Dust Devil (53 page)

When it came time to elect the Chairman of the Board and a
Senor
Romero put forth Chase’s name, he stood and declined. As he expected, there was a murmur of surprise among the stockholders. "Gentlemen — and lady.” He bowed slightly in deference to the old woman, and she inclined her head. "I thank you for the confidence you have shown in me. But I am not a financier. My knowledge of banking is rudimentary. The bank was my dream, so perhaps I am a dreamer. And what you need is a doer. I would like to suggest for nomination Wilbur Fairchild. As Director of AID, he has served the people of the reservations. He is someone I trust, though he is an Anglo.”

Chuckles erupted among those gathered for the opening. 
Chase grinned at Will, saying, "I think you would be wise to put your trust in Wilbur Fairchild.”

The name of Blackwing, a minor San Idlefonso sub-chief, was also put forth, along with three other Mexicans, but the runoff was between Will and Blackwing, with Will winning by a close margin.

After the stockholders’ meeting was finished and the stockholders adjourned for the party to be held in the foyer, Chase looked for the old woman. But he was detained by some of the investors, and by the time he escaped she had disappeared.

When he returned to the celebration going on in the foyer, three men, obviously all Indian, were waiting for him. All three wore business suits. The heavyset one introduced himself, saying in a gravelly voice, "I’m Peter Portales of the
Nachanie
clan of the Navajo. This is Harold Little Sheep and Gray Wind. We represent the Business Committee of the Indian Tribal Council, and we would like to make a proposition for you.”

The Indian Tribal Council was the most powerful organization in the complex network of New Mexico’s Indian tribes, and Chase was intrigued that these men should have an interest in him.

The man, Peter Portales, had a broad, flat nose that dominated a kindly, round face. But the eyes were shrewd and hard. "Could we adjourn to the board room?” he asked. "This is of a very confidential nature.”

Chase nodded and indicated with his hand for the men to pass on in. He took his seat at the head of the long table, Will’s seat now, he reminded himself. When the three men had seated themselves, he asked, "Yes?”

"To get to the point, Mr. Strawhand,” the older, stoop¬shouldered Gray Wind began, "the Indian Tribal Council would like to back you in the primary race for governor on the Republican ticket.”

Chase stood up. "I’m not amused, gentlemen, by your idea of a joke. And I don’t have time to waste. Good evening.” The three men sat unperturbed by Chase’s anger. "Wait, hear us out,” said Harold Little Sheep, the youngest of the three.

Chase leaned his hands on the table. "Don’t you think, gentlemen, that it would be a little difficult to back an Indian for governor when the Indian race is not even allowed to vote?”

"Agreed, Mr. Strawhand,” Harold said. "But the end of the Indian’s disenfranchisement is near. On March thirtieth, to be exact, the State of New Mexico will give the Indian the right to vote.”

Slowly Chase resumed his seat. He laced his hands before him, chewing on his thumbs, as he studied the three men. "Tell me, do you seriously think that an Indian stands a chance on God’s green earth of becoming the governor of New Mexico? You don’t appear to be that foolish — the proverbial Three Blind Men — so what is behind all this?”

"You’re probably right, Mr. Strawhand,” Peter said. "What we want to do is make a showing
. . . give some evidence of the Indian’s serious interest in politics. If we don’t make an attempt, the Indian will be doomed forever to be controlled by the precinct’s
jefe politico
— the political boss.”

"Why me?”

"You’ve had some college education, you have initiative — your bank is evidence, you have charisma. Look how the press has glamorized your escape from Bataan — and how the Indians have readily gathered to claim, a Code Talker, you as their own. And then you’ve been instrumental in working for the Indians on AID.

"The old people will not change their ways. They will not come in out of the canyons to vote
— or we would have chosen someone on the Business Council. But you are young —- what is it, thirty-eight? You appeal to our younger generation which is becoming, like yourself, more westernized.”

Chase sat back. He was astonished, an emotion his Indian countenance did not manifest. He considered the idea. All logic and reasoning was against the scheme of actually running for office.

An Indian as governor—it was unheard of!

Still a gut feeling in Chase asked why not. The bank had been a whim, a successful whim. But representing his people, campaigning to ultimately represent all the people of the State of New Mexico, to be able to do something constructive for once
— it was a temptation. A temptation whose seed had been planted in him some thirty-three years earlier by an Anglo who told him, "If you want to change things for the better, become a politician.”

And then there was another reason he would not even admit to himself. The campaign would put him in the same political arena in which Christina Raffin moved. The campaign would pit him against her
fiancé — if Chase won the primary.

"As I understand it, gentlemen, you want me to campaign for the office with the absolute knowledge that as a token candidate I will be kicked in the teeth, ridiculed, and ultimately defeated. Right?”

The three men looked at each other, then Chase. "Right,” they echoed.

Chase appointed Will as his campaign manager, and the AID office was used as campaign headquarters. The two sat facing each other over cold coffee after working hours,
mapping out their approach.

After long deliberation and several midnight discussions with the Three Blind Men, Chase had decided his platform would promise that the Indians’ resources would be exported from the reservations along a guideline that did not rip them off, more fair representation, suggestions of a coalition of the people of color, and
— what interested the Indians the most — a promise of protection of their sacred lands, such as Painted Mountain, Blue Lake, and Medicine Lake. Small concessions on the part of the Anglo the Tribal Council felt.

"What do you think it’ll take to win the primary?” Will asked.

Chase swallowed a sip of the coffee and made a face at its bitterness. "Voting in a herd of sheep to begin with.”

"It’d take more than one herd,” the old man countered. "How about the entire population of the Santa Fe cemeteries?”

The two men laughed, then sobered as they talked over the weeks of work that still lay ahead. "Here’s how I see it, Chase. The Council has been leasing vast tracts of oil, coal, and helium-producing lands. Peter has said the Council would be willing to divert some of these incomes as proceeds toward your campaign. But better than some big promotional campaign would be to apply the same tactics you used to raise funds for your bank.”

"You suggest we make it a grass-roots campaign
— go from tepee to tepee and jacal to jacal?”

Will nodded. "Exactly. After all, everyone knows that Masters has the Democratic ticket and the office of governor in the bag. You or your opponent
— Garcia? — would merely be a token representative for the weaker Republican Party. But first you have to convince the precinct’s
jefe politico
that you and not Garcia would make a worthwhile showing in the race.” Angrily Chase squeezed his empty paper cup into a ball. "I won’t buy the jefe off. Will!”

Will smiled. "I didn’t think you would.”

Chase approached the
jefe politico
of the precinct, who was also the patron of the largest ranch in the precinct, an Hispanic. "I am interested in obtaining the votes of the residents of your precinct,” Chase said blandly over the telephone. "Before I campaign among them, I wanted to talk with you. I hope to enlist your aid.”

Senor Martinez invited Chase out to his hacienda. Custom demanded a polite exchange of amenities
— talk of the weather, inspection of the rancho, and several glasses of wine before the slightest innuendo of business was broached. At last the aristocrat opened the subject. A smile appeared beneath his hooked nose. "I’ve been expecting you. My aid is not cheap.”

"You would benefit in proportion to the benefits acceded the Indians.”

"How? If they’re allowed national sovereignty, mineral rights, liquor laws, water management? I doubt it,
senor
. As I said, my aid is not cheap. Five thousand dollars to be exact.”

Chase returned Martinez’s smile over the rim of his wine
glass. "It would almost be worth the five thousand to find out what kind of man you are,” Chase said.

Martinez toasted Chase’s verbal sally. "And you, Senor Strawhand, may be my kind of man.”

Ignoring the man’s comment, Chase said, "Unfortunately, whatever you gain by supporting me will be indirectly.” He rose to his feet. "I hope you will think on it, Senor Martinez.”

"I will think on it.”

* * * * *

With only two days left before the May primary elections, Chase made one last stop
— it was on the winding, tree-shaded Canyon Road where fine old adobe homes rubbed elbows with art galleries and studios. He stood before the Kachina Korner that had Studio of Indian Arts printed in italics below the shop’s name.

Because he missed Deborah’s friendship more than he could have thought possible (and that gamine face with the ever-curved lips), did that give him any right to come back into her life
— if only for even a moment? Yet he could not help himself. He knew she would always be a part of him.

A quaint little bell tinkled when he opened the heavy, hand-carved door. Paintings, sculptures, and jewelry showcases jostled for space with the racks of clothing of Indian design. A curtain rustled, and Deborah appeared, dressed in the traditional Navajo garb of flounced calico skirt and velveteen blouse with the ever-present silver and turquoise jewelry. Her hair had grown, swaying loosely below her shoulders. She was beautiful, he thought and wondered why he had never really noticed it before.

"I didn’t expect to find you returned to the blanket,” he said with a smile, feeling ridiculously somewhat like a schoolboy. Any moment he’d start rubbing the hardwood floor with the toe of his patent-leather shoes and stammer and blush furiously.

"Only for the day,” Deborah said. Her smile held all of its old warmth. "I’m posing for a painting for Alfonso Htchapi.”

"And are you still painting?”

"Yes, and Chase,” she caught his hand in her enthusiasm, "I’ve been commissioned to paint historical backgrounds and pictures for the museum at Bandalier National Park. Greg helped arrange the commission.”

In the awkward moment that followed, the late afternoon half-light made everything seem hazy, the usually sharp lines indefinable . . . a time suspended. Chase ached to reach out and touch the small, oval face that incredibly hid so much strength and will.

The moment passed, and Deborah, her face flushed with embarrassment, dropped her
small hand from his. "I’m glad to see you so happy,” he said.

"Word is out that you are very successful. First with the bank and now with your political campaign.”

"Not yet. This may be a big fiasco.”

"I don’t think so, Chase. I think whatever you do you will be successful. I only hope
. . .” She broke off and stepped away from him. Her hands moved nervously over a leather jacket she straightened on the rack.

Chase came up behind her. "What do you hope?”

She turned to face him, tilting her head back so she could look up into his face. "I hope that you will be able to help our people. That you will not let the
bilagaana
manipulate you for their own purposes.”

"Ar
e you going to marry Red Bird?”

She
shook her head. "No,” she whispered. "The war changed me, changed him, everything. We’re just close friends.”

Against his will and better judgment,
he reached out and enfolded Deborah in his arms. There was the fresh scent of mountain air, of pinon, and sweet grass in her hair. His lips lowered to claim her soft trembling ones, and a rush of heat rocketed through him like the swift feverish attacks of his old malaria.

For a moment he could feel
her hesitation, her wavering. Then she placed her hands against his chest. "No, Chase. All these years I think I’ve been in love with you. I’ve even let myself be used by you. Always hoping. But you still have Christina carved on your heart, don’t you?”

She moved away from him as if anxious to put a distance between them. "We’ve outlived our childhood friendship, and there’s nothing left in me to continue it. And what you want from me, I can’t give you. Don’t come back, Chase. There’s nothing here for you.”

CHAPTER
55

Will raised his glass to Chase, and Peter, Harold, and Gray Wind joined in. They dined at one of the finest and newest restaurants in Santa Fe, The Pink Adobe, which was filled that night by people celebrating Germany’s surrender the day before, on the second of May. "To the end of the war,” Will said, "and to the Republican candidate for governor of New Mexico. Congratulations, Chase.”