Digging Up Bones

First 2 chapters (revised)

How would you react if someone dug up your dead relatives?

(true)
In Kentucky, before 1992, no enforceable laws pertaining to the desecration of Native American burial grounds existed.  I was fortunate to have participated in the peaceful gathering of Native people from every part of the United States to protest the destruction of their ancestral sacred soil.  In part, because of this direct action, the law 525.115 was passed.  But what if… 

CHAPTER 1

         Shane rolled over and grappled with the ringing telephone.  He was annoyed at being awakened from a dream that wouldn't be remembered and it could be heard in his voice.
         "Hello!"
         "Hey, don't be grouchy with me.  I'm just letting you know that Little Ray is running around like a pissed-off Banty rooster."
         "Oh hell, I guess I'm late again."
         "Yeah, that would be a good guess, and I would guess that you had best hurry while you still gotta job.  If it's not already too late."
         Shane thanked Hal for the wake-up call and rolled out of bed.  He had moved to Kentucky four months ago, due to a transfer, and had been assigned to the road-crew.  To him, it was just a paycheck and an opportunity to experience something different from South Dakota.  While hopping around on one leg, trying to dress quickly, he remembered how Hal had been the first member of the road-crew to welcome him on his first day.  Hastily tying the leather laces on his work boots, a slight grin showed on his face when the thought that Hal might also be the first to speak to him on his last day surfaced.  Slapping a cap on his head only covered a fraction of the sins of a bed-head, but that was the best he could do before running to his pickup.
         On the drive to the road construction site, the deep rumble of his pickups' V8 engine created an almost hypnotic trance in his mind.  Without realization or understanding, his mind made the journey back in time to shortly after his high school graduation.  It skipped past his unfortunate marriage, settled on his career choice, and proceeded to nag at him.  Shane had always wanted to build---something, anything, that he could be proud of.  But unconscientiously, he felt as though he was destroying nature, and there is no pride in that.
         Arriving at the work-site only forty minutes late, Shane was both surprised and pleased at making such good time.  Climbing up to the seat on the huge bulldozer, he saw Little Ray, his foreman.  He was called Little Ray because there were two Rays working for the company; a normal sized Ray, and his foreman who was not a normal size.  Little Ray was looking back at him and tapping on his wristwatch to let Shane know, that he knew, Shane was late.  Shane simply smiled and waved at the foreman before starting the giant diesel engine. 
         Giving the engine some time to warm up, he looked ahead to where the new road was cutting through the rocks of a tree covered mountain top.  He knew that in a few years motorists would see it as a beautiful thing, but he thought it was a shame to alter nature.  Looking at the nearly cloudless sky, Shane saw a Red Tail Hawk gliding on unseen air currents and felt shame because he knew that he was helping to destroy its home.
         He grudgingly started forward with the huge blade cutting a deep slice of earth as it went.  When there was a full scoop of dirt, rocks, and roots, he pushed it onto a mound that would be removed later and used to fill-in low spots.  Shane backed the bulldozer without looking, but with a precision that comes from long hours of practice.  Starting forward again, he lowered the blade and saw what appeared to be a human skull roll off the mound of dirt he had made.  Shane stopped the dozer and jumped to the ground believing his worst fears had come true: he had dug up a grave. 
Shane stood staring at the perpetual smile which seemed to be directed at him and lost the mellow mood the spring morning had given him.  His mind went blank.  He no longer smelled the exhaust fumes that had stuck to his clothes, and no longer felt the penetrating heat of the early morning sun.  Someone shouting his name jarred his brain back to reality.
         “Yo Shane!”  The voice of Little Ray called out in his slow southern drawl.  “What the hell is wrong?  Did ya break down?”
         “No,” Shane answered raising his voice over the sounds of the machinery.  “I couldn’t be that lucky.  I think I dug up a grave.”
             Little Ray hurried over to see what Shane was talking about.  Moving his lithe body with ease across the freshly scraped ground, he quickly arrived at the mound.  Seeing the skull, he started laughing but quickly regained control of himself. 
         “Ya had me kinda worried fer a minute.  I thought maybe you had done found a dead body or somethin'.  It’s jest a damn old Injun skull.” 
He reached down, unceremoniously picked up the skull, and looked it over using his thumb to rake away loose dirt.  “Well, you found it, so I reckon it’s yours.  It ain't in real good shape though.  Aw hell, you kin prob’ly still get ‘bout, maybe, a hundred and fifty bucks fer it.”
         Shane stared at his foreman in disbelief for a moment wondering if he had heard correctly.  Towering over his foreman, he glared down at Little Ray and asked, "How do you know it's an Indian skull?"
         "I jest know, that's all!" 
         Little Ray was obviously annoyed that someone would question his knowledge on this subject.
         Shane quickly realized that talking with his foreman would be a waste of time.  He took the skull from Little Ray and walked to the nearby pickup truck where he took a shovel out of the back.
         “Hey, what the hell do ya think yer doin’?” Little Ray called out as Shane walked away from the pickup carrying both the skull and shovel.
         Taking the skull into the trees, Shane started digging a hole before answering, “I’m gonna bury it back. “
         “Are ya crazy?  I know ya cain’t afford ta just throw away that much money!  If’n you don’t want it, give it to me.  I kin always find a use fer a few extree bucks.” 
         Shane finished burying the skull and patted the earth with the back of the shovel as though that finalized his decision.  He walked back to the pickup, pitched the shovel into the back, and sat on the tailgate.  He wiped the sweat from his face onto the sleeve of his tee shirt, and leaned over resting his forearms on bent knees.  His bulging muscles strained the sweat-dampened cotton material of the shirt.  Shane thought about what Little Ray had said.  Yes, I  could use the extra money, but I will not be a grave robber!  He studied the nearby area and realized that Little Ray was right; this was definitely an old Native American graveyard.  There were rocks stacked in unnatural patterns that could have only gotten that way with the help of man.
         Little Ray ran his hand over his 1950’s-style, well-greased, dark brown hair slicking it back even tighter against his head.  Then he stomped over to where Shane was sitting.  With his anger flaring, he spat words at the dozer operator.  “Hey!  Get your ass back ta work!” 
         Shane shook his head and said, “Not just no, but hell no!  Look at those rocks over there.  They didn’t just grow that way; they were put there.  You're right, this is an Indian burial ground, and we got no right to put a road through it.”  He breathed in the fresh spring air and wondered how anyone could be so shameful as to knowingly disturb the dead.
Little Ray glanced at the neatly stacked rocks, but obviously didn’t care how they got there.  The shade of redness in his suntanned face showed the degree of anger he was feeling as he stood almost eye to eye with Shane.  Little Ray's hands closed into fists at his side, his legs trembled in rage, and he spoke through a tight jaw.
“Lookie here, we got us a bindin’ contract with the damn State to put a road through here.  And they’ll likely come around most any day now ta have a look-see.  We had damn well better be at that river when they get here or else they’ll chew my butt good, and if they chew on mine, you can bet I’ll chew on everybody else’s.  ‘Sides, this here ain’t really a graveyard; it’s jest a few old dead Injuns that nobody gives a damn about.”
         Shane stood allowing the full size of his body to appear menacing and looked down at the foreman through narrowed eyes.  With his broad chest heaving, and his mouth forming a snarl, responded with, “I care!”  The tone of his voice and the look on his face said a lot more.  Although no more words were spoken, Little Ray heard the "Back off" loud and clear. 
Shane watched as Little Ray got into the company pickup and drove away.  He climbed onto the dozer's seat, removed his cap, and sat there running his thick calloused fingers through his tangled sandy-brown hair.  It don’t much matter who they was, right is right and wrong is wrong.  Dead people should be left alone!  As he sat on the dozer thinking about what should be done next, Shane noticed Little Ray coming back toward him. 
         The pickup slid to a stop and Little Ray yelled out of the window, “YOU’RE FIRED!  Get yer stuff and get the hell outa here!” 
         Shane quickly stood and started to climb down.  He chuckled as the pickup sped away letting the dust settle in all new places.  He knew that Little Ray was intimidated by his size and thought that it was comical to watch him act all macho and then run away scared.  Losing his job didn't come as a great shock or disappointment; he had expected it.
         His thoughts were working over-time as he rationalized being fired.  This isn’t the first time and it likely won’t be the last, but I got to live what I believe.
Shane climbed down from the dozer and calmly pulled the wires off the fuel pre-heater knowing that it would make the dozer almost impossible to start.  That might slow ‘um down for a while.








CHAPTER 2


         The next morning, Shane found himself without a job but not without a cause.  He had gotten up early and driven the twelve miles to the county seat where he was waiting for the courthouse to open.  He sat in his truck listening to his favorite country music cassette and studied the old building.  He admired the obvious skilled craftsmanship that had been used more than a hundred years ago.  He wished that the builders of today would do something they could be proud of, and something that would still be standing in a hundred years.  Today it was hurry, hurry, and the bottom-line profit that was the most important.
Hank Williams Jr. had just finished singing, "A Country Boy Can Survive", when the heavy wooden doors were unlocked and fastened open.  Shane ejected the cassette, grabbed his keys, and exited the pickup. 
Entering the courthouse, he marveled at the exquisite marble floor for a few seconds, and then found the County Attorney’s office.  He soon learned that the Attorney wouldn't be in until late in the afternoon.  Shane wandered aimlessly around in the courthouse for a while, and then found the sheriff’s office.
         He entered and walked up to a massive wooden desk where he waited patiently for the deputy to finish writing.  After a few seconds, the small man behind the desk put his pen down.
         “Can I help ya with somethin’?”
Shane thought about how much the deputy reminded him of Barney Fife on the Andy Griffith show, and had to swallow a grin.  After regaining control, Shane explained about how the new road was going through an Indian burial ground and that the old graves were being dug up.  The deputy got a puzzled look on his thin face but didn't say anything for a moment, and then spoke in a high-pitched voice.
“I think you had best talk to the High Sheriff.  You wait there and I’ll tell him you're here.”
Shane coughed to stop a laugh that nearly escaped because this deputy also sounded much like the TV deputy.
Standing, the chair the deputy had been sitting in rolled backward and swiveled around as if it were looking for someone.  He strutted toward an open door, and upon entering, closed it behind him.  Shane could hear laughter coming from behind the closed door and instantly knew that he wouldn't get any help there.
After a few moments, the deputy came back followed closely by a much heftier man wearing a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and a giant silver belt buckle fastened around a pair of tan dress slacks with the pockets trimmed in dark brown.  Shane managed not to laugh out loud at the comical pair and simply smiled.
Reaching his hand out in a sociable gesture, and smiling back at Shane through tobacco stained yellow teeth, the hefty man spoke in his vote for me voice.
“Howdy, I’m Sheriff Atkins.  What can I do for ya?” 
Shane shook hands with the personable man and quickly glanced back at the open door to see if a horse might also be following the cowboy sheriff.  The stench of cigar smoke that encased the lawman was even more noticeable than his fancy duds.  Backing away from the strong odor as much as possible without being obvious, Shane told the sheriff his story. 
         A quizzical look formed on the clean shaven face before Sheriff Atkins spoke.           “Yeah, I heard about that yesterday.  What do ya want me ta do about it?  There ain’t no law against diggin’ up dead Injuns; and besides, nobody cares but you.  But, bein' as you are so interested in grave diggin', maybe you can tell me who's been diggin' in the Goshen Church Cemetery."
         Shane's head snapped up and he took a step backward as if he had been punched.  The shocked look was obviously real; even to the sheriff who was watching closely.  It took several seconds before he recovered enough to answer the question.
         "I didn't know about that.  You mean somebody's digging up the graves?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean.  Oh, I'm just guessin' now mind ya, but maybe you should care more about real graves than just some old bone-yard."  He leaned across the room divider and folded his hands as if to challenge Shane to attempt to argue the point.
         Shane recognized the challenge, hesitated, glanced at the silver badge, then without speaking he turned and walked out of the office.  He wasn't looking for trouble, and truly didn't know anything about grave digging at the Goshen Cemetery.  Shane wondered if it was true or just something the sheriff had made up – he hadn't seen or heard anything about it on the local news.  He slowly became angry at himself for not defending his belief that dead people should be left alone, regardless of who they were.  And this was the second time somebody had said that nobody cared about the old Native graves.  But he did care, and felt certain that he couldn’t be alone in his caring.  Nevertheless, Shane left the courthouse feeling very much alone.  Maybe everybody else is right---maybe nobody but me does care.  His thoughts directly influenced his mood, but this was still new enough that he hadn’t identified his mood, yet.
         He stood on the sidewalk and mindlessly watched an old pickup truck belching blue smoke from where a muffler should have been.  The noise caused by the lack of a muffler was almost completely hidden by the six huge hogs squealing their complaints about the unwanted ride.  Watching the truck allowed his line of vision to take in a small cafe across the street.  Ignoring the all too familiar mixture of odors produced by the pickup truck, he went toward the cafe with a cup of coffee on his mind. 
Upon entering, the first thing he noticed was the place was decorated in the 1950's-style with the round stools lined up in front of the counter.  On the wall hung a round Coca Cola sign like the ones he had seen as a kid growing up in South Dakota.  He made his way past the crowded tables to the counter where he found an empty stool that was still warm from the previous customer. 
Shane removed his cap, placed it on the counter in front of him, and ran his fingers through his hair.  It did nothing to improve the tangled mess that the cap had concealed so well, but it was something he always did; more out of habit than actually trying to improve his appearance.  After less than a minute, a waitress with long raven black hair and a dark complexion greeted him.  Shane ordered a cup of coffee and sat there sulking.  His thoughts were simple; he didn’t know what to do, but knew that he wasn’t going to give up.  Besides, I’ve gone too far to quit now; I already lost my job!   
         The waitress came over to refill his cup and said, “You look like you lost your best friend.” 
         Shane raised his head, looked into her dark eyes, and noticed for the first time how lovely she was.  The nearly perfect white teeth that shone brightly when she smiled complimented her dark features.  The clean pink and white waitress uniform with the short lacy apron flattered her petite build.
         “More coffee?” she asked sweetly.
         He slid his cup toward her, and with a forced smile said, “Sure.”  Looking at her oval shaped face he asked, “You wouldn’t by any chance be American Indian would you?”
         The smile left her face and her black eyes seemed to get even darker as her eyes locked on his and she spoke flatly, “Yeah---do ya have a problem with that?”
         He was a little taken back by her response and was unsure of what to say next.  After a moment of awkward silence, the girl walked away leaving Shane to feel foolish.  He sat there quietly nursing his coffee until some of the unpleasant feelings subsided.  He stood, the anger at his own stupidity showing in his every move.  He dropped a dollar on the counter, slapped his cap back on his unruly hair and headed for the door.  Now he recognized his mood---it was anger.
         Leaving the small café, Shane got into his pickup and started out of town with the intention of going home, but he couldn’t get the dark-haired girl off his mind.  I not only let the dead Native people down by not being able to stop the digging, but now I have offended a live one.  What did I do that was so wrong?  But, like so many other times around a woman, he had apparently put his foot in his mouth.  Shane remembered that in high school the other boys used to say he had hoof in mouth disease because he couldn‘t talk to girls.  The farther he drove, the angrier with himself he became, until finally he turned around and went back.  He didn’t know what to say to the girl, but felt confident he would think of something when the time came.
         As Shane entered the café, his mind remained blank and he still didn’t know what to say, so he just sat at one of the now empty tables.  The noontime rush was over and the small café was calm and quiet.
The petite waitress came over to him, and with her dark eyes flashing said, “Did you come back for more coffee, or more talk?”
         Shane could feel the blood rush into his face and there was another awkward moment of silence before he spoke.  “No, I came back to answer your question.  Yeah, I do have a problem with Indians, but the ones I’m having a problem with have been dead for two or three hundred years.  There’s a new road going through a burial ground and I can’t stop it.  I reckon nobody cares but me.”  He allowed his eyes to meet hers as though it would emphasize what he had said.
         A look of shock swept over her face but was quickly replaced with a look of understanding.  Without speaking the waitress walked away but soon returned with a fresh cup of coffee.  Placing the cup in front of Shane she said, “I care too, and I owe you an apology.  I get off work in about fifteen minutes---If you will wait, we can talk.”
         When her shift was over, she returned to Shane’s table and sat directly across from him.  She couldn’t help noticing Shane’s muscular build and handsome square jawed face. 
         “Hi, I’m Holly—I owe you an apology.  The cops and some customers have been harassing me all morning about somebody digging graves in the Goshen Cemetery.  I didn't know about the burial ground, but that explains why everybody is giving me a hard time.  So, tell me what’s going on.”
         Shane introduced himself, and asked about the Goshen Cemetery explaining that the Sheriff had questioned him about it too.  "I didn't believe him though.  There wasn't anything on the news about it so I thought he was telling a political lie.  You know; just a little something to get me to see things differently."
         Holly laughed a little saying, "Yeah, politicians are good at that.  And the reason the cemetery grave digging was not on the news, is because it happened last night.  Nobody found it until this morning, so it will be on the evening news.  Ok, tell me about the burial grounds."
         Shane waited a moment for the information about the cemetery to gel in his brain, and then told her the whole story about the Native graves.  When he finished, they sat in silence for a few moments before he asked, "What did you mean when you said the news about the burial grounds explains why everybody is bugging you?" 
         “Think about it.  White men are digging Native graves, and then all of a sudden somebody digs a white mans grave.  Who do you think would get the blame?"
         Shane didn't have to think long or hard to get her point, and nodded his head saying only, "Yeah."
         Holly watched him for a few seconds before continuing, "I understand what you’re saying and feeling about the old burial grounds.  The Native people have been trying for years to get laws passed to stop the digging of our ancestral burial grounds.”  Again a long moment of silence passed before Holly asked her next question.  “So, why do you care?” 
         Now Shane had to do some explaining, but he didn't know where to start.  Should he tell her how his parents had died when he was still just a kid and that he had been raised by his grandmother?  Was it necessary for her to know that his grandmother was Native American?  These questions flashed through his mind in an instant, but he decided that he didn't know her well enough to share personal information.  He simply answered, “I guess it’s just a matter of principle.  Why has it taken years and no laws have been passed yet?”
         Holly’s answer was quick and blunt, “Money.”  Then she went on to explain.  “The desecration of the Native graves puts a lot of money in a lot of pockets, and some of those pockets also hold a lot of political power.” 
         There was yet another lull in the conversation while Holly sized up the situation, and the man sitting in front of her.  After a few seconds, she decided that the man deserved a chance to prove himself, and the situation certainly needed to be looked into. 
         “We should talk to my father; he might know what to do.  Will you go with me so you can explain all the details?”
         "Sure, I'd be happy to" he replied and they left the cafe. 
         Outside, Shane went to his dusty pickup.  He saw how dirty it was and wondered why he hadn't noticed that fact before.  A person could barely make out that it was supposed to be shiny black with much more than the usual amount of chrome trim.
         After Holly got into her beat-up VW bug near the back of the parking lot, Shane climbed into his pickup to follow her to wherever she was going. 
         She pulled alongside him and asked, “Which direction from here do you live?”  When Shane answered, she said, “We go the other way to go out to Dad’s.  If you’re not afraid to ride with a woman driver, you can ride with me. It's no problem; I live here in town and have to come back anyway.”
         Without speaking, he turned off the engine and got out locking his door.  He opened the passenger door of the VW and crammed his ample frame into the seat.