Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 13, Mid-December 1992

Your Law, Our Land by William T. Lowe

Rory Horn hugged the trunk of the birch tree and wished he could make himself invisible. The top branches were still swaying from his rapid climb; if either of the two men looking for him glanced up, he would be seen.

And probably shot. Rory was certain he had just seen a load of illegal firearms being smuggled into Canada. He was also sure any Witnesses would be extremely unwelcome.

The men on the ground below were both white, both armed with Israeli-made Uzi weapons, both dressed in brown uniforms. They followed the faint trail to the river’s edge, searching the low underbrush, watching for a boat on the water.

They retraced their steps and paused under the clump of birch and pine.

“Where’d the bastard go?”

“Damn Indians. Always snoopin’ around.”

“You think he saw anything?”

“Nah. I spotted him as soon as he showed up. He split when I yelled out.”

“We can’t take chances. You go that way and meet me back at the truck. And put the gun away; remember we’re on an Indian reservation.”

With a sigh of relief Rory watched the two men disappear through the brush. He remembered the meeting that afternoon in Chief Harry Blackwell’s office.

“Firearms are funneling through the New York side of the reservation into Canada, and we don’t know how the shipments are being made.” The speaker was grim-faced as he looked around the table.

“How do you know the arms are going through our territory?” asked Chief Blackwell.

“Our intelligence gives us that much, but that’s all we’ve got.”

“This contraband, what exactly is it?”

“Big ticket items. Assault rifles. Grenades. Anti-tank missiles, probably surplus from the Gulf.” The speaker was Art Bowers, field agent of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

This meeting was supposed to be about fishing violations in the St. Lawrence. Rory was there to give a status report on the pollution cleanup operation by the EPA and the New York DEC. Non-natives were encroaching on Mohawk fishing areas. The Akwesasne Mohawk Police didn’t have the manpower to enforce the laws; the tribal council had to appeal for cooperation from the Canadian authorities.

At the table was a uniformed sergeant of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, another from the Ontario Provincial Police, a man in plainclothes from the Sûreté du Quebec. Bowers of the ATF and Farley of the FBI had turned up at the last minute, and Chief Blackwell had permitted them to sit in.

Art Bowers had asked to speak. He was in his late thirties with glasses and thinning hair and the beginning of a paunch. To Rory he looked more like an accountant than a field agent.

“The word we get is that the Warriors are stockpiling a lot of armament,” Bowers said, “as if they didn’t have enough firepower already.”

Chief Blackwell interrupted. “We don’t need that kind of gossip,” he said sharply. “If you get any proof of that, Mr. Bowers, you bring it to me.”

Art Bowers shrugged and sat down. Rory saw the look he gave Farley, a look that said “dumb Indians.” It was the superior attitude of some white men, and Rory resented it.

John Farley said, “We’ve been stopping every truck and trailer and camper that comes on the reservation. But so far no luck.”

“It’s been bad for business,” Chief Blackwell said, “but we haven’t objected.”

“Sorry, chief,” Farley said. “I hope none of your people are involved in this, Chief Blackwell. You’ve had enough on your plate these past few months.”

Rory knew what he meant. There had been internal clashes in the tribe between pro- and anti-gambling factions. There had been gunfire, deaths. The papers called it the “gambling wars” and labeled the Warriors militant hotheads. The tribe didn’t need any more negative publicity. The meeting went on; the Canadian representatives promised cooperation.

When the men were out of sight, Rory slid to the ground. He had the classic Mohawk profile, the strong nose, the heavy chin. He wore his black hair long, caught at the back of his neck with a short blue ribbon. While it was common to see Indian men with blue eyes, Rory’s eyes were a somber brown.

He did not follow the path but worked his way along the river bank. It was late spring, and a horde of black flies followed him. This was Cornwall Island, the largest island in the St. Lawrence, the river that marked the boundary between the U.S. and Canada. The river flowed through the center of the Mohawk reservation near Massena, New York. The Akwesasne Indians were on the state side, the St. Regis on the Canadian side.

A community of Indian families lived on the island with their schools and churches, but there were stretches of undeveloped land that were isolated and empty.

Rory had left his truck parked near a trailer that served as a field headquarters for the DEC and EPA engineers engaged in taking soil and water samples. Rory had majored in environmental science; now he represented the tribe in the pollution cleanup studies.

“Every truck, every trailer, every camper,” John Farley had said. Rory had followed a hunch that afternoon after the meeting, and blind luck had paid off. Now he knew how the contraband firearms were being handled. But before he could tell anyone, he had to get off the island.

Up ahead he heard a car engine start. Lying prone on a slight rise, he parted strands of high grass and peered through them. The two vehicles he had seen earlier were moving out. The men had given up their search for him. Rory rose and began trotting toward the area where his Ranger was parked.

He wondered whom he should tell about what he had seen. There were many law enforcement agencies involved. There was nothing new about smuggling along the U.S./Canadian border. It could be cigarettes, narcotics, firearms, even illegal aliens from Europe. Most of it was concentrated farther east in the Swanton sector at the Champlain border crossing. There the agents had to contend with a heavily traveled interstate that ran from Albany to Montreal. And there was the Amtrak railroad, and even the boat traffic on Lake Champlain. All saw their share of smuggling activity.

Rory decided to tell Uncle Mark what he had seen. Mark Benjamin had been a friend of his father’s. He was a senior agent with the New York State Bureau of Criminal Investigation. His office was in Syracuse.

He would tell Mark, and Mark could tell whomever he chose. Mark knew that any publicity linking Mohawks with anything illegal would be especially bad now. Legislation favorable to the Mohawks was pending in the statehouse down in Albany. Bad publicity could kill it.

It was late when Rory headed his little pickup over the bridge from the island and started for Hogansburg. In the western sky he could see the lofty St. Lawrence International Bridge. Lights were beginning to twinkle along the length of the span that linked the two countries.

It was full dark when he drove up Memorial Street to St. Regis Road and headed for Main Street. He passed a shop with a big sign that read WELCOME TO AKWESASNE — LAND WHERE THE PARTRIDGE DRUMS.

There was little traffic. Here and there at intersections he saw the dark blue state police cars parked with their lights off. The troopers and the Canadian provincial police had maintained a presence on the reservation since the armed conflicts months ago. The Warriors resented it deeply as an insult and an intrusion.

Light spilled from Billy’s Bingo Hall, but most of Main Street was deserted, the big casinos standing dark and silent, their employees out of work and restless.

Rory stopped at the Bear’s Den, a complex of stores, a restaurant, and a service station. A few late tourists were there, filling up with tax-free gasoline and buying tax-free cigarettes.

“I’m looking for Jake Hightower,” Rory told one of the attendants. He mentioned his name and turned away. Jake would get the message. The Warriors had an excellent communication network, and Jake was one of the leaders. And a friend of Rory’s despite the fact that Rory did not believe in violence and had never joined the Warriors.

But there were hundreds of men like Jake, determined to preserve the sovereignty of the Indian nation against all intruders. They were militant and well armed.

Each Warrior was to possess a 12-gauge shotgun with forty rounds or a .223 rifle with one hundred rounds. Handguns were optional. “The Warriors will at all times be a defensive force,” read the guidelines. “We will never initiate any action unless so directed by the War Chief. Our responsibility is to protect the people of our nation and our Mother Earth and the things that dwell upon her.”

“What do you call yourselves?” Rory had asked Jake once. “Militia? Minutemen?”

“We’re the peacekeepers,” Jake growled.

Outside of Hogansburg, Highway 37 was dark. Rory had the radio tuned to CKON, the reservation station. He was listening to a rock number when a car materialized on his left. He waited for it to pass, but it slowed to match his own speed. Rory was vaguely aware of a dim shape in an open window, and then a blast of flame and noise. Lightning seared into his shoulder and across his head. The afterimage of the flash lingered for an instant and then faded. The world went black, and the little truck nosed across the shoulder of the road and came to a gentle stop in the ditch.

The erratic behavior of the headlights caught the attention of a NYS trooper car coming up 37 from the opposite direction. The cruiser saw the little pickup canted over in the ditch, turned sharply, and braked behind it.

From a great distance Rory heard voices.

“Looks like another drunken Indian.”

“Can it, George. He’s not drunk. He’s been shot. Hold that flashlight steady... hey! I know this guy!”

Someone was shaking him gently and calling his name. Rory opened his eyes and thought he saw the face of an old friend.

“Nash?” he asked weakly. “Is that you, Nash?”

“It’s me,” said Nash Seymour. “Don’t talk, old buddy. We’ll get you out of here.”

Rory came back to consciousness in a bed in the hospital in Massena. He saw a pleased grin spread across the face of the trooper standing by his bedside.

“You’ll be all right, Rory,” said Nash. “Just take it easy.” He and Rory had gone to high school together in Salmon River. It was pure chance that Nash and his partner had been patroling on Highway 37 when someone fired a buckshot charge at Rory. And pure chance that Rory had not been killed. Some instinct had prompted him to throw up his left arm defensively. A slug had creased his scalp, another had torn through the muscle of his upper arm. He would wear bandages and a sling for some time.

Another person by the bed grasped his hand. Rory blinked and saw Uncle Mark smiling down at him.

“You’re all right, son,” Mark said. “The doctor says no concussion.” Mark Benjamin looked like a successful insurance salesman. He always wore an old fashioned three-piece suit with a chain across the vest. With iron gray hair, he could have been forty-five or sixty.

“Donna?” Rory asked in a faint voice.

“She’s fine. I told her there had been an accident. She wanted to come, but I told her I would bring you home as soon as the doctors got through with you.”

“Thanks. How did you...”

“I heard it on the radio, on the police band.” Mark glanced behind him. “Captain Barnes is here. Feel up to some questions, son?”

Rory nodded. “Something to tell you, Uncle Mark,” he whispered.

“Later, son.”

Captain Barnes was a bluff, hearty mountain of a man in the full uniform of a captain of Troop B. He wasn’t disappointed that Rory could tell him nothing factual. Rory hadn’t seen the gunman, didn’t know the make of the car, knew no reason for the attack. “We’ll talk again tomorrow, son,” Barnes told him.

From the hall Rory heard Barnes’s voice, stern and authoritative, addressing the troopers and the hospital staff. “I want this kept absolutely quiet, you understand? I don’t want things stirred up on the reservation, you hear me? We don’t want last summer all over again. If it gets out that an Indian was shot, the Warriors will have barricades up by morning. I won’t have it, you hear?”

He stuck his head in the door. “Mark, if the boy comes up with anything, you let me know chop-chop.”

“You got it, captain.”

Barnes disappeared. Nash and his partner were gone. The doctor took a last look at the big white bandage on Rory’s head, felt his pulse, and told him to go home and to bed.

Mark said, “I know you’ve got one hell of a headache, son, but you were lucky. A dozen stitches, no broken bones.” He held out his hands to help Rory stand up. “Let’s go home. There’s someone outside waiting to see you.”

Rory leaned on Mark for support. His dizziness and nausea cleared somewhat by the time they reached the parking lot.

Waiting beside Mark’s car was Rory’s friend, Jake Hightower. He was a bit taller, more heavily muscled than Rory, a fierce man with a permanent scowl on his face. Without a word he grasped Rory’s hand. “Someone will pay for this, Rorhare Horn,” he said, almost formally.

Then Jake straightened and looked at Mark. “As I told you, I’ve got a team watching Rory’s house.” He indicated the tiny radio at his belt. “The boys tell me a man has arrived there. He’s white, armed, hiding by the garage.” He paused. “I read it as somebody planning a surprise.”

Mark nodded. He didn’t seem alarmed. If Jake Hightower had his Warriors on the scene, the scene was secured. “Jake, suppose we plan a little surprise of our own?”

“What say?” Rory asked drowsily.

“Never mind, son.”

Rory lived off the reservation near the small town of Helena. Home was a modified trailer, surrounded by flowerbeds and shrubs and a wading pool in the rear. Behind the garage was an old barn that housed Rory Junior’s pony, Major.

The house was dark except for a light in the kitchen where Donna sat waiting for her husband.

A car turned into the drive from the highway and stopped. Out stepped a tall man with his arm in a sling and his head swathed in white bandages. A shorter, older man crawled out from behind the wheel, and together they walked up the path toward the back door. It was late, there was no moon, but faint starshine glimmered on the tall man’s white headdress.

A man emerged from the side of the garage. He stooped and brought a rifle up to his shoulder. He took careful aim at the man with the bandage on his head. The night was quiet, a soft breeze touched the leaves of an oak tree by the path. The man tracked his target carefully.

Then a strong hand reached out and seized the barrel of the rifle, twisted it upward, wrenched it out of the man’s grasp. Other hands seized the man. “What the hell...” he gasped before a gag was placed in his mouth. He struggled, but many hands silently bore him away.

The two men paused by the back door. “All right, Jake,” a tiny voice spoke through a radio. “We got him.”

Jake Hightower began unwinding the bandage from around his head. “Anybody we know?”

“Nope. Outside talent.”

“Okay. Take him into the barn and tell Sam to do his thing.”

The smaller man walked back to the car and helped Rory extricate himself from the back seat; it was difficult with one arm in a sling. “Damn it, Uncle Mark! I don’t like hiding behind someone else.”

“Save it, young fellow. I’m calling the play here. Jake was glad to be the decoy. You could have got yourself shot all over again.”

“Or Jake could have.”

Mark shook his head. “No way. Jake’s boys had the intruder spotted as soon as he came on the place. He never would have gotten off a round.”

“Then, damn it, why did you want Jake to be the decoy?”

Mark grinned.

“Why take chances? Come on and let’s see if Donna has any coffee made.”

The gunman, who had never been north of the racetrack at Saratoga, nor out of sight of neon or concrete, was terrified. What was to be a simple two hundred dollar hit on a lousy shirttail Indian had gone terribly wrong. His guns were gone, he had been picked up and handled like a baby, he didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know who the silent, purposeful men surrounding him were, or what was going to happen to him. Whatever it was must be bad.

Very bad.

He felt a post at his back: he was standing, his arms pulled back and bound. He faced ahead in darkness blacker than any he had ever known. From somewhere came the sound of a drum, faint, then stronger, insistent, rough, primitive.

And then there was a light, a circle of bright light, shining on a rough wooden door. The drum became louder. The door opened.

A horrible figure appeared. A swarthy face with garish streaks of yellow and orange slashed across the cheeks, lips parted in a terrible grin. An Indian, a goblin of childhood, a nightmare returned.

The figure wore a leather vestlike garment, his dark arms and shoulders bare and gleaming with oil or sweat. In beaded headdress with a circle of upright feathers, leather chaps on his legs worked with red and black symbols, his feet stamping in time with the drum, the figure advanced slowly toward him.

From his belt he drew a long wicked-looking knife and tested its edge on his thumb, his eyes never leaving those of the trembling white man. He reached out to touch the white man’s cheek, and the man screamed and shrank against his bonds.

The ghostly Indian danced, keeping his eyes on the white man’s face. He made slicing motions against his fingers with the knife, nodding and smiling, twisting the knife-blade in the beam of light.

A quiet voice spoke in the white man’s ear. “Who sent you here tonight?”

“I’ll tell you! Just keep him away from me!”

Mark and Jake sat on one side of the kitchen table, Rory and Donna on the other. Donna was a non-native, a white girl Rory had met in college and married after graduation. Donna couldn’t keep her hands away from her husband. She held his arm, constantly touched the bandage on his head, asked him over and over how he felt.

Rory tried to reassure her: “It looks worse than it is,” he told her. “The orderly had to take off a lot of hair.” He still felt lightheaded. He looked for Rory Junior, then remembered that Donna had sent him to sleep over at his grandmother’s house.

Jake was listening to his little radio. “Your visitor is on his way to town, Rory,” he said quietly with a nod to Mark. “He’ll be our guest for awhile.”

Donna looked at the window. “I thought I heard a drum out there,” she said in a puzzled tone. “Did anyone else?”

“It was just a tape,” Jake said. “Martha uses it in her exercise classes.”

Mark handed Rory a small capsule. “Take this, son. I asked the doc for it. It will clear your head for a few minutes while we do some talking. Then Donna can tuck you into bed.”

“All right,” Donna said sternly, “but just for a few minutes.” She put her arm around Rory protectively. “This Indian needs his rest.”

The medicine helped; Rory’s headache abated, and he felt almost normal. He squeezed Donna’s hand and leaned forward. “Here’s what I know, Uncle Mark.”

Jake started to rise from the table. “No, stay here, Jake,” Rory said quickly. “This concerns the Warriors as much as anybody.”

He looked at Uncle Mark. “Art Bowers says firearms are getting through the reservation into Canada. He implied that the Warriors might be involved. I want to show him how wrong he is.”

“So do I,” said Jake in a low tone.

“The FBI and the ATF are checking every truck and trailer that come on the reservation, and they come up empty. But there’s one vehicle they, don’t bother with. One vehicle that’s on the reservation almost every day; in and out of Canada every day.”

Mark and Jake were listening intently. Rory was tempted to prolong the suspense, but a twinge of pain banished the thought. He looked from Mark to Jake.

“UPS,” he said. “A United Parcel Service delivery van. Either a real one that’s been stolen, or a damn good duplicate. UPS delivers everything from baby clothes to generators, and nobody gives it a second thought. It’s as innocent as an ice cream truck in August.”

Mark slapped the top of the table. “Damn!” he said softly. “Damn!”

Jake nodded his head slowly, his eyes shining.

Quickly Rory related how he had seen two UPS trucks parked side by side in a deserted field on the island. One truck wore Canadian plates, the other New York tags. The drivers were transferring heavy wooden crates from one to the other.

“There must have been a third man there,” Rory mused. “Someone who got a good look at me, someone who tried to have me ambushed on the way home.”

“Right,” said Uncle Mark. “And someone who very soon will think you are dead, that the hit man finished the job tonight.”

Rory stared at him in astonishment.

“Look,” Mark said. “These people found out you were in the hospital the same way I did — by monitoring the police frequency. That’s when they decided to send someone else out here, the man Jake’s team collared.

“I’m going to have Nash Seymour phony up a report on his radio about you cashing in out here tonight.” He looked at Donna. “Sorry to be so blunt, girl. It has to be done.”

Donna’s face was white, but she nodded. “I’m all right. I just wish it were over.”

Mark turned to Rory and Jake. “Once that’s done, I’ll set up something with Barnes and Farley. I’ll use a phone I know is secure.”

“Wait a minute,” Rory mumbled. “There’s something else.” He was fighting to keep his eyes open. A soft lassitude was spreading over him. But he couldn’t close his eyes, not until he’d said something that was important.

“Bowers suggested that the Warriors had something to do with this smuggling. We know that’s not true, but it’s not enough that we know.” Rory closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened them again. “Other people have to know it, too.”

He raised one finger and tried to point it at Mark. “Right now...” his voice was a whisper; he tried again. “Right now the Mohawks might get a seat in the assembly down in Albany. That could be important to us.”

“Maybe,” growled Jake. “Maybe not.”

Rory stared at him. “Better’n nothing,” he mumbled. “Le’s don’ argue about it now.” He concentrated on pointing his wavering finger at Jake.

“All right, old buddy. You’re the peacekeepers. So keep some peace around here.”

Then Rory was fast asleep, snoring gently.

Jake looked at Mark. “What did he mean by that?”

“I think I know. Here’s what we’ll do...”

The little radio clicked softly. “He’s coming down Hilltop Drive,” a voice said, “passing First Street.”

“I copy,” Mark Benjamin replied. “Heads up, everybody. We’ll take him at Third.”

He looked across the seat at Rory and grinned. “Here we go, kid.” Rory felt better after a day’s rest. He grinned back and held up both thumbs.

In the back seat of the car Chief Blackwell leaned forward, a wide smile on his face. “Go for it!”

Beside him Art Bowers, agent of the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms Bureau, frowned. “I still think we need more people.”

No one answered him.

Rory had protested strenuously. “We don’t need Bowers. He’s got an attitude problem.”

“Yes, we do,” Mark ruled. “The game is called intra-agency politics. Trust me.”

Rory had wanted this to be an all-Indian affair. But he couldn’t shut out Uncle Mark. And that opened the door to other white men. What the hell, he thought, I can live with it as long as the Mohawks get some of the credit.

It was a bright spring morning on Akwesasne. Children were in school. Housewives coped with laundry or shopping. A man astride a Wheel-horse riding mower appeared and began cutting grass near the corner. Mark’s car was parked on Cherry just off Third; they had a clear view of the intersection. Down the street a tow truck backed out of the Equipment Garage and turned left on Third; it moved past the corner and stopped.

The chocolate brown UPS van coming down the street was a familiar sight in this or any other residential neighborhood. The driver, neat in his brown uniform, sat perched on his stool behind the windshield. He always stopped at stop signs, obeyed all speed regulations.

The driver halted at the intersection, waited, and then blew his horn impatiently at the tow truck blocking his way. Shaking his head in frustration, the truck driver got out and raised the hood.

The man on the riding mower rode over to the curb to watch, enjoying the driver’s predicament. Unnoticed, a station wagon ghosted to a stop close behind the UPS van. Two men got out and quietly approached on foot.

The van driver decided to try to drive around the stalled truck, but found his way blocked. A station wagon was behind him, the riding mower was now out in the street to his left, and on his right two men stood at the open door of the van. They were pointing guns at him.

“What the hell...” He looked ahead and saw a man pointing a rifle at him across the hood of the truck. The yardman was kneeling behind his mower and pointing a gun at him. The men all had very grim expressions.

The van driver had the good sense not to reach down for the ignition key. He left the engine running and raised his hands above his head.

All four men converged on the van. They were Indians, each with a tiny radio at his belt and a red and yellow band on his left arm. Other cars arrived, and the group grew into a small crowd.

Art Bowers ran up and began issuing orders. “Put the prisoner in that car... read him his rights... don’t touch those crates... keep this traffic moving...” A reporter who had received an anonymous invitation to be in this vicinity this morning appeared. He plied Bowers with questions.

“Is it true the Warriors made a citizens’ arrest?”

“Well, yes...”

“Can I get a picture of you and the Mohawks together?”

“Well, yes...”

To the delight of the bystanders and the reporter, one of the wooden crates from the cargo section of the van was opened. Labeled “Hydraulic Pump Repair Parts,” the crate contained M-60 machine guns liberally coated with grease.

A state trooper sought out Rory and Mark, who were standing at the rear of the crowd. “They made a clean sweep down in Westchester this morning, Mr. Benjamin,” he said. “Nailed the whole outfit.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Mark. “The Ontario police did a good job, too.”

The trooper hesitated, looking from the older white man to the younger Indian man. “How come the Warriors got to make the bust, Mr. Benjamin?” he asked. “We could have done it.”

“Sure you could, son. You’re the professionals. But this is Mohawk territory. Rory, you explain it.”

Rory didn’t make the usual comments about sovereignty and self-rule and jurisdiction. He just said, “It’s your law, but it’s our land.”

The trooper nodded slowly. “Right.”

Jake Hightower, who had been the man on the riding mower, walked up. “Everything go to suit you, Mr. Benjamin?” he asked.

Mark punched him on the arm and grinned. “Couldn’t have done better myself.”

Jake looked at Rory. He pointed at the red and yellow band on his arm. “We’ve got one of these for you any time you want it, Rory.”

“Thanks, Jake. I’ll think about it.” Rory had to go to his office, but he was reluctant to leave. The street was filling with people, and the atmosphere was almost that of a block party.

A television crew from Plattsburgh had arrived and was filming everyone and everything in sight. Jake and his Warriors had discreetly put their weapons out of sight and were mingling with the crowd. The other tribal chiefs were on hand with Harry Blackwell, smiling and shaking hands.

Mark Benjamin was ready to leave. “This won’t hurt a bit down in Albany,” he said to Rory. “Your nation may get that assembly seat some day.” Rory nodded. “My best to Donna.”

Rory watched Uncle Mark drive away. He turned to go but stopped when someone called his name. It was Art Bowers.

The agent walked up, his face flushed with excitement. “Ah, Horn,” he said, “you Indians did a fine job this morning. A mighty fine job.”

The patronizing tone set Rory’s teeth on edge, but he realized Bowers was being sincere. What the hell, Rory thought, some white men can’t help being clay-headed.

“Thanks, Bowers,” Rory said. “Be our guest any time.”