Durango by Gary Hart

Nobody cares about that kind of stuff anymore.
    They did then, Patrick. And that wasn’t too long ago in years. But it was a century ago in public attitudes. She paused and looked out into her garden, studying the bright moonlit flowers. Besides, now someone else’s reputation was at stake, not just his own. He’s old-fashioned in many ways, our Mr. Sheridan. He believed, I’m sure still does, that a man has a duty to protect the honor of a woman if her honor is brought into question. The letter said the alleged blackmailer was threatening to disclose her name.
    Did you show him the letter? Patrick asked.
    Didn’t have to, she said. By this time he had resigned from office and retreated into private life and whoever wrote the letter had achieved his purpose.
    â€œ His purpose,” you said.
    Yes, his purpose. Mrs. Farnsworth studied his face. His purpose. Because Murray and I were convinced—though we couldn’t prove it—that the husband of the woman in question wrote the defaming letter to destroy Mr. Sheridan. And for all public purposes, Mr. Sheridan was destroyed.
    You know who it was, don’t you, Patrick stated.
    Yes, she said. The woman was Caroline Chandler.
    10.
    Twelve years earlier, shortly after poking his finger in the eye of the Nature’s Capital officials, Dan Sheridan had invited Leonard Cloud to have breakfast at the café that would shortly become the venue of the Monday and Friday coffee club.
    Leonard, he had said, I’d be very careful about how you handle these East Coast money types that are showing up. Sheridan related the story of his confrontational lunch with the Nature’s Capital men, leaving out much of the conclusion and departing confrontation.
    The tribal chairman said, Dan, I understand what’s going on now and what will continue to go on until we get ourselves established. Mr. Maynard may be a small-town Durango lawyer, but he’s very shrewd where these money men are concerned. Besides, word got around about your wrestling match with the big wallets.
    Leonard Cloud and Sam Maynard had played high school basketball against each other, and in one of his first moves after he was selected tribal chairman in the late 1960s, the young Cloud had selected Maynard as tribal attorney. They had now been attorney and client, and close friends, for twenty-five years or more. But in the presence of any third party, including friends of both, they referred to each other in professional terms. Sam Maynard was never known to refer to the Southern Ute chairman as anything other than Mr. Cloud.
    Well, I suspected you’d be covering your six, Sheridan said, knowing the Ute chairman would understand the combat pilot reference from his US Air Force days.
    Leonard Cloud chuckled. Haven’t heard that term in awhile.
    Tell me what you have in mind to do with the resource revenues, Sheridan asked, in case it’s any of my business.
    Of course it is, Dan, Cloud said. How we manage this situation will be important to La Plata County and Durango. Mr. Maynard and I have discussed creating a new tribal investment fund, a kind of trust for ourselves and future generations. The council has agreed that these minerals—these riches—don’t belong to just us. We have a responsibility to our kids, and their kids, and many generations to come.
    Some of your folks will want to have a party, a pretty big party I’d imagine, Sheridan said. And given your history, it’s pretty easy to understand why.
    Cloud said, My job—the council’s job—is to convince them that the party has to be one where we improve our houses and schools and hospital first. Once we get a decent roof over everyone’s head and pay our teachers and nurses better, there’ll be enough for singing and dancing. First things first.
    Sheridan nodded. He wasn’t surprised. Leonard Cloud was one of the most thoughtful individuals he’d ever met.
    Cloud