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By Coel, Margaret

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You lawyers,” he said, a lighter tone now, “never give up hope the courts can settle everything. Problem is, Vicky, we have other issues with the state. ” He gestured toward the map of Wyoming, the reservation a large block of red in the center. “We’re surrounded. We depend on the state for maintenance on state roads across the rez, money for schools, welfare programs. Let’s say we file another lawsuit on the water issue and the federal court says, yeah, Indians got the right to regulate water quality in our rivers.

For a week, the temperature had been setting record highs. He turned into the bare-dirt yard and stopped next to the concrete stoop at the front door. The curtains in the front windows were half-closed against the sun, making the house seem inviting, a shady oasis. A twenty-year-old sedan with the rear bumper bent at one end was parked next to the house. He let the tape play a moment, then hit the off switch and got out, giving the door a hard slam that sounded like a rifle shot in the quiet. Anybody inside would know he’d arrived.

She handed the report across the desk. Weedly flinched. She might have handed him a fire-cracker about to explode in his face. He stared at the plastic cover. “Not gonna happen, counselor. S. ” Vicky heard the stridency in her voice. ” The engineer jumped up and turned toward the photos behind his desk. “State has a lot to say about the amount of water in the reservoirs and irrigation canals,” he said. He might have been talking to himself. ” He turned back to her, a mild look of surprise in his expression, as if he’d just remembered she was there.

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