Durango by Gary Hart Page A

should have been more careful. And so on and so on. The professor moved from behind his desk to occupy the other worn chair. In any case, Mr. Sheridan wishes to be left alone. Whatever the reason, I’m sure he still feels wounded.
    Well, that’s the thing, Patrick said. If he came back and settled this war, everyone would really respect him. They’d honor him. Besides, I don’t know anyone else who can do it. From all I can tell, people around here are getting angrier and angrier at each other. I hear it all the time. Every time I try to cover a story it’s “Animas” this and “Animas” that.
    Smithson held up his hand. I know. I know. Even our little coffee group. We’ve been getting together for years. Mr. Murphy and I used to shout at each other. It may not be a war quite yet, but it’s surely a kind of a battle. And it’s been going on too long for anyone’s good.
    That’s what I’m trying to say, Patrick said. You’re one of the leaders of the opposition. And my father was one of the original creators of the Animas–La Plata. He got the whole thing going years ago when he was a member of Congress. Before he died, he was the biggest cheerleader for it.
    After you’d been in my classes for a couple of years, the professor said, I began to wonder whether you were related, so I have to admit I looked it up in your files. You never mentioned it, as I recall.
    He was what’s usually called a colorful character, Patrick said ruefully. Not always easy to get along with as a father either. But I have to confess that my interest in the history of the Animas–La Plata began over the dinner table when I was a kid. That’s all he ever talked about. It was his big purpose in life.
    You did write your senior paper on that history, as I recall, the professor said.
    Patrick shook his head. I practically had to. He insisted before…before he dropped dead.
    In any case, it’s hard to spend much time in these parts without being drawn into it one way or the other, Smithson said. I know that from personal experience.
    So, that’s my idea, Professor, the young man said. In a way I represent, through my father, I guess, one point of view. And, as a big environmentalist, you represent the other.
    Not very big, the professor demurred.
    Okay, leading environmentalist, the former student said. So, here’s my idea. The two of us should go to Mr. Sheridan, more or less representing both sides, and propose that he get back involved by becoming the mediator of this whole matter.
    Smithson took some time to think. He shook his head sadly. He’ll never do it. At least I don’t think he will. Who are we? Self-appointed spokesmen for the community? We don’t have the power or the authority to even suggest mediation, let alone the mediator. Besides, Mr. Sheridan likes his privacy. He’s a friendly man. But he’s also a solitary man. He likes it up there where he lives.
    Patrick Carroll moved to the edge of the creaking chair. But it’s a chance for him to play a role. From all I can tell, everyone had respect for him before all that trouble. You and some others were pushing him for governor. This is his chance to come back.
    Smithson smiled. He doesn’t want to “come back,” as you say. Why? To do what? I can absolutely guarantee you that he doesn’t have a politically ambitious bone in his body. It’s the last thing in the world he would want to do now.
    I’m not necessarily talking about politics, Patrick said. I’m talking about becoming a leading citizen…playing a role…helping solve a big problem, heal a wound.
    The professor thought again. That’s a little closer to it where Mr. Sheridan’s concerned. I’ve never spoken to him about it, and I never will. But it would be only human for him to want to lay to rest all that speculation from years ago. Smithson was silent again. Then