Purgatory Ridge

“It’s certainly consistent with everything we’ve seen,” Schanno observed.

“It might also be consistent with a conspiracy to plant more explosives in the name of Eco-Warrior,” Kay pointed out.

“So the pertinent question is whether there’s actually a fire burning in the area of Our Grandfathers,” Earl concluded.

Cork said, “If Meloux claims there’s fire, then there’s fire.”

“I’ll check with the Forest Service,” Schanno volunteered, and he headed back to his Land Cruiser.

Cork walked to the FBI car where Meloux was being held. “You okay, Henry?”

Meloux answered with a shrug, but he looked tired and sad.

“There’s fire, isn’t there, Henry?”

“Sometimes,” the old man said with a slow shake of his head, “I wonder what Kitchimanidoo can be thinking.”

Schanno returned and Cork followed him back to the van. “Nothing,” Schanno reported. “The Forest Service has had no reports of fire anywhere near those old trees.”

“All right,” Kay said. “Let’s search the van.”

Gooden and another agent put on gloves and entered the vehicle.

“Margaret,” one of Kay’s agents called from his Lumina. “Cordell radioed. LeDuc’s truck is just down the road. It’ll be here in a minute.”

By now, Lucky Knudsen and his men had joined the gathering of law enforcement around the pickup and the van. Kay spoke to all the officers in a general caution. “This could get tense. I expect everyone to exercise reasonable restraint.”

Cork looked around him, and what he saw made him afraid. In the glare of the headlights that lit up only a small area of the night around them, a lot of people with guns stood together in a loose, unorganized confederation that represented the white man’s law. That they believed what they were doing was right didn’t offer Cork much hope. The truckful of Indians who were approaching undoubtedly believed that an important, perhaps even sacred, responsibility lay on their shoulders, and they, too, believed that right was on their side. He could feel the tension as the officers around him silently watched the headlights coming. And he couldn’t help thinking of that moment not very long ago at Burke’s Landing when Death, invoked by a misguided belief in righteousness, had stepped from behind a gentle curtain of morning rain and senselessly struck down two men.

LeDuc’s pickup slowed and stopped in the dark on the road fifteen yards back of the spread of cars that had penned in Broom and Hamilton and Meloux. As George LeDuc stepped from the cab, the FBI car that contained Agent Cordell’s team closed in from behind. LeDuc froze, blinking in the glare of their headlights, trying to make sense of the whole scene. Cordell and two other agents leaped from the car and leveled their weapons. The men in the back of the pickup-a half dozen of them, all with the powerful upper bodies of men who logged timber-stood up, holding weapons of their own. Axes and chainsaws.

Special Agent Margaret Kay called out, “This is the FBI. I want you men to empty your hands.”

None of the Anishinaabeg made a move to comply. Cork recognized them all. Jesse Adams, Hollister Defoe, Bobby Younger, Dennis Medina, Eli Dupres, and Lyman Villebrun. All were loggers, either independent contractors or working for the Ojibwe mill in Brandywine, and all of them lived on the rez. More importantly to Cork, they were all good men with families.

“I’m George LeDuc, Chairman of the Iron Lake Tribal Council,” LeDuc shouted, angrily standing his ground.

“I know who you are,” Kay said. “And I repeat: You men in the truck, empty your hands.”

“The hell we will,” Bobby Younger hollered back. “You put down your damn guns.”

“Look at them,” Cork said to Kay. “Those aren’t weapons they’re holding. They’re logging tools, for Christ’s sake.”

“Cork? Is that you?” George LeDuc yelled.

“It’s me, George. Just be cool.”

“What’s going on?”

“Stay back, Mr. O’Connor,” Kay ordered.

Cork ignored her and strode into the beam of LeDuc’s headlights. “Where were you headed, George?”

“Our Grandfathers. Word is there’s a fire burning up there, and we intend to put it out.” LeDuc peered beyond Cork. “We could use Isaiah there, and that Bobcat of his.”

“Have your men empty their hands and we’ll talk about it,” Kay offered in a stern voice.

Cork walked near to LeDuc.

“A lot of badges, Cork. What the hell’s going on?”

“A big misunderstanding, George. I think the men should put down those saws and axes; then we can talk and clear this whole thing up and you can be on your way.”

LeDuc’s face was still taut with anger, but his dark brown eyes offered Cork their trust. He gave a nod. “Put ‘em down, guys,” he said over his shoulder.

The truck bed rumbled with the clatter of sharp, heavy tools laid to rest. The federal agents, who didn’t yet holster their firearms, moved in.

Kay approached LeDuc. She flashed her ID and said, “I’m FBI Special Agent Margaret Kay. We have reason to be concerned about the explosives Mr. Broom is transporting in his truck.”

“He uses dynamite all the time,” LeDuc replied. “Everybody knows that.”

“Agent Kay,” Gooden called.