10
Back at Sam’s, Cork went to the utility shed-a corrugated aluminum thing Sam Winter Moon had purchased from Sears-and pulled out his old cross-country skis. They were ancient wooden touring skis with hard, hickory edges. Cork took out a scraper, propped the skis against the picnic table in front of Sam’s, and began patiently to peel off the layers of old wax.
The snowmobiles were out in force on Iron Lake, zipping about the ice like ants frenzying on a frosted cake. In summer it was motorboats and Jet Skis and sailboats. No matter what the season the lake had little peace.
The Anishinaabe called it Gitchimiskwassab, which meant “big rump.” In the myth of the Iron Lake Anishinaabe, the lake was formed when Naanabozho, the trickster, attempted to steal the tail feathers from an eagle. As Naanabozho grabbed the feathers, the great bird took flight. Higher and higher it flew, and Naanabozho became more and more exhausted attempting to hold on. Finally, the trickster let go and fell to earth. Where he landed, a great indentation was made from each of the cheeks of his butt. Naanabozho cried from the pain of his fall and filled the double indentation with his tears. Thus, Gitchimiskwassab.
The Iron Lake Treaty of 1873 placed the northeastern “cheek” of the lake entirely within the reservation of the Iron Lake Anishinaabe. The south-western “cheek” became public waters. For several generations, the Iron Lake band spearfished and gillnetted their own part of the lake without any trouble. Because the language of the treaty arguably gave the Iron Lake Anishinaabe fishing rights on all the lake, the state of Minnesota had for years paid a small compensation to the band for not exercising those rights. The arrangement had been, at least from a white perspective, reasonable.
Cork scraped the layers of wax from his skis, thinking about the spring a year and a half before, when everything changed.
Several weeks before the first day of spearfishing season-which preceded all other forms of fishing in the state and was limited to Native Americans-Russell Blackwater, speaking on behalf of the Iron Lake band of Ojibwe, declared that The People intended, for the first time in over one hundred years, to spearfish and gillnet all of Iron Lake and its tributaries, not just that portion within reservation boundaries. Speaking for the tribal council, of which he was an elected member, he decried the state’s policies of the past that offered the Anishinaabe a pittance in exchange for their treaty rights. He characterized the arrangement as just another in a long line of maneuvers by the white man to take from The People what had been a gift to them from Gitchimanidoo, the Great Spirit.
The resort owners and the white fisherman immediately raised an outcry. A group calling itself SORE, which stood for Save Our Resources and Environment, quickly formed and sought an injunction against the Anishinaabe. As she had so often in the past, Jo O’Connor represented the interests of the Iron Lake band of Ojibwe in an expedited hearing before a federal judge in Minneapolis. The court found in favor of the Anishinaabe.
The next move for SORE was to appeal to the state’s department of natural resources, whose responsibility it was to oversee the fish population in all Minnesota waters. SORE’s contention was that the level of gillnetting and spearfishing the Iron Lake band proposed would, in conjunction with normal line fishing, result in the depletion of the fish population. The DNR agreed and their own attorneys sought an injunction against the Anishinaabe. Jo O’Connor, on behalf of her clients, argued that while the DNR did, in fact, have the right to enforce limits, they had no right to control how those limits were reached. In essence, the terms of the 1873 treaty gave the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe the right to take the full limit allowed by the DNR from the lake if they so desired. The court promised a ruling before opening day of spearfishing.
None of the legal maneuvering took place in a vacuum of dry proceedings. Outside the courtroom buildings, SORE members rallied, their numbers swelled by other fishermen who feared the ramifications of the legal decisions handed down in the case of the Iron Lake Ojibwe. Helmuth Hanover, owner and editor of the weekly Aurora Sentinel, published a letter from a group calling itself the Minnesota Civilian Brigade warning that if the government didn’t stop interfering with rights of American citizens, civil rebellion was the only recourse. As the most visible and outspoken of the Anishinaabe, Russell Blackwater received a number of anonymous threats. In a television interview with a Twin Cities station a week before the fishing was to begin, Blackwater declared that if the whites wanted to wage war, the Anishinaabe were more than ready.
When Cork heard that particular statement, he asked Jo to arrange a meeting with her clients.
“It’s just Russell talking,” she assured him. “He doesn’t mean anything.”
“Someone not especially inclined to like Indians in the first place and who is a fisherman in the second won’t think of it as just Russell Blackwater’s way of talking. I want to speak with your clients.”
Jo arranged for the meeting to take place in the old Catholic mission building on the reservation. Since 1953, when Congress passed Public Law 280 transferring jurisdiction on Minnesota reservations from federal hands to the state, it had been the responsibility of Tamarack County to provide law enforcement for the Iron Lake Reservation. Not an easy job considering the distrust that existed among the Ojibwe regarding the white legal system. Before Cork became sheriff, it was rare that a law enforcement officer would even set foot on the reservation. Cork had never sent a deputy there, knowing full well nothing useful would come of it. Reservation affairs he handled himself. More often than not, even he came away feeling that he’d trespassed.
When Cork drove into the meadow where the small white mission building stood, he found the structure surrounded by the cars and trucks of the reservation Anishinaabe. The building had fallen into disrepair from years of neglect, but St. Kawasaki had been working steadily on revamping the structure. Inside, the Anishinaabe were seated on old rough pews, amid the boards and sawhorses that were the evidence of the priest’s steady labor.
“You’re part Shinnob,” Blackwater began the meeting. “What I’d like to know is who the hell’s side are you on, anyway?”
“I’m not on a side,” Cork explained. “My job is to abide by the law and to see that everyone else in Tamarack County does, too.”
“Whose law?” Wanda Manydeeds asked from the back of the room. “The white man’s law?”
“The law decided by the court,” Cork replied.
“The white man’s court,” Wanda Manydeeds accused. “What about justice? Most of us here know from experience that justice and the white man’s law aren’t the same.”
A lot of heads nodded in agreement.
“Law is in books,” Cork told them. “Justice is a point of view. I can’t enforce a point of view.”
Blackwater turned to the gathering. “I told you we can’t expect any help from this man. Blood of The People may run through his body, but his heart is a white man’s heart.”
“Please listen to me,” Cork said. “If the court says you have the right to fish, I’ll do everything I can to guarantee that right. If the court says you have no right, I’ll be forced to take action against anyone who tries.”
“Action?” Blackwater let a moment of absolute stillness pass, then he said, “What would you do? Shoot us?”
“That will never happen and we both know it, Russell.”
“It’s happened to The People before.”
“It won’t happen here. You have my word on it.”
“The word of a white man,” Blackwater said with disgust.
Sam Winter Moon stood up. “The word of a man we all know to be a good, truthful man.”
“Yeah,” Joe John LeBeau spoke up. “I’ve known Cork O’Connor all my life. I believe what he says. Whatever else goes down, I know he’ll do his best to see we’re treated fair.”
“All right,” Blackwater said skeptically. “What is it you want from us?”
“I don’t want a war,” Cork replied. “I don’t want any more talk about war. I don’t want guns carried around out of fear. The surest way to create an incident is to behave as if it’s going to occur. Go on about your business just as you always have and wait for the court to make its decision. And be hopeful. Remember, you have the best attorney in the state working for you.” He allowed himself a smile, and was glad to see many of those gathered smiling in return.
Thirty-six hours before opening day of spearfishing, the court handed down its decision. The Anishinaabe had the right under treaty to fish the lake to the full extent of the limit set by the DNR. Cork put all his men on alert and told them they should expect to work extra duty once the fishing began.
