The Eagle Catcher

by Margaret Coel

  12

  FATHER JOHN NUDGED the Toyota close to the rear bumper of a gray pickup at the far end of the driveway that divided the barn from the white frame ranch house. He started walking out across the pasture. Gigantic white clouds drifted through a blue velvet sky, and the sun seared the back of his neck. Puffs of dirt rising off the hard-packed ground clung to the toes of his cowboy boots. Tumbleweeds skidded along in the hot breeze, stacking themselves against the barbed-wire fence where Charlie Taylor was tamping dirt around one of the posts with the handle of a shovel.

  Flipping the shovel around, Charlie scooped up some dirt from the little mound next to the post, then began tamping it in the hole, seemingly engrossed in the task. As Father John approached, the Indian glanced up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Sweat ran from under his Stetson and down the sides of his cheeks.

  “Hot day for setting a fence post,” said Father John. It wasn’t polite to get right down to business and say what was on his mind. A kind of dance had to be performed first, an exchange of pleasantries.

  “One of my bulls don’t like stayin’ corralled,” Charlie said, scarcely interrupting the rhythm of the tamping.

  “This is the longest dry spell I’ve seen in these parts. No sign of rain,” Father John said, glancing up at the mare’s tail cloud swishing overhead.

  Charlie set the shovel into the mound of dirt. “It’ll rain when it gets to it,” he said, bending into his shirtsleeve to wipe away the perspiration on his forehead. “You come out here to talk about the weather?”

  “I’m worried about Anthony being caught up in Harvey’s murder,” Father John said.

  “Maybe that hotshot kid had somethin’ to do with it.”

  Father John took a deep breath, giving himself a moment to control the anger that flashed inside him. What Charlie had was a bad case of envies toward a younger man with more opportunities. But there was something else about this Arapaho, something hard to get a handle on. Maybe he seemed different because he was considered an outsider, born on the reservation but raised in Oklahoma. He’d only been back at Wind River a few years, but in that short time, he’d managed to get elected to the business council. He was an ambitious and determined man, this Arapaho.

  “I thought you were Harvey’s friend.” Father John checked himself before adding that he must have thought wrong. He didn’t want to stop the conversation.

  Charlie pushed his cowboy hat back and dipped his forehead again to his sleeve in a continuous motion. “Sure, me and Harvey was friends.”

  “You think Harvey’s work on the business council had anything to do with his murder?”

  “Not a chance,” the Indian said, grimacing, as if the suggestion were a bad joke. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back against the fence post. It held steady as a cottonwood.

  “What about the oil wells that have been shut down?” Father John pressed on. The councilman shifted his position against the fence post and looked out across the plains. They were just two men talking about the weather, but Father John could feel the tension thick between them.

  “Four wells on the south side is all. Just bad luck they belong to Arapahos. Hell, wells dry up all the time. ’Course, folks don’t like it much. Ernest Oldman started raisin’ a fuss so Harvey said he’d look into it. He asked the resources director for a report. It’s due in a few days.” Charlie stepped away from the post and turned around, examining it, as if to make sure it was still in place.

  Father John was thinking about Father Brad’s theory that somebody had put out a contract on Harvey’s life. “What’s more valuable around here than oil?” the young priest had wanted to know.

  Pushing a little further, Father John asked, “You think there’s a connection?”

  The councilman pivoted around. “What?”

  “Between the dry wells and Harvey’s murder.”

  The Arapaho was quiet a moment. “Yeah, sure. Hell, anything’s possible.”

  “But if oil wells dry up all the time. and that’s the reason Harvey was murdered, why is it no councilman has been killed before now?”

  Charlie squinted into the sun, as if he were having trouble following the logic. “Hell, it’s your theory,” he said finally. “You wanna shoot down your own theory, I ain’t handing you the gun.”

  Father John laughed, and the councilman joined in. Some of the tension seemed to dissolve. “Odd about the Cooley ranch, though. I can’t figure out why Harvey changed his mind about buying it. He was always anxious to buy back the old lands whenever they came on the market.”

  Charlie’s eyes shut down as if a curtain had been drawn. The veins stood out in his neck. “You must’ve heard wrong. Business council’s gonna vote unanimous for buying the Cooley ranch. That’s a hundred thousand acres of good ranch land, plus oil wells, and all of it paid for in time by royalties. Soon as it’s paid off, all Arapahos on the reservation are gonna share the royalties. It’s a hell of a deal, and Harvey was riding the same horse as everybody else. End of story.” The Indian whirled around, picked up the shovel, and started across the pasture.

  Father John followed. He was struck by the councilman’s words. They were almost the same that Jasper Owens had used. A hell of a deal.

  When they reached the driveway, Charlie said, “I don’t know what you been hearin’ on the moccasin telegraph. Everybody around here’s got an opinion on everything, mostly wrong. There’s nothing unusual about this here Cooley deal. We buy back old lands every chance we get, that’s the way it is. Next business council meeting, we’re gonna do just what Harvey would’ve wanted.”

  Father John got into the Toyota and slammed the door. The councilman leaned down, his face framed in the opened window. “Take my advice. Don’t go stirrin’ up trouble and lookin’ for things that ain’t there. Could be dangerous.”

  Father John backed the pickup out of the driveway. By the time he pulled onto the road, the councilman had disappeared in the rearview mirror.

  He flipped on the switch to the tape player and took a deep breath, drawing in the first notes of Don Giovanni. He’d misjudged Charlie Taylor. He’d assumed the councilman would be as eager to see Harvey’s killer brought to justice as he was, but Charlie didn’t seem fazed by Harvey’s murder. He was lying, hiding something, Father John could feel it in his bones. And the idea lurking at the edge of his mind made him uncomfortable. Charlie Taylor was now the acting tribal chairman at Wind River Reservation. Did he have his sights set on being elected chairman? Had Harvey stood in the way of his ambition? Was that reason enough to murder a man?

  13

  FATHER JOHN DIDN’T intend to stay long. He paid his respects again to Maria ensconced in the rocker at the far end of the living room, the red sweater draped over her shoulders, as if she hadn’t stirred since yesterday. People huddled in little groups across the room, in the kitchen, and down the hallway, their voices like the low, steady droning of bees. Will Standing Bear sat in one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs. Father John was tempted to ask him about the Cooley ranch deal, but decided against it. It would be impolite to ask for the gift of information before Harvey’s funeral.

  Rita was on the sofa talking with several Arapaho women. She seemed composed, relaxed even, with Anthony at home. He wished he could warn her that Anthony wasn’t safe yet, not as long as the FBI agent considered him the main suspect. He worried how she would take Anthony’s indictment, if it came.

  Anthony and Vicky were huddled together on two kitchen chairs next to the sofa. Waving to Father John, the young man said, “I got a lawyer again.” He was grinning, as if he hadn’t grasped the extent to which he was going to need one.

  As Father John got ready to leave, Vicky stood, scooped up a black leather bag that lay crumpled on the floor next to her chair, swung the bag over one shoulder, and led the way down the half flight of stairs. Father John grabbed his cowboy hat off the entryway bench and followed her outdoors. The sun was poised to drop behind the mountains at any mome
nt, and the whole western sky was layered in pinks and reds and oranges. There was an orange cast to the air.

  “Well, I’m the counsel of record again. You had something to do with that,” Vicky said, daring him to deny it. She barely came to his shoulder, and he could see the sun glinting off her black hair, which was pulled straight back and fastened with a large beaded barrette. The ends curled just below the collar of her blouse. As she walked slowly down the driveway with Father John, she kept her hands in the pockets of her skirt which billowed out slightly in the breeze. Her high heels snapped against the gravel.

  The strangeness of it struck him. He, a Boston Irishman, a priest, in cowboy boots and cowboy hat and blue jeans and plaid shirt, just like all the men on the reservation, dressed for the land, for the weather, for comfort. She, an Arapaho woman more interesting than beautiful, but attractive, stunning really, dressed for a stroll across Boston Commons.

  “Well?” she asked, swaying slightly toward him.

  “Melissa came to see me this morning,” he said. “She decided to tell her family about Anthony. That lets him off the hook about protecting her.”

  “There’s one sensible partner in that relationship. What do you think?” Vicky stopped and turned toward him, her head tilted upward.

  “About what?” He was hedging. He knew what she was asking, and he suspected she knew that.

  “An Arapaho man. A white woman,” she said.

  “I think they love each other a lot.”

  “Crazy, wild, and mad for each other, I’d say.” She started walking again. “They’re determined to overcome all the obstacles other people, Arapahos as well as whites, throw in their way.”

  “You think they’ll succeed?”

  “I’m a realist,” Vicky said. “First things first. Anthony doesn’t have any future at all with a murder indictment hanging over him.” A strand of hair had come loose, and the breeze blew it across her cheek. She tucked it back behind her ear.

  “Everything’s coming together for Jeff Miller—weapon, motive, accessibility,” Vicky continued. “And what do we have? An alibi as big as the sky and a gut feeling this kid didn’t murder his uncle. No wonder the fed’s not even looking for the real murderer. He thinks he’s got him cold.”

  They turned into Little Wind River Bottom Road and started walking down the middle, past a line of parked pickups. Father John could see her Bronco ahead. He was aware of how much he was enjoying talking quietly with this woman and walking alongside her. He told her about his hunch that Harvey’s murder had something to do with his work on the business council, that Charlie Taylor had scoffed at the idea, and that he was sure Charlie was lying. “How well do you know him?” he asked.

  Vicky stopped and turned toward him, as if she were weighing the answer before offering it. “I don’t think anybody really knows him. He’s not from around here. But he convinced a lot of people that he knew how to deal with whites. That’s what got him elected to the tribal council, and, as far as I know, he’s done a good job. You don’t think ...”

  Father John shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. Charlie admitted that Harvey had asked the resources director for a report on the oil wells that were shut down.”

  “Ernest Oldman is damned mad about that. Maybe Anthony’s right. Maybe it was Ernest who killed Harvey,” Vicky said, resuming the slow pace down the middle of Little Wind River Bottom Road. “He threatened Harvey last week, and Ernest can get violent, very violent.”

  In an orange flare of light, the sun was slowly dipping behind the Wind River Mountains, which were bathed in blue and violet shadows. Father John thought of Ernest as a seriously ill alcoholic. What Vicky said about the man’s violence only confirmed what he’d suspected, the rumors he’d heard. He had no firsthand knowledge of Ernest’s behavior, but he did have firsthand knowledge of the convoluted workings of the alcoholic mind.

  “I suppose it’s possible that in a drunken rage Ernest could pick up a knife and stab somebody,” Father John said. “But Harvey’s murder took some planning. Whoever did it made the most of an opportunity to steal Anthony’s knife a month ago. That means a month ago the murderer had the intention of killing Harvey and making it look as if his nephew had done it. Then the murderer waited for the opportunity. What better opportunity than the powwow weekend? Harvey would be alone in his tipi, which he always set up in the same place. I can almost guarantee,” he hurried on, “that if Ernest was drinking, his mind wouldn’t have been clear enough to put it all together.”

  Vicky sighed. “You’re right.” Something in her voice made Father John wonder if she was speaking out of her own experience. She had never talked about herself or why she had divorced her husband and left the reservation ten years ago. He’d heard the grandmothers clucking over it, but they had never mentioned why she’d gone away. Maybe Vicky would tell him someday; that was up to her.

  “Something else,” Father John said. “Charlie insists everybody on the business council, including Harvey, wanted to buy back the Cooley ranch. But Rita told me Harvey had changed his mind after he talked to the elders. Will Standing Bear told him not to trust the agent.”

  Vicky looked out across the plains as if she were trying to remember, to pull something out of the far distances. After a moment, she looked back at Father John. “Grandfather used to say nobody could trust the agent, but he never explained why. It’s part of the wisdom here even though Mathias Cooley’s been dead a hundred years.”

  When they reached the Bronco, he opened the door for her. Vicky tossed the black bag over the front seat, then slipped inside. “I’m thinking about moving to L.A.,” she said. She pulled the key out of the bag but made no effort to start the engine. “Larry’s been offered a position with one of the big firms there. Token Indian and all that. He wants me to come with him.”

  “Will you go?” Father John rested his forearms on the window ledge and bent toward her. He felt the old wariness gathering inside him, preparing him for the answer. He knew she was involved with a Lakota lawyer in Lander, but he never thought about it, except once in a while. And then it was only to hope he was good to her.

  “I don’t know,” she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

  He wanted to say “I hope you won’t go,” but of course he couldn’t. He was a priest, and she was a friend, that was all. He could never tell her how much he enjoyed having her at the edges of his life, working with her, walking into Blue Sky Hall and seeing her through the crowd of Arapahos, hearing her laughter break across the din of other voices.

  “I like being here with my people,” she said, turning toward him. “I flatter myself, I guess, by thinking I can help them. But I could practice Indian law in L.A. You know, help the Indigenous Peoples of North America.” She laughed, but there was little mirth in her eyes.

  He was aware of the wall blocking off the feelings inside him. This was how it always was. He was a traveler passing through the lives of others. He was always going away from the people he learned to care about, or they were going away from him. Maybe it was best. It kept things from getting complicated. But it seemed harder now. He felt as if he’d finally come home here at Wind River, yet people were still going away. Harvey was dead. Now Vicky was thinking about moving. Once he would have nursed a bottle of whiskey and waited for the pain to dull, but that wasn’t an option now.

  “You’ll be leaving pretty soon yourself,” Vicky said.

  “I hope not. I’ve asked the Provincial to extend my stay. The six-year rule is for superiors, and I’ve only been the superior at St. Francis three years.” This was surface talk, and the expression on her face told him that she knew it. What he wanted to say was: “I plan to stay on. You stay on, too. Let’s both be here.” But then he would have had to add: “And we can continue to be good friends.” That was all he had to offer, and it wasn’t enough.

  Switching on the ignition, Vicky smiled, almost as if she knew the rest of it without his saying the words. The Bronco pulled out, an
d Father John watched it until it disappeared over the rise on Little Wind River Bottom Road.

  Father John kept the steering wheel steady with one finger. Seventeen-Mile Road stretched ahead, awash in amber twilight. The hot, dry wind whistled through the cab, nearly drowning out the plaintive sounds of “Di Provenza il mar.” The father imploring his son to return home made him think of how much Harvey had loved Anthony, and how hard it was going to be on the young man now that the only father he’d ever had was dead.

  He thought of his own father and how he had worshipped him. With all his faults, he had worshipped him. His father had tended the steam furnaces at Boston College, and a lot of days he wasn’t sober enough to finish the job. As a kid, Father John used to stop by after school and give his father a hand. He had learned his way through the labyrinthine tunnels under the college long before he ever set foot in the classrooms above. Often he wondered what his father would have thought, had he lived long enough to see the Great Fall. Whether he would have been ashamed, as his mother had been, or whether it was what his father had always expected.

  Father John shifted in the seat and forced his mind back to Anthony. The young man’s whole life was dangling from a thin string. How long would it be before the FBI agent got the results of the lab tests? Of course, Anthony’s fingerprints would be on the knife. It was his knife. Whoever had used it to kill Harvey would have worn gloves and hoped some of Anthony’s prints would still be detectable. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out.

  Father John glanced in the rearview mirror. A BIA police car, lights flashing, was coming up behind. He’d been lost in his own thoughts and hadn’t heard the siren over the wind and the music. Easing on the brake, he pulled the Toyota over to the side of Seventeen-Mile Road. He’d probably been speeding. It wasn’t the first time his foot had gotten heavy on the gas pedal.