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suddenly decided to enforce land-use codes."
    "That sounds like it could be a violation of the American Indian Religious Freedom Act," Tom said, a frown on his face.
    "Yes, it is." Some of Kat's nervousness slipped away. At least Tom was familiar with the law. "Indian people from across the region are gathering in Boulder today to protest the raid and to demand both an apology and changes in the city's land-use codes. I know it's not my beat, but this is an important issue to Indian people all over the country, and ... And I was there. A police officer dragged me out of the inipi by my hair because he felt I wasn't moving fast enough. They had dogs."
    And suddenly Kat couldn't say another word, her throat too tight.
    "Oh, Kat, I'm so sorry! Why didn't you tell me?" Sophie reached over and took her hand. "I can't imagine how terrible that must have been."
    "I'm sorry you had to go through that." Natalie met Kat's gaze, her eyes full of sympathy. "Can you imagine if the police had dragged a bunch of Catholics or Baptists out of church by their hair? It would've made CNN, and people would be raising hell."
    Matt looked genuinely angry, his freckled face flushed. "Don't they know the law? Aren't they supposed to enforce it?"
    Kat swallowed--hard. "I'd like to cover the protests and follow this as it unfolds. With photos and eyewitness interviews, I could easily have twenty inches. I know it's not my beat and that it might seem like a conflict of interests but--"
    "No one can bring to this story what you can." Tom stood. "Do it."
    And the meeting was over.
    KAT HEADED NORTH to Boulder on Highway 36. The sky was bright blue, the mountains gleaming white in the sunshine. She parked downtown and walked through an icy wind toward the municipal building where protesters had been asked to gather, her right leg aching from the cold. She heard the protest before she saw it, the big drum beating like a heartbeat, men's voices rising above it, singing sacred songs.
    The sight that greeted her put a warm lump in her throat. More than a hundred American Indian people stood together in front of the entrance to the municipal building, the drum in the center, elders given a place of honor beside the singers, younger people standing on the periphery holding protest signs so that passing motorists could see them. Glenna, pale but smiling, was there with Pauline, who looked proud now, not afraid. They saw her, smiled, and waved.
    Grandpa Red Crow stood off to one side in his best blue jeans, a red shirt, a black leather bolo tie, and a black vest, an eagle feather in his hair, his forehead and the part in his hair painted red to show he was a warrior. He was speaking to a news crew together with Robert Many Goats, a Dine attorney from the First Nations Rights Fund, and Adam Caywood, the Creek/Choctaw actor Kat had had a crush on--until she'd learned he was Two Spirit and preferred men.
    She waved to Joaquin, who'd beaten her there as usual and was busy snapping away, then drew out her digital recorder and joined the other reporters, the words of the Lakota song that was being sung running through her mind.
    Our grandfather's drum is beatinglOur grandfather's drum is beating/Hear, our grandfather's drum is beating/His drum beats/Our hearts beat/And our ancestors walk strong beside us.
    Behind her a man spoke in Lakota. "She's the Navajo journalist who was there."
    Kat felt a swell of pride. Her mother might not have appreciated what she did for a living, but these men and women did.
    "Mesa Butte has long been sacred to Indian people," Grandpa Red Crow was saying. "My ancestors have prayed there and held their ceremonies there since long before European settlers came to this land. Now the police come to stop our prayers and drive us away. Where is the justice in that?"
    "The city says you didn't have a land-use permit," one of the reporters said, the tone of his voice indicating that he thought this justified everything. "Is this true?"
    Robert Many