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  “You can count on it,” Frank said.

  “If you’re headed out for the caboose, you’ll need these.” She dropped the brass keys on the bar. “I was checking to see the place wasn’t a mess, since you might be having company.” She grabbed him by the ears and kissed him, sending the boys into hoots and cheers.

  EPILOGUE

  •

  The dirt road to the diversion point for the Los Angeles aqueduct was lined with cars. The road had been repeatedly wetted down so the participants and the observers wouldn’t wind up choking in their own dust. Frank and Linda chose to walk to the site rather than take the bus shuttling people to and from the parked cars along the road to the pavilion where the ceremonies for the return of the waters would take place. The mayor of Los Angeles himself would throw the switch releasing the water into the dry-as-bone bed of the Owens River, where no water had flowed since 1913. It was an occasion.

  Frank’s mood was as sunny as the day. The winter sky was a deep blue, and the Sierra towered over the valley in snowcapped splendor. Here it was early December and people were peeling off their sweaters and jackets as they stood around waiting for the sluice gate to lower and the waters to flow.

  Collective excitement electrified the air. After decades of strife, the water wars of the twenties and the endless litigation, the valley residents had won. The river would bring back life to the lower Owens Valley. People from the communities of Bishop, Big Pine, Independence, and Lone Pine and the surrounding ranches and mines; members of the Paiute and Shoshone bands scattered throughout the valley; citizens and cops—they had all gathered to bear witness to the returning of the waters.

  Lieutenant Robert Dewey of the Inyo County Sheriff’s Department stood apart holding court. Somehow he had managed to keep the dust off his brightly shined brogans, and the creases in his high-water khakis were knife sharp. Various cops came over to acknowledge his presence, Frank included.

  “Good to see you here, Flynn.” Dewey leaned forward as if to convey a confidence and boomed, “When the hell are you going to go back to work?” Frank looked uncomfortable. “Well, no matter.” Dewey pounded him on the back. “Damn good to see you. You want to be a real cop, come on by and we’ll talk.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” Frank said. He was thinking working for Dewey would mean a lifetime of earplugs.

  The plan was that when the mayor and other speakers finished up, the mayor to throw a switch, the sluice gate would lower, and water would flow into the lower Owens River for the first time in almost a hundred years. Frank wandered over to the bridge fronting the gate holding back the river, where anxious reporters had gathered in expectation of the oncoming flood. Linda waited with the others, chatting with colleagues from the Los Angeles Times and other news organizations. Frank stood by himself, absorbing the atmosphere of anticipation.

  “Hey, Flynn, don’t get washed off the bridge.” Jimmy Tall Horse and Eddie Laguna ambled in his direction. They were an odd pairing, mainly united by their penchant for trouble. Tall Horse was a towering Lakota Sioux who had married into the Big Pine Paiute band. Eddie was Eddie, small and wiry, the silver bell tied to his ponytail announcing his presence. “Hi, Frank.” Eddie flashed a perfect smile. New white teeth framed a golden incisor. Alphonso Bedoya in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Frank thought.

  “So what do you think of my gold tooth?” Eddie’s smile widened.

  “Class, Eddie. An undertaker’s wet dream.”

  Eddie’s eyes opened wide, and the smile wavered. “I never thought of that.” Then he relaxed. “Hey, that’s okay. I’ll give the tooth to my cousin Hector Goodwater. After I’m dead,” he added. Frank wondered how he’d work that out.

  Tall Horse leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’ve been telling the reporters from Los Angeles about how Wovoka died up here in this valley and how his visions passed on to a secret Ghost Dance society that’s still around.” He grinned. “A lot of these reporters know about the Ghost Dance and who Wovoka was. So I’ve been telling them that some of the Ghost Dancers weakened the structure of this bridge and that we’re all going to be swept away when the water’s released.” He laughed. “That would be okay, too. There’s more white shitheads on the bridge than Native Americans. They act like they don’t believe it, but see how they been moving away from the middle of the bridge? Now we’ve got a good place to stand, huh?”

  As they were talking, there was a stir, and the mayor and several officials from the Department of Water and Power moved to the control platform operating the sluice gates. One of the Water and Power officials raised his voice and explained what was going to happen. Then the mayor pulled a toggle switch and there was a heavy vibration as the sluice gate inched slowly down and water began to pour over the edge. After a few inches it came to a stop.

  “That’s it?” Frank heard a disappointed television cameraman ask. There were more murmurs of disappointment from some of the reporters gathered on the bridge, especially from the television crowd. They had been expecting a roaring torrent, a great dramatic rushing of the waters. The water coursing over the gate into the holding pond raised a mild splashing at the end of a three-foot drop. Frank had to admit that it hardy looked like the release of a mighty river. Tall Horse said something about getting the same effect by flushing six toilets at the same time.

  Frank looked down from the bridge into the still water of the holding pond. A gentle current stirred the surface as the water began the long journey to the dry bed of Owens Lake. The Department of Water and Power hydrologists estimated it would take nineteen days for the water to reach the dry lake sixty-plus miles away at the south end of the valley. There newly installed pumps would recapture the water and return it to the aqueduct to quench the ever thirsty giant some 230 miles to the south.

  Still, nothing could dim the moment for Frank. The water was coming back, not all of it by a long shot, but enough to restore some of the valley to the way his mother’s people had known it. He squeezed Linda’s hand in silent joy. Now maybe the ancient guardian up on the ridge could leave his stone prison and wander off with Coyote in search of mischief. He thought about the billboard across the highway from Ralph’s Burritos, the picture of Jesus with the words SHALL FLOW RIVERS OF LIVING WATER. Who knew what things meant?

  AN INVITATION TO THE READERS

  OF THE DESERT SKY MYSTERIES

  •

  For those of you who belong to book clubs and discussion groups, I’d be pleased to join you in a discussion of this book or its predecessor, Shadow of the Raven. Both have thematic material of contemporary interest and both are set in the Owens River Valley, a place still remote and of great beauty. Let me add a thank you for reading this book. There’s nothing like a good story. I hope this book has served that end.

  David Sundstrand

  Web site: http://www.davidsundstrand.com

  E-mail: [email protected]