Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Berkley Prime Crime Mysteries by Margaret Coel
PRAISE FOR MARGARET COEL’S THE EAGLE CATCHER
“The best parts of The Eagle Catcher are Coel’s portrayal of the dual cultures that exist uneasily on the reservation and an uncanny sense of dialogue that makes her characters ring true.”
—The Denver Post
“[The Eagle Catcher’s] native American theme will inspire comparisons to the work of Tony Hillerman, but its insights into the Arapaho way of life in our century are unique to this form.”
—LOREN D. ESTLEMAN, author of Edsel
“Insightful commentary about Arapaho culture ... Likable, well-drawn characters and a lively pace mark this novel—which seems poised for a sequel—for Hillerman fans.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Eagle Catcher is a beautifully plotted novel with tension that builds with the speed of a stone rolling down a hill.”
—ANNE RIPLEY, author of Mulch
“One can only hope that this is the beginning of a long and shining career for both Margaret Coel and Father John.”
—I Love a Mystery
“Welcome Margaret Coel to the ranks of esteemed western mystery writers such as Hillerman, Hager, and Prowell. The Eagle Catcher... is not only an alluring fresh mystery told with the authoritative voice of a historian, it is also a thoughtful testimony to the clash of cultures that endures in the West. The second one won’t come too soon.”
—STEPHEN WHITE, author of Higher Authority and Private Practices
“A first-rate mystery, played out against a background of Arapaho tradition and the vast reaches of Wyoming’s Wind River Reservation, and featuring two admirable sleuths, Father John O’Malley and Arapaho attorney Vicky Holden.”
—JEAN HAGER, author of the Mitch Bushyhead and Molly Bearpaw Cherokee Mysteries
“The story begins at once and drives straight through. The theme is handled with a wonderfully deft hand: The reader learns something without thinking about the process, which is what all good novels do.”
—JOHN DUNNING, author of Booked to Die
“The Eagle Catcher is an intense and fascinating story of avarice, tragic old wrongs, and ultimate justice. Margaret Coel has gifted us with a western mystery full of characters we long to know better and a Wyoming setting that takes our breath away.”
—EARLENE FOWLER, author of Fool’s Puzzle and Irish Chain
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE EAGLE CATCHER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
The University Press of Colorado edition / 1995
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 1996
Copyright © 1995 by Margaret Coel.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-12739-1
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DEDICATED WITH RESPECT TO THE ARAPAHOS, PEOPLE OF THE PLAINS AND OF THE BLUE SKY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every author owes an enormous debt to those who believed, who encouraged, who championed, and I am no exception. I wish to express my deep gratitude to all who read this manuscript—some, several times—and suggested the ways to make The Eagle Catcher a better book than it otherwise might have been. My perceptive readers included Elaine Long, Karen Gilleland, Janis Hallowell, Julie Paschen, Bruce Most, and Ann Ripley, all exceptionally talented writers themselves; Carol Irwin, a fine teacher and editor; and Virginia Sutter, member of the Arapaho tribe and former tribal councilwoman.
My thanks to those who explained the many technical issues with which I had to grapple. They include Ben Binder, of Digital Design Group, Inc., who helped to clear a path through the thicket of oil leasing on reservations; William Irwin, special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Richard Gist, federal magistrate, who clarified many points on law enforcement on reservations; Scott Ratliff, member of the Shoshone tribe, and Miriam and Hugh Crymble, who suggested people to contact and places to see at Wind River Reservation.
Special thanks are extended to my good friend, the Rev. Anthony Short, S.J., for sharing his deep insights and understanding of Arapaho culture; to the Rev. J. Robert Hilbert, S.J., St. Stephen’s Mission, for his hospitality during my numerous research trips to Wind River Reservation ; to the many Arapaho people who have been kind and generous enough to share their thoughts and experiences with me, especially Mary Ann Duran, Bob Spoonhunter, Virginia Sutter, and Pious Moss.
My thanks also to my agent, Jane Jordan Browne, to Luther Wilson, director, Univers
ity Press of Colorado, and to Judith Stem, senior editor, Berkley.
And to my husband, George Coel, who has always believed in me the most.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Except for the fact that Wind River Reservation in Central Wyoming sprawls across two-and-one-half million acres, an area larger than the states of Rhode Island and Delaware combined, and
except for the fact that the Arapaho and Shoshone people call the Wind River Reservation home, and
except for the fact that, for more than a century, Euro-Americans have continued to devise a host of ingenious methods to defraud American Indian tribes across the West,
except for all of this, The Eagle Catcher is not based on actual events or situations.
Nor are the characters based on real people of any time. The people who move through this story are, in the words of Henry James, my dream people.
Margaret Coel
1
A COLD GUST of wind whipped across the Ethete powwow grounds and flapped at Father John Aloysius O’Malley’s windbreaker. He savored the warmth in the cloud of steam rising out of the foam cup a moment, then took another sip of coffee. His eyes searched the crowd of Arapahos: parents herding kids along, an occasional father with a child on his shoulders, grandmothers and grandfathers trailing behind, bands of teenagers—all headed toward the dance arbor. Father John recognized most of the faces. He didn’t see Harvey Castle anywhere.
The sky was as gray as granite. It might rain today, but Father John considered it unlikely. It hadn’t rained since June, the Moon When the Hot Weather Begins, by the Arapaho Way of marking time. Now it was the last Saturday in July, the Moon When the Chokecherries Ripen, and even the air felt cracked and brittle. The Arapahos kicked up little whirls of dust as they settled themselves into aluminum lawn chairs around the arbor. He had never figured out why they called it an arbor—therewasn’t a tree in sight. Just a patch of scraped earth where the dances would take place.
Father John wondered what was keeping Harvey. The dancers were already lining up outside the three-foot-high log fence that marked off the arbor, feathered headdresses bobbing in the wind. The Grand Entry would start any minute. It wasn’t like the tribal chairman to be this late. He’d sounded worried yesterday when he’d called. “You goin’ to the powwow this weekend?” he’d asked. Of course Father John was going to the powwow. It was the biggest celebration of the year at Wind River Reservation—he wouldn’t miss it. And he intended to bring his new assistant at St. Francis Mission and introduce him around.
“Meet me at the brush shade at nine o’clock tomorrow. I got something important to talk over.” There was urgency in Harvey’s voice. Father John had almost asked what was going on. But he had shoved the impulse aside and muttered something like, “See you tomorrow.” He’d been pacing in front of the brush shade a good thirty minutes now. He was drowning in coffee, and Harvey was nowhere around.
“You lookin’ for somebody, Father?” It was a woman’s voice behind him, but Father John turned quickly, half expecting Harvey to be there, too. Alva White Bull was leaning over the metal table in the center of the brush shade, which he would have called a food booth back in Boston. She looked up, sent him a quick smile, then went back to flattening a wad of dough on the table with the palms of her hands.
“Now what makes you think so, Grandmother?” He used the Arapaho term of respect for the old woman, but he couldn’t resist teasing her a little.
“You pawin’ the ground like some bronco locked up in a chute.” Alva White Bull scooped up the dough and flopped it into a pan on the cookstove at the end of the table. Grease popped and spit in the air.
“Just waiting for you to pour me some more coffee,” Father John said. Pushing his cowboy hat back, he bent his six-foot-three-and-one-haif-inch frame under the sloping roof of the brush shade and set the empty Styrofoam cup on the plank counter. He’d already had four or five cups of coffee this morning—he’d lost count—but coffee beat the vodka tonics he had once used to jump-start the day.
The old woman swung an aluminum coffee pot off the cookstove and refilled his cup. Then she pushed a paper plate stacked with fry bread toward him. Rivulets of grease ran from the plate, leaving wet tracks along the counter.
He wasn’t hungry; he’d had toast and a couple of eggs at the priests’ residence earlier, but he took a chunk of fry bread to be polite. It tasted crusty and warm.
“Have you seen Harvey Castle this morning?” he asked.
“No. You s’pose to meet the tribal chairman?” The old woman’s voice rose with expectancy as she cast out a line for some gossip.
“Supposed to,” he said.
“He must’ve forgot.”
Father John laughed, nearly choking on the fry bread. “Not likely, Grandmother. The Arapahos and the Irish are alike, you know. We never forget anything. It’s a blessing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, flapping one hand as if to wave off a pesky mosquito.
Suddenly the loudspeaker began whistling back on itself, and the announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd. “Good morning, folks, and welcome to the Ethete powwow.” He was seated at the judges’ table inside the arbor.
“We got the best dancers on the Great Plains gonna dance for us this weekend.” The voice rose over the whistling sounds. “This weekend we’re gonna get in touch with the harmony and peace that us Arapahos know is important for a good life. That’s what the powwow’s all about. Dancers say they’re ready now, so we’re gonna start the Grand Entry.”
The drums started beating, and the loud thuds rolled through the air like thunder. Then the singers began chanting in high-pitched voices as the dancers flowed into the arbor, turning it into a sea of colors. The women were in dresses, blues and reds and purples and golds. Some wore buckskin dresses with long fringed sleeves and skirts. The men wore silk shirts and shorts topped with breastplates of polished bones and aprons covered with shimmering glass beads. All the dancers had on beaded moccasins and ankle cuffs of white angora. Some had wheels of red and orange feathers twirling on their arms and backs. Long yellow feathers, like stalks of prairie grass, sprouted from headdresses and bent in the wind.
Father John considered going back to his lawn chair to enjoy the dances. He was feeling a little guilty at leaving his new assistant alone for so long. Father Brad Jansen was easy to spot in the front row of spectators. His was the only blond head among the cowboy hats and baseball caps, and nobody else had on black clericals. But something held Father John in place. It wasn’t like the tribal chairman to schedule a meeting and not show up. Harvey had been worried. There had been something in his voice—unspoken, but unmistakably there. Father John was starting to feel uneasy.
Then it hit him. Harvey could be in his tipi. Maybe he didn’t feel well this morning and was taking his time getting ready for the powwow. Or maybe some tribal business had come up that demanded his attention.
“Thanks for the refills, Grandmother,” Father John said. Setting the half-empty cup on the counter, he started for the campground which abutted the western edge of the powwow grounds. In the distance, the brown humps of the Wind River Mountains rode against the sky like a herd of giant buffalo. Most of the Arapahos would stay here over the weekend. The campground was filled with pickups and aluminum trailers parked next to white canvas tipis with lodgepoles jutting upright like bundles of kindling wood set on end. The tipis all looked alike, the flaps facing the east so that the first thing Arapahos saw each day would be the rising sun. He was pretty sure Harvey had pitched his tipi where he usually did, next to the access road.
“You goin’ the wrong way, Father. Dancin’s over that way.” Leon Wolf had just stepped out of a trailer and was adjusting a baseball cap on his head, grinning. A row of white teeth flashed in his brown face.
“Thanks a lot, Leon,” Father John hollered back. The simple, good-natured exchange made everything seem normal and in place, but the uneasy feeling still gnawed at him. The minute he spotted Harvey
’s tipi, he knew something was wrong. The flaps on the other tipis were closed, tied securely in place, but the flap on Harvey’s hung loose, jumping sideways in the wind. Father John started running, the thud of the drums reverberating in his chest. He reached the tipi, threw the flap back against the canvas, and ducked inside. In the slim shaft of daylight, he saw the army-green sleeping bag on the dirt floor. Someone was in it.
“Harvey,” he called. “You okay?”
Then Father John saw the black stain on -the bag. He dropped down on one knee, wincing as the hard ground bit through his blue jeans and into his kneecap. He pulled back the top of the bag. Harvey’s eyes were open, staring up into nothingness. Father John laid a finger alongside the Indian’s neck. The skin felt stiff and cool. There was no pulse.
Suddenly Father John was aware that someone had come in behind him and was blocking the thin stream of daylight.
2
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH Harvey?” Leon sounded scared.
Father John pivoted slightly, his kneecap burrowing farther into the earth. Glancing up, he said, “Get the medics, will you?”
“What happened?” Leon persisted.
“I don’t know,” Father John said. “Just get the medics.”
Leon backed out of the tipi, his boots making a slap-slap sound against the earth as he ran away. The noise of the powwow filtered through the canvas: pounding drums, high, scratchy singing, humming loudspeakers, a wailing child somewhere.
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