The moccasin telegraph had been busy. It had even carried the latest news to this young white man. It always amazed Father John how quickly news traveled across the reservation, especially since only half the homes had telephones.
He decided to see what else Tyler might know. “Did you hear about the argument Anthony got into with his uncle at the powwow grounds? Strange, don’t you think? I’ve never seen Arapaho families argue in public. Wonder why they didn’t talk about the Cooley ranch deal at home?” He hoped he’d given the young man an opening.
“Cooley ranch deal?” A look of surprise stole across Tyler’s face, even though he was making an obvious effort to keep himself unreadable. This young white man was definitely on Anthony’s side.
“You know Ned Cooley’s put this ranch up for sale,” Father John said, gesturing toward the space around them. “That’s what I heard the argument was about.” Father John sensed that Tyler had heard otherwise, and he waited again for him to pick up the lead.
Instead Tyler said, “Anthony told you that?”
Father John shrugged. It didn’t matter where the information came from.
“That must’ve been it, then,” the young man said.
At that moment one of the musicians clanged a cowbell on the porch steps. Small groups began moving in the direction of the buffet table, then the entire crowd started rolling toward it, like tumbleweeds across the plains. “Nice to talk to ya, Father,” Tyler called as he started toward the house, a sense of relief about him.
“John, jump in here.” Father Brad was at the far end of the table waving a large paper plate. Other guests motioned Father John forward. Picking up a plate from a side table, he joined his assistant.
“Never expected to see a party like this out here in the middle of Wyoming:” Father Brad grinned as he speared chunks of pork onto his plate. Father John followed his assistant down the table, absentmindedly helping himself to a small slice of meat, some potato salad, an ear of corn, and a bunch of red grapes. He was thinking about what Tyler hadn’t said. The young man didn’t believe Anthony and Harvey had argued over the ranch, and neither did he.
Father John slipped a brownie onto the edge of his plate between the slice of pork and the potato salad. He never got used to the way Westerners piled food together, but the brownie looked too good to pass up.
His mind was wandering down the relentless path of logic, and gradually the conclusion came into view. Last night had been a shouting match between Anthony and Harvey. Loud and emotional. Over what? Land? Father John had never completely bought that. What then? A girl? The same girl Anthony had spent the night with? The girl he didn’t want involved? It was beginning to make sense. Anthony’s cock-and-bull story about arguing with Harvey over land and his refusal to name his alibi were related.
But that raised other questions. Why had they argued over the girl? Was it because Harvey hadn’t approved of her? Who was she? Why didn’t she come forward and confirm Anthony’s alibi? Still lost in his thoughts, Father John almost ran into the host.
“Got a place for you jebbies over here where the beer’s nice and cold,” Ned said, leading the way to a round table directly below the front porch. The musicians were strumming another Willie Nelson tune, and guitars wailed in the warm evening air. Open bottles of beer surrounded the candlelaria on the table. Father Brad was already seated between Dorothy and Melissa. Mayor Frisco, a beefy, red-faced man, made a show of seating his daughter and his wife before claiming the chair between them.
“Father O’Malley from the reservation, right?” Jasper Owens sat down next to Father John and stuck out his hand. He was barrel-chested with a fringe of black hair that wrapped horseshoe-like around a bald head. The candlelaria cast yellow stripes of light across his face. His smile revealed a mouthful of teeth as white and straight as tombstones. A young man, dark-haired and muscular, took the chair next to Melissa, and Jasper introduced him as his assistant, Luke. Luke gave a little half nod around the table.
Father John’s path seldom crossed that of Jasper Owens. He knew the oilman mostly by reputation. Jasper Owens’s oil company was headquartered in Pennsylvania, a family firm, and he’d been sent west to look out for the family’s interests. A couple of years ago, he’d made a bid for Wyoming’s sole seat in the U.S. Congress where, had he been successful, Father John was sure, Jasper Owens would have continued looking out for his family’s interests. He was not someone Father John would have picked for a dinner companion, but neither was Ned Cooley, and here he was stuck between them. He tried to shrug off the growing wish to be back in his study at the mission. This was still an opportunity to get some insight into why Harvey had decided against buying the Cooley ranch and why, all of a sudden, some oil wells on the reservation had gone dry.
The conversation focused on Harvey’s murder. Who found the body? What happened then? When was Anthony arrested? Father John ate silently while his assistant filled in the details. He even launched his hit-man theory, and Father John waited to see how he would handle the part about Harvey being killed over oil, with the oilman at the table. Father Brad finessed it brilliantly, calling the motive for the contract “Harvey’s political decisions.”
Jasper finally turned the conversation to the Cooley ranch. “This good man here’s about to give this place away,” the oilman said, pointing a fork at Ned. “Those Indians are gettin’ the chance of a lifetime. I hope they’re grateful.”
As if the conversation had nothing to do with him, Ned tipped his chair back and motioned to one of the waiters. “Get me another chunk of pork,” he ordered. “This here’s tough as cowhide.”
“I would think your company would want a ranch with oil wells on it,” Father John said.
“We’re in the oil business, not real estate,” Jasper said, shoveling a fork full of potato salad into his mouth. He swallowed and went on. “What would we want with this enormous ranch? We’re interested in pumping oil, that’s it.”
“I’ve heard there’s more profit in owning wells than in leasing them. No royalties to pay out,” Father John persisted. He remembered Anthony’s concern that an oil company would buy the ranch and put an end to any possibility of Arapahos ever getting it.
Jasper laid his fork down and turned toward Father John. “More profit, more trouble,” he said. “Best deal is to own the mineral rights. Of course, that’s sometimes hard to get, especially around here. Oil companies can only lease wells on the reservation. Those Indians aren’t selling any rights. And Ned here’s makin’ a package deal. Ranch and mineral rights together. Hell of a deal for those Indians, I say.”
“Some wells on the reservation have been closed down, I hear,” Father John went on, pushing the opportunity to find out as much as he could while the conversation was on oil wells.
The oilman was quiet a moment, as if arranging the words in his head before speaking. “Some wells just stop paying out. It happens. That’s the oil game.”
Jasper strung out the word “game” like a string of tobacco juice, and Father John felt a wave of disgust come over him. He fought the urge to push away from the table and head for the Toyota. This game determined whether some Arapaho families would have food this winter, or natural gas for heat, or coats for their kids. It wasn’t a game to them.
Just then a light-gray sedan pulled into the driveway, followed by two state patrol cars and a truck with Channel 5 emblazoned on the side panels.
‘The governor,” Ned said, jumping out of his chair. He strode across the lawn toward the sedan.
The murmuring and laughter of the crowd died down as Ned ushered the governor past the tables and onto the porch. Two television cameramen stationed themselves below, right next to Father John, their cameras trained on the governor. Short and wiry in a dark, western-cut suit, he pumped Ned’s hand up and down, grinning toward the cameras. The music ended in a loud crescendo.
Ned pulled the microphone over from the band. “Ladies and gents. We have with us here no other than the ho
norable governor of Wyoming. Let’s give him a big welcome.” The crowd stood up, clapping as Ned telescoped the microphone and pushed it toward the governor. Everyone sat down.
The governor gave a short speech about how happy he was to be at the annual Cooley pig roast. He spoke a few words about the great state of Wyoming, probably the same thing he said every place he went, before he got to the point. “You folks in central Wyoming have among you the best man to lead our state in the coming years,” he said.
The guests were on their feet again, shouting and clapping, and the governor held up both hands to quiet them. “I’m going to do everything in my power to see that Ned Cooley is elected the next governor of our great state.” The crowd whooped and hollered like cowboys at a rodeo.
Ned reached over and pulled the stem of the microphone back up to his level. Surveying his still-standing guests, he waited for the noise to die down. “As you all know,” he began slowly “Cooleys were the first people to come to these parts more than a hundred years ago. We settled this whole county. When my great-granddaddy Mathias Cooley brought his little wife across the plains and lit on this place, there wasn’t anything here but buffalos and Indians.”
Ned paused and waited for the laughter to die down.
“Ever since then, Cooleys have worked hard to make Fremont County a decent place for decent people. Now it’s time to take all that Cooley experience to the statehouse. Friends, with your help, I aim to be the next governor of Wyoming.”
In the midst of the cheers and clapping that erupted around them, Father John caught Melissa’s eye. He’d been right earlier. There was sadness there.
10
FATHER JOHN OPENED the heavy, carved door and took a few steps into the front hall. His boots clumped on the hardwood floor. Father Brad followed. “I’ll be darned if it isn’t a museum,” the young priest said, whistling between his teeth. Muffled voices and a slurry of footsteps came from the rooms that opened off both sides of the long hallway. A stairway ahead led to the upper level.
“Make yourselves at home.” Ned appeared in a doorway, waving the two priests into what had been the front parlor. “Everything is authentic Plains Indian stuff, I guarantee. My great-granddaddy started this collection. He was always willing to help out those Indians by givin’ ’em a few dollars for their trinkets. Family’s kept up the tradition ever since.”
Father John took in the room at a glance. Several guests were milling about. Large Plexiglas cases filled with Indian artifacts lined the walls. Heirlooms worth who-knew-how-much gotten from poor people for a few dollars. Well, at least the Cooleys had taken care of them. And now it looked as if they would go back to the Arapahos where they belonged, if the ranch deal went through. That was about the only good thing he could think about the Cooley collection.
Father John strolled around the room, waiting for other guests to finish examining the items in each case before he began. There were “possible bags,” all-purpose storage bags the size of a woman’s large purse, woven of horsehair and embroidered with delicate glass beads in traditional geometric patterns: stripes for the roads of life; triangles symbolizing tipis and home; circles for the camp and the people. The designs came in dreams to those who created them, and they served as ongoing prayers for the health and well-being of whoever used the bags. Ned was pointing to one of the cases. “These here are parfleches used for carrying belongings,” he told Father Brad. The rawhide bags were large and beautiful, with geometric figures painted in the soft reds, blues, and greens distilled from clay, wild berries, and leaves. Next to one of the parfleches was a saddlebag, horseshoe-shaped rawhide that fit over the rump of a horse. It too was painted in intricate patterns and decorated in horsehair tassels.
Father John wandered through the large double doorway into the next room, with Ned and Brad following. Here several other guests bent over cases that held bows and arrows, spears and hatchets, plus rifles and knives Arapahos had gotten in trade with white men. One case displayed breastplates made of polished bones and rawhide shields that optimistic warriors in the Old Time had believed would deflect arrows and bullets.
“Best things are this way,” Ned announced, striding across the hallway to another room. Father Brad and several other guests walked with him. After a while, Father John wandered over. Dorothy was there, pointing out something to a small group. The cases were filled with clothing: vests, gloves, moccasins, and leggings, all swathed in glass beads. White deer-skin dresses were pinned on the walls like giant butterflies.
“Imagine doing all that fine beadwork by campfire with chips of buffalo bone for needles.” Dorothy glided across the room toward Father John, her skirt swaying. “Beading was almost a lost art, but I’m proud to say I’ve helped to reintroduce these crafts to Arapaho women. Beadwork groups meet every week at the Blue Sky Hall where I volunteer. I’ve gotten older women to come in and teach the younger ones.”
Father John said nothing. He had often seen Maria and the other grandmothers in the meeting hall at St. Francis, fingers flying over their beadwork while younger women sat beside them, doing what they did. “Arapahos like to make the things we need in beautiful ways,” Maria had once told him.
The other guests had already moved into the front room, and Father Brad poked his head through the doorway. “Ned’s absolutely right,” he called. “The best is in here.”
Father John strolled through the doorway. All the cases displayed dance regalia: beaded aprons, bustles of eagle feathers, feathered headdresses. He stepped over to the narrow Plexiglas case at the far end of the room. Inside was a warbonnet, folded in half and pressed against the wall. Eagle feathers curved gracefully toward the floor.
“My pride and joy,” Ned said, coming up behind Father John, boots clacking against the wood floor. “It belonged to old Chief Black Night. He let my great-granddaddy have it. Shows how grateful he was to granddaddy for all he did for the Indians.”
Father John was thinking how each feather stood for a courageous or unselfish deed the chief had performed. Strange that he had given the headdress to a white man. After a moment he said, “It used to be on a stand in the center of the room.”
“Had to put it behind glass so’s it wouldn’t dry out,” Ned said.
The headdress was impressive, Father John thought, even flattened behind glass.
The Toyota’s headlights bounced through the darkness ahead as Father John drove along Rendezvous Road back to St. Francis Mission. His assistant hadn’t stopped talking about the party since they’d left. Father John nodded and uttered an occasional “uh huh,” but he wasn’t listening. Too many questions lodged in his mind, like little bones he could neither swallow nor spit out.
One thing seemed certain. Harvey had wanted to talk to him about the girl Anthony was seeing, the girl Anthony had spent the night with, the girl he was protecting. Father John had a pretty good idea who she was and why Harvey had sounded so worried when he’d called. Not that Father John could have been of any help. There was no stopping romance, once it started racing down the track.
Still, the Cooley ranch deal was hard to figure out. Nothing about it made sense. Why wouldn’t Ned sell the mineral rights to some oil company? Jasper would be interested, that seemed certain. And Ned could still sell the land to the Arapahos, for a smaller price, of course. But a smaller price might make it easier for them to buy. Yet Ned seemed intent on keeping the two together—land and mineral rights—and offering the Arapahos a hell of a deal, as Jasper put it. Maybe that’s what bothered him—all that generosity and altruism on the part of Ned Cooley. Even throwing in a collection for which any museum would pay a small fortune.
Well, maybe he was misjudging the man. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d made that mistake—he’d never won any prizes in understanding why people did what they did. He had a hard enough time understanding himself. Maybe Ned had been pricked by conscience now that he was likely to become the governor of Wyoming and genuinely wanted to see the ranch and the art
ifacts go back to their original owners. But if that was so, why had Harvey opposed the deal? Even more puzzling, why had he changed his mind, jumped from one side to the other?
Father John pushed down on the accelerator, and the Toyota shot up a gradual incline, its headlights bathing the blacktop ahead. Father Brad’s voice droned on, but Father John wasn’t following, a fact the young priest didn’t seem to notice.
What was it Rita had said? Harvey had changed his mind after talking to Will Standing Bear. And Charlie Taylor always went along with Harvey. Did that mean Charlie had also changed his mind? Father John decided to have a talk with the tribal councilman and the elder as soon as possible.
11
THE LAST PICKUP skidded around Circle Drive and out onto Seventeen-Mile Road as Father John turned back into St. Francis Church. Ten o’clock Mass had been packed. Even the vestibule was jammed. There were faces he’d seen only occasionally at Mass, and some faces he’d never seen, all drawn by the shock of Harvey’s murder. The close, musty smell of the crowd lingered in the air.
Father John made his way down the side aisle, forcing the vent windows open as far as they would go. The warm breeze washed over him. He was comfortable in this church, a chapel really, built by Arapahos a hundred years ago. Above the entrance were the painted symbols of the Trinity: a thunderbird for God the Creator, a tipi, sacred pipe, and eagle feather for the Holy Spirit, and the figure of a warrior for the Risen Christ. Around the whitewashed stucco walls marched stick-figure drawings of the Stations of the Cross. And circles everywhere for all the natural things in the world that are round—Mother Earth, sun, moon. Chains of circles were linked together to symbolize that all living creatures are related.
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