Montana Standoff Page 10

  She took her restless psyche to work and spent Wednesday morning compiling more of Brad’s paperwork, but could find no satisfaction in it. She worked straight through lunch, using the time to catch up on filing and answering long overdue correspondence. Boring, routine stuff, not the sort of courtroom drama she’d imagined in law school. She kept glancing at the Internet icon on her computer desktop and reminding herself that she had stopped chewing her fingernails when she was fifteen.

  Skelton stopped by her office later that afternoon. “Good job smoothing Ken’s feathers,” he said by way of greeting. “How’s the permitting paperwork coming along?”

  “Actually, there’s been a bit of a snag.” Molly rose from behind her desk, remembering at the last moment to slip on her shoes. “It’s in regards to the access road being built on Madison Mountain. We just received this with the morning mail.” She plucked the certified letter off the top of her desk and extended it to her boss. “Young Bear’s filed an injunction in federal court to stop all work on the road. He alleges that New Millennium did not follow due process of the law and obtain the proper permitting before beginning road construction.”

  Molly paused for a moment while Skelton unfolded the letter, waiting for a reaction that never came. “It just so happens that he’s right,” Molly continued. “I phoned Mr. Manning earlier, and he admitted that since there was little reason to expect any problems, work on the access roads should proceed concurrent with the filing for permits and both he and Brad gave the go-ahead for that to happen. Mr. Skelton, is this normal procedure? When I advised Mr. Manning that the road work should be stopped immediately, he just laughed.”

  Skelton gave the letter a cursory glance before setting it on her desk. “Brad already informed me about this. It’s no big deal.”

  “No doubt the newspapers will print something about it.”

  “Newspapers have to print something, or they’d go out of business pretty quick. That’s small potatoes.”

  Molly took a deep breath. “While I was doing some research for Brad on this project, I did a quick background check on some of Condor International’s other subsidiaries and discovered that this firm also represents the Soldier Mountain Mine near the Rocky Ridge Reservation. Didn’t the Sioux try to shut it down two years ago?”

  Skelton’s expression remained neutral. “Two and a half years ago Soldier Mountain applied for a ten-year permitting extension to continue mining uranium. Young Bear alleged that the mine was contaminating the tribe’s drinking water and he tried to block the extension by pushing to legislate tougher clean-water initiatives. Fortunately for us, he failed,” he said. “That was a tough fight. This project on Madison Mountain is all about gold and silver. You should breeze right through, fair sailing all the way.”

  “I haven’t a doubt of it,” Molly agreed, “but I’m also fairly certain that all our client’s dirty laundry is going to be aired by Young Bear at these upcoming public hearings. That’s why I need to understand what happened at Soldier Mountain, so I can prepare Brad with a rebuttal. But Mr. Skelton, the funny thing is, all I’ve been able to dredge up are a few brief newspaper blurbs. The files at the federal courthouse are sealed up tight. There isn’t even a statement of claim for public consumption. I’ve never encountered this kind of a roadblock before, and the court clerk I spoke with was most unhelpful.”

  “Don’t worry about Soldier Mountain,” Skelton said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Young Bear won’t bring that up at any public meeting. He’s just lucky that ill-conceived lawsuit of his didn’t land him in jail.”

  Skelton glanced impatiently at his watch. “I’m late for an appointment,” he said, and left her office without another word.

  Molly returned the file to the cabinet and sank back into her chair, kicking off her shoes and dropping her chin into her hand. She frowned as she gazed across the room. What had Skelton meant about the Soldier Mountain lawsuit landing Steven in jail? Could it have anything to do with the brief newspaper blurb she’d stumbled across in her Soldier Mountain research about Steven’s legal assistant, Mary Pretty Shield? The newspaper had merely related her name, her age and that she’d been found dead beside a river on the reservation. Tribal police had treated her death as an accidental drowning. There was no other mention of her except an even briefer obit two days later.

  She wondered if she dared ask Steven about Pretty Shield. It would be a strictly professional inquiry, of course, but what if she didn’t like his answer? She had an uneasy feeling she wouldn’t. It seemed the harder she tried to enlighten herself in preparation for these public hearings, the more dirt she uncovered. She didn’t like dirt. She liked things to be clean and neat and predictable. She liked it when the good guys wore white hats and won every fight.

  Molly closed her eyes with a soft moan and felt the beginnings of a bad headache gather like an impending storm in her temples.

  Saturday. Oh please, please, come quick….

  STEVEN HAD JUST RETURNED from Sam Blackmore’s memorial service and was working on a real-estate transfer when Amy Littlefield called his office. “They’re still using the mining road,” she blurted angrily into the phone. “I just came from there and those great big yellow dump trucks are still going up and down, just like they owned the place. I thought you told me you filed an injunction to make them stop.”

  “It takes time to serve the papers,” Steven soothed. “They’ll stop soon.”

  “I didn’t see anything in the newspaper this morning.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Steven said.

  “We’ve been talking about blockading the road,” Amy said. “We could make up a bunch of signs, call the media, drive our cars over there and set up a roadblock. That would get their attention, and maybe even get us on television.”

  “Actions like that can turn violent pretty fast. I’d advise you to stay away from the access road.”

  “We have to do something. It isn’t right, them breaking the law that way and nobody stopping them. We can’t just sit here and let them get away with it.”

  “Give it another day,” he said. “Sometimes the wheels of justice turn a little slow. Try to be patient.”

  He hung up and glanced at the clock. Eleven forty-five. It felt later than that. He hadn’t slept a wink last night. All he could think about was Molly, and Saturday and how far away Saturday was from Wednesday. His phone rang again. It was Pony. “Did you get a chance to see Luther Makes Elk?” she asked.

  “I saw him Tuesday night.”

  “Well?”

  “He thinks I should go on a vision quest.”

  “Steven, what did he say about my wedding?”

  “He seemed to know about it already. Did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t dare. I know how he feels about mixed marriages. Did you tell him?”

  “That you were getting married?”

  “Steven! What did he say? Will he do it?”

  Steven paused. He thought back to Monday night and remembered what he could of the strange conversation. “Come to think of it, Pony, I don’t think he really gave me an answer.”

  “That is not funny.”

  “Okay, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll stop at his place again on my way to your place on Saturday and I’ll get a definite yes or a no from him. I promise I’ll pin him down and I’ll give you his answer at the barbecue.”

  “Bring him with you,” Pony urged. “There will be plenty of food and he will have a chance to meet Caleb and make up his mind one way or the other. Once he meets Caleb he’ll agree to our wedding, I know he will. How could anyone not like that wonderful man?”

  MOLLY WAS ON HER WAY to the copy room when Brad intercepted her in the hallway wearing an apprehensive expression. “Thought you’d want to know. I just fielded a call from a journalist who writes for the Bozeman Sentinel.”

  “About the nonexistent road-building permits for the mine?” Molly guessed.

  “Yeah, only there’s more. The rumor is that bec
ause the trucks are still rolling in spite of the fact that the injunction was filed yesterday morning, the citizens of Moose Horn are planning to blockade the road.”

  “When?” Molly said.

  “This afternoon, probably even as we speak. The journalist said she just got the heads-up from the woman who’s spearheading the citizens group. Amy something-or-other.”

  “Littlefield,” Molly supplied. “Can’t we get Manning to stop the truckers and close down the road before the media jumps into this? We don’t need this kind of publicity.”

  “I can’t get hold of him. He’s not in his office.”

  “Then I’ll bring a copy of the injunction and go myself,” Molly said.

  “It’s an hour’s drive just to get to Bozeman,” Brad pointed out.

  “True, but it’s only a fifteen-minute flight,” she rejoined. “I can rent a car when I get to Bozeman.” Seeing his reluctance, Molly reached out to touch his arm. “Brad, isn’t it our responsibility to represent our client’s legal matters and to provide a visible presence in controversial public arenas? Shouldn’t one of us go? There could be trouble.”

  “Look, I doubt anything will come of this. I’d go myself, but I’m meeting a client for lunch. Maybe we should just sit this one out. You could keep trying to reach Manning.” He hesitated. “I don’t know if you should go down there, Molly. You know how Ken feels about you speaking in public….”

  “I’ll try him on my cell phone on the way to the airport, and if he wants to take over, that’s fine with me. And don’t worry. If Manning doesn’t show up, I’ll restrict my conversation to the truckers and contractors and stay out of the spotlight. Please, Brad, let me go.” Molly was swept with a sudden, fierce need to fly to Bozeman, but her motives weren’t nearly as noble as she had led Brad to believe. She wanted to see Steven. If he heard about the planned blockade, he’d go just to prevent any trouble—and she’d make sure he heard about it. This was a perfectly legitimate opportunity to get to see him before Saturday. No way was she going to pass it up.

  “Okay,” Brad said. “You can go. But keep it low key. This is really no big deal.”

  THERE WERE DAYS WHEN NOTHING of a man’s life measured up, and this was one of them. Steven had worked hard to reach this place, this plateau of professional respectability. He liked his office with the Ansel Adams prints on the walls, the battered old oak partners desk, the distant view of the Gallatin range. He liked it most of the time, but today he felt trapped within its walls. There was always so much paperwork, and he disliked paperwork. He was sick of rewriting real-estate deeds. He was tired of doing the same things over and over again, even though he knew what he was doing was good, the way it had been good when he’d helped Jessie Weaver write all the conservation restrictions into her ranch deed before she sold the Bow and Arrow to Caleb McCutcheon.

  But today it wasn’t enough that he was helping to protect everyone else’s special places. It wasn’t enough that he was helping Amy Littlefield and her small army of citizens battle a huge multinational corporation. He wanted something more. Something much more. He wanted to see Molly Ferguson so badly that he couldn’t eat a bite of his lunch. So badly that when the phone rang he picked it up and said, with uncharacteristic bluntness, “Yes?”

  “Your phone manners are getting worse than mine, Young Bear,” Molly’s voice came over the line. “Listen, I’m calling you as a professional courtesy, just in case you didn’t already know. The citizens of Moose Horn are apparently planning to block the access road to the New Millennium mine.”

  “I know. Amy called me earlier. She was upset that they were still using the road, but I told her to be patient and give it another day.”

  “Well, she didn’t take your advice. They’re not waiting. They’re going to block the road today.”

  Steven lurched forward in his chair, clutching the phone to his ear. “When?”

  “Right now, or so the journalist covering the story just informed us. I’m about to board a commuter flight to Bozeman, and Steven? I’m bringing a copy of your injunction with me just in case there’s any trouble with the contractors who’re working on the road, but if you’re free…”

  “Does Manning know?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s not answering his home phone or his office phone. He could be at the mine site already for all I know. Steven? I have to go. My plane’s boarding.”

  “Molly?” he said, but he was talking to static.

  He fished a card out of his wallet and dialed the number on it. It was Amy Littlefield’s home phone, and not surprisingly there was no answer. He then dialed up the sheriff’s cell-phone number and on the second ring Conrad Walker’s gruff voice answered. Steven succinctly related what Molly had told him. “I’m on my way, but you’re a whole lot closer, and I’m afraid there could be trouble.”

  “Damn,” Walker said. “Figures this’d blow up on my day off. I’m standing in the middle of the Yellowstone River in a pair of waders with a fly rod in my hand.”

  Steven slumped at his desk. “Could you send someone just to make sure nobody gets hurt?”

  “I’ll call dispatch, get my deputy up there. And I’ll be there myself just as soon as I can.”

  Steven hung up the phone, grabbed his keys and left the office. As the door shut behind him, he reflected on the irony that not moments ago he’d been wanting to escape the confines of these four walls. He’d been wanting desperately to see Molly. Now he was free of his office and on his way to a place where she would be, but instead of feeling exhilaration, he was filled with adrenaline fueled by cold, hard fear. Even at top speed, which at times wasn’t very quick at all given the nature of the twisting mountain roads, it took him nearly forty minutes to reach the dirt road that the mining company had built to access the top of Madison. By that time he’d calmed his fears. By the time Molly arrived everything would be over. She wouldn’t be caught in the middle of things. She’d be safe. She’d be okay.

  But what if…?

  Steven slammed on the brakes coming out of a sharp turn and the Jeep skidded sideways, coming to a stop scant inches from the rear bumper of a huge dump truck. As he climbed out of the vehicle, the reason why it was blocking the road became apparent. Several vehicles were parked abreast facing down the mountain access road. There were about twelve people standing in front of the these vehicles, holding signs saying things like Stop Stealing Our Heritage! and No Permits = No Road = No Permission To Pass!

  There was a dump truck parked facing up the mountain, and one visibly agitated dump-truck driver the size of Paul Bunyan standing in front of his truck and holding an industrial-size tire iron in two large fists. No deputy sheriff on the scene. No Sheriff Walker. Looked like Steven was going to have to keep the peace. Great.

  “Okay,” Steven said, walking between the opposing forces. He stared the trucker in the eye. “These folks are no threat to you. There’s no need for violence.”

  “There’s no need for them to be blocking the road,” the trucker said, his face dark with anger. He was a brute of a man with a huge beer belly, but most of the meat on him looked formidably powerful.

  Steven reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew his own copy of the injunction. “In point of fact, this road was constructed without the permits required by the U.S. Forest Service and Bureau of Public Lands,” he said. “These papers were filed yesterday in federal court to stop all road-building activities until the permits are approved.”

  The trucker flicked his eyes over the sheaf of papers Steven extended. “I don’t give a damn what those papers say. I’m being paid to do a job, and I’m doing the job. No one from the mine has told me to stop, and they’re the ones who sign my paycheck. You’d better tell these tree-hugging idiots to get out of my way, or sure as hell someone’s gonna get hurt.”

  “You should turn your truck around and go,” Amy Littlefield yelled out heatedly, advancing a few steps with her sign. “What you’re doing here is illegal and you should be arrest
ed and thrown in jail. This is public land you’re desecrating, it belongs to all of us, and you have no right to be tearing it up.”

  “Amy,” Steven said, trying to catch her eye and give her a warning head shake, but she ignored him, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed with righteous anger.

  “Look, lady,” the trucker said, emphasizing his words with the tire iron, “what I’m doing here is earning a living. I got kids to feed, and I don’t give a rat’s ass about much else. Now I’ll say this just one more time. Move, or I’m gonna start busting some skulls.”

  Steven stepped between the trucker and Amy. “You may want to think about the repercussions of doing that,” he said. “If you hurt anyone, you’ll definitely go to jail, and you won’t earn much of a living there. Take a look behind you. See that van with the satellite dish and the Channel 6 logo that just pulled up behind my Jeep? You bust any skulls and you’ll be doing it live, for public consumption on the evening news.”

  The trucker glanced behind him, his expression changing as the van disgorged a newscaster and videographer, both of whom hit the ground at a trot. “Looks like I’ll be on the evening news anyway.”

  “Probably,” Steven said, “but you could make things really bad for New Millennium if you play the part of a thug. Put the tire iron away. Think about your kids. Do you really want them to watch their father being hauled off to jail on prime time?”

  “Come on, hurry up.” They heard the shrill command of the newswoman to her videographer as she raced toward them. “For the love of Pete, turn that damn camera on!”