“Hello,” he growled.
A female voice asked if he was Mr. Collingwood.
“Yes,” he said.
“Please hold for the president.”
Max froze. He stared at the others, and they stared back. “Who?” April asked, forming the word silently.
Then the familiar clipped voice with its Baltimore accent came on the phone. “Max?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Eyes went wide all around.
“Max, are you in a place where the others can hear us?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Okay. I know you can put this on a speaker if you want. But it would be better if you didn’t. What I have to say is for you.”
His throat had gone dry. “Mr. President,” he said, “I am very glad to hear from you.”
“And I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you, son. Now listen, things are going to hell in the country. They’re a lot worse than you probably know about. People are losing their jobs, their savings, and God knows where it’s all going to end.”
“Because of the Roundhouse?”
“Because of the Roundhouse. Look, we don’t want to take anything away from the Indians. You know that. The country knows it. But people are scared right now, and we have to get that thing up there under control. We will see that the Indians are taken care of. You have my word. But this thing, it’s like nothing we’ve ever had to deal with before. It’s a national treasure, right? I mean, the Indians didn’t put it there or anything like that. They just happen to own the land.” He paused, possibly to catch his breath, maybe to get his emotions under control. His voice sounded close to breaking.
“I know about the problems, sir.”
“Good. Then you know I have to act. Have to. God help me, Max, the last thing we want to do is to spill blood over this.”
“I think everybody here feels the same way.”
“Of course. Of course.” His voice changed, acquired a tone that suggested they were now in accord. “I know about your father, Max. He served this country damned well.”
“Yes, sir. He did.”
“Now you have a chance.” He paused a beat. “I need your help, son.”
Max knew what was coming. “I don’t have much influence up here, Mr. President.”
“They don’t trust us, do they?”
“No, sir. They don’t.”
“I don’t blame them. Not a damned bit. But I am willing to give my personal assurance that they will be amply compensated for giving up their rights to Johnson’s Ridge.”
“You want me to tell them that?”
“Please. But I also need you to try to persuade them to see our side of this problem. I need you to convince them to give this up, Max. The only thing that can come out of this if they persist is to get themselves killed. Now please, I need your help.”
“Why me, Mr. President? Why didn’t you call Chairman Walker? Or Dr. Cannon?”
“Walker’s mind is made up. Dr. Cannon may be too young to have much influence over a group of Indians. You understand what I mean. I’ll be honest with you, Max. We’ve looked at the profiles of the people up there with you, and you seemed to us to be most open to reason.”
Max took a deep breath. He was the weak link. “I’ll tell them,” he said. “May I ask you something?”
“Go ahead, Max. Ask anything. Anything at all.”
“There’s a rumor here that the government intends to destroy the Roundhouse. Will you give me your word there’s no truth to it?”
Max could hear breathing on the other end. Then: “Max, we wouldn’t do that.”
“Your word, Mr. President?”
“Max. I can promise generous compensation.”
“What’s he saying?” whispered April.
Max shook his head.
“I don’t think that’s enough, Mr. President.”
“Max, you can help. Talk to them.”
“They won’t listen to me. Anyhow, I think they’re right.”
The long silence at the other end drew out until Max wondered if the president was still there. “You know, Max,” he said at last, “if there’s bloodshed, you’ll have to live the rest of your life knowing you could have prevented it.” Max could visualize him, a little man who looked somehow as if he should be running the neighborhood print shop. “I feel sorry for you, son. Well, you do what you have to, and I respect that. But stay on the line, okay? They’ll give you a number so you can get through if you change your mind. If we can get out of this peacefully, I’d be pleased to have you up to the White House.”
Then he was gone, and Max copied down the number and handed it to Adam. Without looking at it, Adam tore it into small pieces. He opened the door and gave it to the wind. And it occurred to Max that the only person who thought that Max Collingwood was going to stay with the Sioux was the president of the United States.
The white Ben at Ten news van rolled east across the prairie, bound for Johnson’s Ridge. Carole could barely contain her excitement. She kept replaying the interview in her mind, relishing the drama. She will stay with her brothers to defend her land. And, at the end, her own closing line, From the Sioux reservation at Devil’s Lake, this is Carole Jensen for NBC News.
And it wasn’t over. Robert Bazell was coming, but in the meantime she would be the network’s voice on the front line. She hoped that Bazell’s plane would get socked in somewhere.
Carole fell back against her seat and let the sheer joy of the moment surge through her.
They passed through the Pembina Mountains, and turned north again on Route 32. After a while they saw the emerald glow in the sky.
Police were steering traffic into a detour. Carole showed her credentials and got waved on. Ahead, at the turnoff to the access road, blinking lights and the white glare of TV lamps spilled onto the highway. Cars and vans were parked on the shoulder on both sides of the two-lane. Chang slowed down and pulled in beside an CNN van.
A cluster of media people had gathered at the access point. An old battered Ford was at the center of attention. She recognized Walker immediately. He had got out of the car and was talking to a deputy. Other police officers were trying without much success to keep the journalists at a distance.
“Set up, Chang,” she said, punching in the studio’s number on her cellular phone.
“Carole?” said her producer. “I was about to call you.”
“We’re here.”
“Okay. Walker just came down off the mountain. CNN and ABC are already on with it. He’s apparently going to make a statement.”
Carole was out of the car and on the move. Chang came around the other side, shouldering his gear.
“We’re doing the intro now,” said the voice from the studio. “Switch to you in twenty seconds.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Carole, throwing a quick look at her partner. “Chang, you ready?”
They got into the group of journalists, pushed and jostled their way forward until they could manage a decent shot of the proceedings. Walker looked frail and old. The police officers were uncomfortable with the turmoil and losing patience. A woman wearing a U.S. marshal pocket bullion was having an animated conversation with Chief Doutable. Carole was good at lip-reading, and she caught enough of the conversation to understand that she was telling the police chief to let something happen.
The reporters pushed forward, and the entire scene was awash in bright lights and stark shadows.
The deputy caught a signal from Doutable and backed away. Several hands thrust microphones toward the Ford. How did the Indians feel about being evicted? Would the Sioux fight? Were the Sioux hiding something? Was it true about the Visitor?
“No,” he said, “we are not hiding anything.” He climbed up onto the hillside, where everyone could see him. “My name is James Walker. I am the chairman of the tribal council.”
“Then what’s the big secret?” shouted someone in back.
Walker looked puzzled. “There is no secret. We have willingly shared the wilderness world with all who came to look. But the Roundhouse is on our land.”
The reporters grew quiet.