men jumped out of the SUV, moved to either side of the steps, and waited while he worked his way through the crowd and bounded up the steps. He strode across the stage waving at the audience that was shouting and clapping. The other two men stood on the bottom step, arms straight at their sides like guards.
“My name’s Peter Arcott.” The voice boomed over the roar of noise. “I want to thank the elders for inviting me here today and for the wise decision they’ve made to bring the best possible future to the Arapaho and Cheyenne people.” He took a moment, surveying the audience, arms raised, outstretched palms pressing against the noise. When it began to subside, he said, “I pledge to you that I will work with your elders to build the finest casino and resort in the state of Colorado. All at no expense to the people of this state, which will realize nearly a billion dollars in revenue in the first ten years. I’m talking about a couple thousand jobs, a lot of them for Indians, and $200 million annual cash flow for Arapahos and Cheyennes. But that’s not all! We’re also going to build a tribal museum along with the hotel and casino. We’re gonna give the people back their dignity!”
The clapping started again, and with it the thud of boots stomping the dry ground. Horns blasted from the parking lot, and a jet descending toward DIA screamed overhead. Arcott gave a victory wave, arms lifted high overhead. The pinkish shirt stretched across the muscles of his back. There was something surreal about the scene, Catherine thought, the crowd worked into a frenzy, the brown, upturned faces, the eyes fastened on the white man on the stage but seeing a casino, as if the steel and concrete had suddenly materialized out of the bare earth.
Blood Memory Page 6
