Blood Memory

Catherine waited for the walk light on the other side of Speer Boulevard. Through the traffic, she could see a few weekend students walking along the sidewalks of the grassy campus. The light changed, tires squealed, and she set off with several students, backpacks bouncing on their backs.

She had parked in a lot a few blocks away and walked through Larimer Square, slightly out of breath, her mouth dry and the headache crouching like a beast ready to pounce again. She had always liked Larimer Square, the oldest buildings in the city lining the street, two stories high and bricked with the irregular bricks from the city’s first kilns. A sense of the past floated like a ghost around the traffic and the crowds heading into the trendy restaurants and shops. And somewhere she had read that Chief Left Hand had gone to the Apollo Theater on Larimer Street, watched a performance, then jumped onto the stage and given a speech. He had told the audience to take their gold and leave the Arapaho lands. He spoke fluent English. The newcomers knew him and respected him.

Catherine thought about that as she made her way down the empty Saturday corridors of the North Building and up the stairs to the fifth floor. She found the King Center. The door was locked. This was a bad idea, she was thinking. Almost no one around, apart from the few students emerging out of the stairwell and disappearing around a corner, voices echoing into the silence.

She walked down the hall past the closed doors, checking the names printed on white cards below the pebbled glass windows and knocked on the door with Professor Morrow’s name on the card. Silence. She kept going to the end of the corridor and flattened herself into a corner next to the window. The traffic on Speer Boulevard streamed below. A scattering of students moved through campus. He’ll try to lure you somewhere, Bustamante had said, and he’ll be waiting.

There was nothing unusual below: brown sedans driving past now and then, but they kept going. And what did it matter? He would no longer be driving a brown sedan. He could be in any of the vehicles. He could be anywhere. But there was no one with yellow hair walking about the campus or coming down the corridor. Still, she held her bag against her stomach and worked her fingers into the leather.

A middle-aged man stepped off the elevator and headed toward the door down from the History Department. Black, straight hair that brushed the collar of a blue shirt, blue jeans, and boots that clumped on the hard floor. Except for the stack of books and folders clutched at his side, he could play the role of a cowboy on any stage. Or an Indian, she thought. She watched as he fished a key out of his jeans pocket and let himself into the office. A couple of students were getting off the elevator now, but they walked around a corner. No one else heading for the office.

“Come in.” The voice inside was low pitched and smooth, the bass voice of a singer. She stepped into the small office and left the door ajar behind her. It was like wandering into a cave of books: books filed on the shelves against the walls, stacked on the floor and the pair of chairs, stacked across one side of the desk, and only the smallest window letting in a slice of daylight. Sam Morrow stood between the desk and a worn, leather chair, peering down at the pages of an opened book.

“Yes, yes.” He waved at one of the chairs covered with books, not lifting his eyes from the pages. Catherine picked up the books, laid them on the floor next to another stack, and sat down. She took her notepad and pen from her bag and waited. He was in his forties, she guessed, dark complexion and black eyebrows running together in concentration, hard-set jaw. A couple of seconds passed before he straightened his back and turned toward her. “Rechecking a few facts before we talk,” he said. “You’ve taken on a controversial subject.”

Catherine waited for him to go on. “They cite certain evidence— reports and documents, oral histories.” He set a fist in the spine of the opened book. “The early 1860s were a tumultuous time here,” he said, tilting his head toward the window and the city beyond. “Cheyennes, Arapahos, even Sioux, attacking settlements and wagon trains. In August of 1864, Indians shut down the Platte River Road. Imagine what that must have been like for the settlers camped along Cherry Creek. No farms, no ranches for beef. Everything had to be brought by wagon from Omaha or St. Louis. Flour, sugar, fruits, vegetables, meat. Tools of all kinds, bolts of cloth for shirts and pants, leather for boots. Horses and mules and wagons. All coming from far away, and the flow of supplies stopped by bands of hostile Indians.”

“They were being driven off their own lands.” Catherine could see the stories unfolding across the pages she had read. “The newcomers were slaughtering the buffalo, driving off what was left of the herds so that the warriors had to ride for days to get food for the villages.” She leaned forward. “The people were hungry, the children were sick. The soldiers attacked villages indiscriminately and killed people who had nothing to do with the hostiles. They killed families of Arapahos and Cheyennes at Sand Creek who were there with the peace chiefs.”

For a moment, she thought he was about to say yes, that he would cite some document as evidence. She was a reporter. She would have to include the document in her story. And she didn’t know how she could then look into the eyes of the elders.

“The historical records speak for themselves,” Morrow said. “Sand Creek was a horrific attack on Indians who believed themselves safe. The atrocities were unconscionable. Nevertheless, there are scholars who will oppose additional settlements for the tribes,” he said. “Quite apart from any consideration of a casino.”

He shook his head. “Those scholars are entitled to their opinions. The academy does not agree, and in my opinion, neither will Congress. In the Treaty of the Little Arkansas and the Treaty of Medicine Lodge, both held after Sand Creek, the government acknowledged the injustices against the tribes. We can be reasonably sure the transcriptions are accurate. The translator was Margaret Fitzpatrick—”

“The widow of the government agent, Thomas Fitzpatrick. Actually her name was Wilmarth. Fitzpatrick had died and she’d remarried by the time of the treaties. The tribes respected her because she was the oldest daughter of Mahom, Chief Left Hand’s sister. And because she was Fitzpatrick’s widow. He had been a good friend to the Indians.”

And these were her Arapaho ancestors, Catherine was thinking. Mahom, the sister of Chief Left Hand. And her daughter, Margaret Fitzpatrick. “She was a squaw,” she said.

“Fitzpatrick never treated her like a squaw. The historical record shows that he treated her with respect. Sent her to St. Louis to be educated. She used her education to help her people. Too often the interpreters interpreted agreements with the Indians the way the whites wanted. The Arapahos insisted on Margaret as the official interpreter for the treaties. They knew she would speak the truth.”

She could feel him watching her. There was so much she would have liked to ask about Margaret Fitzpatrick. But that was her story, not the story she was covering. When she didn’t say anything, he said, “The point is, the government acknowledged the injustices and the loss of lands shortly after Sand Creek. Three government commissions investigated the attack, and all condemned it. People cheered Chivington and his troops in the streets of Denver, but around the country, people were outraged. Nevertheless, people who believe Sand Creek was justified will line up with the governor to oppose any additional settlement.”

“I believe the bulk of historical evidence supports that claim. But what happened at Sand Creek shouldn’t be confused with any claims the tribes make on their ancestral lands. The loss of their lands and the massacre are separate events. The descendants of people killed at Sand Creek are entitled to pursue their own land claims as reparations, but that’s a different matter. The tribes have already been compensated for the loss of their lands. It may have taken Congress a hundred years to approve a settlement, but the Arapahos and Cheyennes received $15 million in 1965.”

Catherine felt slightly dizzy as she made her way down the stairs, through the glass doors, and into the heat rising off the concrete walkways. The headache crouched like a mountain lion in her head, ready to pounce. This was new, everything that Professor Morrow had said. The claim of genocide and the claim on the tribal lands were separate issues, and yet the tribes had linked them together, counting on Sand Creek to make the casino a reality. Maybe Arcott had hit upon the scheme, but Norman Whitehorse and the elders had gone along.

She hurried down the sidewalk, shading the cell with her hand, forcing herself to skim the list of messages. Traffic streamed past—the hum of tires and the faint odors of exhaust and boiling asphalt. For a second, she had to close her eyes against the earth heaving around her and the white clouds tumbling through the sky. She bent her head closer to the cell. A text message from Norman. “Nd talk private. Confluence Park. 4:00 p.m.”

Then she went into her voice mail. Another message from Lawrence: “Call me. We have to talk.” And a message from Marjorie. “Stop avoiding me, Catherine. Get back to me immediately.”

She forced herself to call Lawrence. He would never stop calling until she returned his calls. It surprised her how quickly he answered. “For Christ’s sake, Catherine, what the hell’s going on?”

She knew then that Bustamante had asked Lawrence Stern to come to police headquarters with the courthouses nearby and every chance of one of his attorney friends taking in the whole charade. “Someone’s trying to kill me,” she said.

“I understand that.” She could hear the incredulity in his voice, imagine the way he was shaking his head. “Surely there’s some explanation for . . .” He hesitated. “This craziness. Listen, I want to see you. I’m worried about you, and I want to talk with you. Have dinner with me tonight, Catherine.”

Before she could say anything, he went on: “I’m not taking no for an answer. We have to talk.” Then he was giving her the name of a restaurant—“Just opened, quaint little place, excellent food, quiet street off Thirteenth Avenue”—and telling her he’d made reservations for eight o’clock. She heard herself agree. She’d meet him there, she said, and they would sit at a quiet table near the back where they could talk privately.