The Fence My Father Built (28 page)

“Uh-huh,” she said. The officer shook her head when I explained about Marvin and his grandfather's new Cadillac. I decided to ignore her monotone as well as her indifference.

“My daughter and I had a spat over this boy. She just turned sixteen, and when she left I thought she was just cooling off. You know how kids are—”

“Yes, ma’am, I think I have everything now.” Her desk phone rang. “Excuse me, please. We’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

I tried to smile at the deputy as I stood and nearly ran out of the office.

Driving the rest of the way to Murkee through a cold fog that dimmed the road ahead, I rehearsed how I’d tell Lutie and Tiny I was going back to Portland. Lutie would understand. I imagined her saying something like, “You keep in touch and God bless now.” She’d probably be glad to get her sewing room back. Breaking the news to Rubin would be more difficult. I ticked off all the reasons we were better off without each other, from my troubles with Linc to his awful emus, which weren’t as cute as I first thought.

I rolled down the window and sang to keep myself awake. My voice cracked as I hummed the lullabies that had put my children to sleep when they were small, until tears choked off the notes. I tried a little “How Great Thou Art,” but it was mostly la-la-la because I didn’t know the words. When I got desperate I sang jingles from commercials, but only the ones
Nova and Tru liked. By the time the truck pulled into the yard, it was dark, and my throat was scratchy and dry.

Tru didn’t understand why I hugged him too long and so fiercely, as if he were the one missing. He wriggled free but looked happy to see me, and I listened to him tell me that the school wasn’t so bad after all.

“The bus ride still stinks,” he said, “but I sit next to Megan.” Megan was a girl he had met, who also loved computers.

I was too tired to explain to Lutie or Tiny about what I’d learned. I tossed my evidence on the table and said I’d explain everything in the morning. Even Jim appeared sympathetic when I said my head throbbed and my throat felt like I’d swallowed ground glass. As I walked down the hall I closed my eyes until I passed Nova's angel, and no one else said anything at all.

R
umors percolated through Murkee like contaminated ground water. I wasn’t eager to put up with stares and whispers, so I made excuses to stay home. But even out at the trailer I heard the lowdown. Lutie always brought home the latest gossip.

“We’re the talk of the town in the Mucky-Muck,” she said after returning with the groceries. She set a paper bag next to the kitchen sink and admonished Tiny. “Careful, this one's got eggs.” She turned to me. “You’ll be interested to know Linc's no longer just picking on us Ponds. He's set on running poor Rubin off too.” Aunt Lutie wagged a finger at the air. “Dear Lord Jesus, that man needs his ears boxed.”

I sighed and then began to put things away. “I’m not surprised. Linc's been harassing Rubin since we got back from Portland. And Frieda Long won’t let go of that emu incident.”

Lutie snorted. “Everybody knows Linc is partial to Frieda's hubby. Poor Frieda just can’t get through to Fred, even after forty years of marriage. But maybe she looked the other way just to get even with the emus.”

“The Longs are always doing Linc Jackson's bidding,” Tiny added. He opened a box of saltine crackers and thoughtfully munched one. “If Linc's mad at Rubin it's probably got something to do with us.”

Tru had been listening in. Tiny handed him a cracker. “Even over at school all the kids know about it,” Tru said. “They say Doc Rubin's no good because he helps us.”

This was the first time my son had mentioned rumors at school. “And what's wrong with helping our family?” I asked in my protective mother voice.

He shrugged and looked at the floor. “Don’t know.”

Uncle Tiny laid a hand on his nephew's shoulder. “What's this about?”

Tru looked up at Tiny's big frame. “We’re no good because we won’t share the stupid water.” He set his jaw. “They say Grandpa Pond was just another drunken Indian.”

I froze, with my mouth open and my hand gripping a tall can of spaghetti sauce.

“Think about that,” Tiny said, reaching for another saltine. His eyes were patient and kind as he looked down at Tru. “Your granddad
was
half Nez Perce, so I guess those kids are right about him being Native American.”

“What about the drunken part?” Tru wanted to know. I braced myself for the answer.

“Alcohol brought him a world of trouble,” Tiny said evenly. “There's no denying it.”

Lutie's back was turned, so I couldn’t see her reaction. Her shoulders sagged a little.

“But Joseph was much more than that,” Tiny continued. “Did the best he could. Loved the Lord with everything he had. Loved your mom. Would have loved you too.”

I felt the sting of tears but held them back. I silently thanked Tiny for putting things so simply, yet so right. My
son smiled, and the two of them went out to hammer nails on Lutie's porch, armed with the rest of the saltines and a jar of peanut butter. Jim trotted after them.

I waited until the screen door closed. “Aunt Lutie, what would Dad have done? What would he say?”

She looked at me and then headed to her recliner to sit down. It seemed like a long time before she spoke. “Don’t know if he would have had any answers.” She fingered her Bible.

“He’d have done something, wouldn’t he?” I stared at his photo on the little table. A breeze fluttered the curtains.

Lutie closed her eyes briefly. “He wanted you to have this place. I know that much for sure. And even though he wasn’t a scrapper he didn’t hide from trouble, either. I’d say your daddy would stand up to that ornery Linc.”

“Linc once accused him of owing him lots of money. Did he?”

“Heavens no, child. If anything Joseph was too honest. It seemed like Linc had something against your daddy from day one. When Joe wouldn’t sell out, well, that was it. He was Linc Jackson's number one enemy.”

I drew up straighter. “Well, Linc doesn’t know it,” I said, “but he's got enemies too.”

I
n the morning I drove into town to take George the articles I’d found at the library. Outside, a weak autumn sun tried to burn through a stubborn layer of low clouds. I sighed. The sun and I could both use a break.

“Our expert has agreed to get his findings to us as soon as possible,” George said when I told him I hadn’t found any artifact certificates.
“As soon as possible? Are we talking days, weeks, what?” We had to hurry.

George held out his hands. “I’m doing all I can.”

“I know you are, but I don’t trust Linc. When I got here I thought he was a genuine John Wayne type, but now I know better.”

George, in typical lawyer fashion, said nothing.

I held up the news article about the Bend artifact thief. “Does this mean anything? If nothing else, it says people do steal and collect and trade this stuff.” I tossed the yellowed paper over to him.

Mr. Kutzmore scanned the document. “Convincing,” he said, “but proving Linc's been pilfering from the creek area won’t be easy. Plus, he's still liable to go after you with that gone-less-than-five-years water argument. How will you get along with no water?” He looked hard at me. “I’ll put some more pressure on the documents guy, but keep quiet. The minute Linc gets wind of this he’ll go straight to the water judge.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut.” I stood to leave. “But I know my father was right.”

“Sorry he left you with such a big mess. You have my sympathy.”

“Sympathy? I don’t want sympathy. I want justice.” My jaw muscles tightened. “Joseph Pond was more than a crazy Indian. I’m going to prove that, and I don’t care how long it takes.” The pitch of my voice rose, and I felt my cheeks ignite. “Linc's outright lied about the creek and why he wants our land.”

George smiled at me, but it was a lawyer's smile. His poor client was so naive. “Linc will probably lie again too,” he said gently. “He's already dragged your dad through the mud. He’ll pull out all the stops to discredit you.”

I yanked open the door. “We’ll see about that.”

F
uming mad, I drove back to the trailer. Taking advantage of the nearly deserted road to vent my frustrations in private was becoming a habit. But I wouldn’t have cared who heard me. I had been pushed too far. Linc was out to get me, and too many people had already been hurt. This wasn’t about ecosystems or water rights or even artifacts anymore. This was about my father's name and the reputation of those I loved.

I rounded the turn in the road. Vehicles lined the access road to Rubin's place. Pickups, four-by-fours, and the Long's dually sat bumper-to-bumper on the dirt road. In the rear windows, hunting rifles and shotguns rested in their racks. Men huddled together, frosty breath billowing from their lips, rubbing their hands together in the cold. One stood with a boot planted on the steps of his rig, gripping a torn piece of brown cardboard that reminded me of a sixties sit-in. Only the sign wasn’t about peace and love. The ranchers, it seemed, had declared war.

The slogans weren’t original: COW KILLER and JONTO GO HOME. I parked as close as I could, scooped up a pile of papers from the floor of the cab, and ran to where a knot of locals had gathered around Ed Johnson's flatbed truck. The emus paced nervously in their pens, flapping their flightless wings.

Tiny stood next to Rubin's porch. Three of Linc's cows had been found, he told me, shot dead. Linc blamed Rubin. Rubin denied it.

Tru walked over the hill with Lutie. She put her arm around me. “Tiny says they were dead or dying by the time they found them. Rubin had to put down two who were still suffering.”

I remembered the day Rubin threatened to shoot more livestock should they stray onto his property. I shuddered. If
he had deliberately destroyed healthy animals then I’d never known Rubin Jonto at all.

He stood in the yard, arguing with Linc. I’d dressed as western as I dared, in soft worn jeans and a denim shirt. I was even wearing a hat. Perhaps the crowd wouldn’t think of me as an outsider.

“I told you,” Rubin said, “one of them was already dead.” He sounded exasperated and barely acknowledged me.

Frieda's husband, Fred, turned to Linc and said something I couldn’t quite hear.

“Sure, I’ll press charges,” Linc bellowed. The end of his nose was quite red, his eyes gray as concrete. “And you,” he said, jabbing his index finger at Rubin, “you’ll be lucky to get a pig for a patient.” Linc sneered.

I glared at Linc and felt like kicking dust on his boots. But before I could say anything, he turned and walked away.

He climbed up into the back of the flatbed and got the crowd to quiet down. I’d never noticed before, but Linc Jackson was on the short side for a man. Several of the Tabernacle Ladies’ husbands were in the crowd. Ed Johnson, Mr. Mason, and Fred Long shaded their eyes. They all looked upset.

“Jonto here has threatened to shoot cows just for taking a drink of water,” he boomed. “And now he's made good on his threats. That sound like a veterinarian to you?” The men grumbled in response. “I like to be as neighborly as the next man, but I won’t abide my livestock being picked off deliberately. Might as well be rustling.” Linc stared out at where Rubin and I stood. “I ask you, do we need a vet who don’t understand what ranching is all about? Do we need this?”

The ranchers roared their displeasure. Asked to choose between their livelihood and a bunch of trout in a small stream, the answer was obvious. To the folks from Murkee, Rubin had betrayed them all.

I had to spill everything, no matter what George said about keeping quiet. I had no choice. I pulled myself up as tall as I could and took a deep breath. “You think Linc wants to help ranchers? I say he wants to help himself.”

Rubin grabbed my arm, but I shook him off and climbed up in the truck with Linc. The crowd hushed. Although my insides felt like melted Jell-O, I faced them. “This isn’t about Dr. Jonto here,” I said in the loudest voice I could muster. “This is about our land and our water. And honesty.”

Linc squinted hard at me. For a moment I thought he might shove me out of the truck bed. His mouth hung open. I expected him to interrupt, but for once he was speechless.

I held up a random stack of papers I’d grabbed from the pickup—later I’d find it was a school theme Tru had written about the Oregon desert. I had to make Jackson think I had his forged artifact document in my hand. We couldn’t wait for the expert. “Since before my father's death,” I said, “Linc's claimed that every drop in that creek belongs to him. Says he was gone one month shy of the five-year limit.”

Linc smirked. “And neither you nor Jonto here sees the light.”

I stared at him. “I see the light all right,” I said. “You may have been gone less than five years, but where were you? What were you doing all that time?”

“None of your business, that's what.”

I smiled. “But it
is
my business. As a Native American, I’ve looked into federal laws against illegal removal, possession, or sale of sacred objects from burial sites. Forgery, by the way, gets the FBI involved. While you were gone, you just happened to be illegally selling off goods from an archaeological gold mine out at the creek.”

He looked stunned. Once more, his expression turned cold. “Smoke and mirrors,” Linc said. “A liar—just like your old man. She's desperate, folks.”

One man yelled out, “Linc takes care of us. Go back to the city.”

“Linc doesn’t give a rip about any of you,” I shot back. “He needs that creek. But not for ranching.” My hand shook as I prayed God would forgive my gamble. “This forged certificate proves it.” I waved the papers in the air and hoped no one asked to examine them until the real proof could be found.

“That's a lie,” Linc said. He’d found his voice again. “She's lying. I just want what's mine. We’ve got ranches to run.”

“Ranches?” I spoke directly to Linc. “My father saw you digging out there. He was an alcoholic, but he wasn’t delusional.” I gestured toward the creek. “Before he died Joseph Pond registered items with a noted archaeologist. Then he replaced the actual artifacts—” I paused to point at Linc, “where he knew you’d find them. My father bet you couldn’t resist taking them. My evidence shows he was right.”