The Fence My Father Built (18 page)

I drew a deep breath, held it briefly, and then sighed. The last words sounded familiar, yet I had no idea where I’d heard
them before. Besides, what was sacred about trout habitat and dirt mounds? Snowy puffs from the cottonwood trees blew across my vision, but no answers came as I watched them bounce along in the breeze.

I thumbed once again through the photos in the shoebox. On the back of the first one, my father had scrawled additional notes:
kap’n stick, found April 2005, burial mound on east side of creek
. The other photo, showing three arrowheads, was dog-eared and creased. I turned it over. In the same shaky hand it read,
University guy says one of these may be pre-Clovis
.

I stared at the photo and tried to remember what I knew about ancient peoples.
Clovis
referred to Clovis, New Mexico, where some of the oldest North American ruins had been discovered. I vaguely recalled reading about an archaeological find in Oregon, a site that was more than ten thousand years old. If Dad had found artifacts that predated any Northwestern Indian tribe, they had to be rare and priceless. Although Lutie suspected Linc was after the creek's water rights, I was convinced our neighbor was more interested in selling what he’d stolen from the stream's banks.

I stood up and brushed off the seat of my pants. Maybe I hadn’t been paying attention to the right things. I stepped off the mound and scanned the red ground, looking for what I didn’t know. I’d know it when I saw it though.

Moments later, I caught a glint. What looked like a shiny tapered rock protruded from the soil near the mound's base. I plucked the object from the dirt and sucked in my breath. In my palm I held a reddish, pointed rock, with delicate fluted edges.

“He found a burial site and tried to keep it sacred,” I murmured. The rock looked hand hewn; it had to be an arrowhead.

The water seemed to flow a bit faster then, sparkling light dancing its way past me as I stood in this peaceful place.
Like a watered garden
. Just like this stream, things were becoming clear. I wrapped the arrowhead in a napkin from Dad's box and nestled it under his journal.

My pulse raced. First, I’d need to prove that Linc had removed artifacts from the site. What was he doing with them? Selling them on the black market? If I could locate even one stolen or illegally traded artifact, his argument about being away less than five full years wouldn’t hold so much as a capful of water. I stuffed everything back into the box, cradled it under one arm, and jammed my still-wet feet into my shoes. I was excited and anxious all at once, thinking of settling this matter for good. Too bad I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. Before I knew it, I came face-to-face with one of Linc's fence crashers.

Cows don’t usually scare me, but this one caught me off guard. Plus, she had foot-long horns and was no doubt really thirsty. A calf bawled beside her. Mama made for the stream, checking me out the way cows will, one eye at a time. Her baby trotted at her side.

I reacted like a city girl. I couldn’t shinny up a tree, but I knew enough to hide behind a scrubby bush. I watched them approach the water with true bovine grace, trampling bushes and crushing wildflowers. The bank crumbled under their hooves as they drank, and the mama left a fresh cow pie as well.

Now I could see why Rubin was so mad. I came out from behind the bush, hollering and waving my arms, yelling inane things like “Shoo!” “Get lost!” and “Go home, Elsie.”

“Elsie” looked at me over her massive shoulder and lowed. The calf edged closer to her side, and then they both went
back to drinking. Cattle are not known for their smarts, and these seemed slower-witted than most.

I tried again to divert the cattle back across the divide to Linc's property, but all I got were more stares and a couple of bored moos. I finally picked up the boot box and started back to Rubin's at a slow jog. I’d let him know I’d caught Linc's cows red-handed. Finally, Linc's motives seemed crystal clear.

This fight wasn’t over water. It was about the priceless things buried near the water. My father knew it. Linc knew it. Even those dumb cows must know it. I tripped on a gnarled manzanita branch and fell to my knees. Somehow the box stayed upright. Burrs, seedpods, and mud clung to what had been brand new khaki pants just a few hours ago. The branch had ripped through the fabric and left an angry scratch on my shin. Out of breath, I slowed down and walked.

I imagined Joseph Pond striding across his own land, although the photos showed him sort of short and bowlegged. He’d have looked out across the horizon to the creek, toward the distant pinkish hills, and he would have longed for me to be there, too, or at least come to visit two weeks out of the year. He would have shown me how to repair a stove and described his future plans. And he would have told me over and over how much he loved his only daughter.

“W
hat happened to you?” Rubin was getting out of his truck as I hobbled toward him. My shin had bled more than I realized and stained the khakis, which were now a lost cause. He looked puzzled but smiled as he hauled his medical supplies from the pickup bed, which smelled of straw and manure and some kind of antiseptic.

“I fell.” I pulled up my pant leg, and he insisted on tending to the scratch. I tried not to wince. “It's Linc. I mean his cows.
I tried to get them back on the other side, but they won’t budge. They’re eating up the camas you put in.”

“Confounded cattle.” Rubin flung down a pile of used gauze, crusty with blood. He strode over near the emu pen and entered a small shed, leaving me to wonder what I’d started. When he emerged he was carrying a shotgun.

I laid the box on the hood of his truck and quickly caught up with him, already headed toward the stream. “Is that really necessary?” My stomach dropped as I saw his expression. “They’re only dumb animals, Rubin. Please.” I huffed and puffed as I tried to keep pace; the cut on my leg throbbed. I shuddered. What if he’d lied about accidentally shooting Jim?

He just kept going. Finally he spoke. “You think I enjoy this? I’m a
vet
, remember? Anyway, I’m only going to fire into the air to scare them off.”

“Well, that's good. If you’re shooting cows, you’re liable to scare
me
off.”

Rubin smiled wide, melting my suspicions. “Don’t want that,” he said. “Definitely don’t want that.”

When we got there Elsie and her youngster were grazing just inside Linc's side of the property. Apparently, they knew enough to get back to home base or else they were simply finished mauling the stream. After much waving and yelling and Rubin's ear-splitting whistle, they meandered off. I was thankful that no shots had been fired.

Rubin was less enthusiastic. “Fence is trashed,” he said, pulling a downed post to its upright position. “Got a mind to string razor wire this time. See how Linc likes
that
.” He let go, and the stake nearly touched the ground, held back only by drooping cross wires.

I pointed downstream. “Maybe you should get some used oven doors yourself. It would take a bulldozer to tear down those things.”

“Or a bull,” Rubin said.

“Good grief, he doesn’t have bulls wandering around does he?”

Rubin turned his attention to the stream, and I nodded sympathetically as he vented about the damage. The camas lilies were broken off at ground level. Places where he’d worked to keep the bank from crumbling wore telltale hoof marks. I sat down by the cottonwood again. The mound had become a friend. The air hung still and heavy, busy with the drone of insects and the gurgle of the stream.

“What do we do now?” I asked. He was knee deep in creek water, shoring up the bank with his bare hands.

These were the same hands that earlier in the day had no doubt helped deliver a foal, saving its mother from something awful. He’d probably been up since before dawn, and now the long shadows of late afternoon shaded his face. Suddenly, he looked very tired and beaten.

I stood up and waded out into the water. “Show me what to do.” He smiled at me, and I knew I’d said the right thing.

We piled up river rocks and scooped gravel. I slid a piece of bark under the still-moist cow pie and dumped it on Linc's side. I felt better putting his mess back where it belonged. The mosquitoes came out and feasted on my arms, but I was happy anyway. I heaved a bowling ball-sized stone into the water, just to hear the belly flop sound it made. The water smelled muddy but refreshing.

“Ever get tired of all the hassles?” I asked him, thinking of the ongoing argument with Linc and of my own troubles that threatened to wash me away. “Some days I think I’m drowning.”

Rubin stopped and rinsed off his arms. We stood next to my cottonwood tree. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been close to throwing in the towel.”

“Over cows?” I gathered some flat stones and tried to skip one across a still pool in the water. The pebble sank.

He smiled. “If cows were my biggest problem, I’d be lucky. Here,” he said, picking up another rock, “hold it flat like this.” He sailed a pebble out and it danced on the surface.

“I thought I was coming to Murkee to think and get my dad's affairs in order—a couple of weeks, a month tops. But the way things are going, I’m stuck here.” I hurled another stone. This one skipped perfectly to the other side. “Linc ever say anything about selling or collecting Indian artifacts?” I studied Rubin's expression for a reaction.

He seemed genuinely surprised. “No, he never mentioned anything, but I’ve heard talk. One of my clients claims she saw a ton of stuff in one room of his house.”

“Let me guess,” I said, chuckling. “Is the client Frieda Long?”

Rubin nodded. “That Frieda, she's an original. We never know what to believe. But what makes you think Jackson's moving Native American relics?” Rubin eyed me as if he thought I’d done something wrong.

“Just a feeling,” I said. “And don’t worry; I haven’t broken into his place. But I am checking into it. I’m not sure, of course.” I blew out my breath. “I’m not sure about a lot of things anymore.” I bent and scooped up a few more pebbles from the bank. In the shallows, a smooth heart-shaped, palm-sized rock caught my eye. “This one's lovely.” I rinsed off the silt and held it out for him to see.

He turned the heart stone over in his hand and pointed to a crease that formed the top “vee” of the heart. “The tribes would look for this sort of rock. See how the edges look
worn?” He ran his fingers over the crease. “This notch might anchor a haft of some sort. Tie it to a stick and voila! You have yourself a fine ax.”

“Do you think this could be an actual artifact?”

Rubin weighed the piece in his hand. “Hard to say. It's a little small, but maybe.” He handed it back. “I’m no expert.”

I was no expert, either. “Should I even remove a rock from this place?”

Rubin shrugged. “Maybe you could have somebody look at it.”

“Great idea.” I pocketed my treasure. “Know anybody?” Later, I’d put it in the box with the arrowhead.

Rubin squinted into the sun. “Denny Moses. You met him and Gwen on the Fourth.”

“Think he’d be willing?”

“Denny? He's Warm Springs himself, remember? He’ll jump at the chance. Especially when I tell him how Linc is out to get the both of us.”

“And ruin my father's reputation in the process,” I said. “But Linc doesn’t know who he's dealing with.”

Rubin tossed a pebble into the water. “At least we have something in common. That goat isn’t used to anyone standing up to him, and Joseph knew how to get him going.”

“How well did you know him? Joseph, I mean?” It felt odd to say my father's name. I wanted to know everything about him, but I got the feeling I’d learn something I didn’t want to know.

Rubin moved a little closer. My heart jackhammered. I didn’t know what he’d say.

“Your old man was a piece of work,” he began, closing his eyes briefly, as if to conjure up Dad's image. “I never knew anyone who could fix things like he could—refrigerators, toasters,
any appliance really. He kept my GMC running. Wouldn’t ever take a dime.”

“Aunt Lutie says he couldn’t say no, either.” Tears stung my eyes.

“Well, temperance wasn’t one of his virtues. But the man had a heart of gold, and he loved to talk about Christ. Everybody said so.”

I listened for my father's voice, but I only heard cows lowing.

Rubin wiped off a tear from my cheek. “We were all sad to see him go so sudden.”

“They said he had a few more months, and that's why no one got hold of me sooner.” A lump exploded in my throat. “I just hope he wasn’t mean when he was drunk.”

Benjamin's face came into full view in my mind, his nose swollen with gin and spite. Where had my mother come up with these guys, anyway? My stepfather's lip had curled up slightly every time he’d pronounced sentence on an aspect of my life. I was pierced with the thought that Joseph Pond had been cruel and critical as well.

“No, Muri, Joseph may have hit the sauce too much, but he was never a brawler,” Rubin said quietly. “He defended himself but he never started things. In fact, that's why Linc hung that nickname on him. Your dad refused to step outside one night—they were arguing over selling your place again—and Linc started taunting him, calling him Chief Joseph.”

“I will fight no more forever,” I murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

JOSEPH's JOURNAL
APRIL 1989

W
hen we build a dam we work from sunup to sundown. First we set the rebar, so the dam will be sturdy. Then we pour concrete— miles and miles of concrete. I don’t mind the work, but the concrete lime is eating up my hands and spreading up my forearms. Every day I look for red streaks on my ash-gray fingers. I look for signs of concrete poisoning. Here on the dam, if the rebar doesn’t get a man, the concrete will.

Dam-building's serious business, even when it's only repair work. Chief Joseph Dam was once a grand sight, and now we’re putting it up ten feet higher than before. Men have always tried to break the Columbia, to steal the river's power. Here we are again, fools every last one of us. Old Man River will make us pay. Sooner or later, the Columbia wins.