The Eagle Catcher

by Margaret Coel

  “No it’s not.” There was an edge to Marvin’s voice. “Oil dries up in an area, it’s gonna hurt the wells there.”

  “How long had they been pumping?”

  “Twenty years or more on two of ’em. The others, about ten years.”

  “Who holds the leases?”

  “Owens Oil Exploration,” Marvin said, the pencil now rapping out an impatient rhythm. “We been doing business with the Owens family for years. They run a good company.”

  Vicky studied the little marks that Marvin’s pencil had made around the lower edge of the map and thought of the oil pumps still moving up and down against the horizon, just across the line from the reservation. “Any wells stopped pumping here?” She ran one finger below the map.

  “Not that I know of. Just bad luck Arapaho oil gives out. Not our business what happens to Fremont County wells.”

  “Does Owens hold the leases on those wells?” Vicky persisted.

  The Crow took his time answering, letting his eyes roam over her. After a moment he said, “Nope. Several oil companies got ’em. I don’t have all that information. I don’t need it for the report.”

  “So your report will not explain why oil in part of the reservation suddenly ran out even though there’s still oil just across the line?” She knew it wouldn’t, that he had accepted the non-pumping wells as an act of God, finished.

  The Crow took his eyes from her and set about rolling the map into a long, tight stick. This time Vicky didn’t try to stop him. She had all the information he was about to give her without a subpoena. Everything else she wanted to know she would have to dig up herself in the records at the Fremont County courthouse. “Thanks,” she said with effort as she opened the office door.

  “Who is it?” the resource director called after her. “That Lakota or somebody else you’re stuck on?”

  It took all her willpower not to slam the door. Instead she kept on going, not shutting the door, not bothering to look back or acknowledge in any way that she had heard.

  Vicky walked down the hallway of the tribal offices, past social services, finances, wildlife, and environmental protection, past the receptionist’s desk at the foot of the V-shaped building. Then she turned down the other hallway where the councilmen’s offices were located and rapped on Harvey’s door.

  “You missed him.” The voice came from behind, and Vicky wheeled about. She hadn’t been aware of anybody else in the hallway. “Father John left a few minutes ago,” the receptionist said.

  24

  WILL STANDING BEAR was finishing lunch at a table in the far comer of the Ethete senior citizens center. Two other elders sat across from him fingering coffee mugs and chatting quietly. Except for a small group at another table, they were the only old people still there. It was almost two o’clock. Several middle-aged Arapaho women moved among the empty tables picking up dirty dishes.

  “You eaten lunch yet?” Will Standing Bear asked as Father John walked over. Not waiting for an answer, the elder motioned to one of the women stacking dishes on a tray. When he had her attention, he nodded toward Father John.

  Father John sat down across from Will, next to the other two elders, and tossed his cowboy hat on a vacant chair. He tried to stop at the center once in a while to have lunch with the old people, but he hadn’t planned on eating today. What he wanted was advice from the elder who had given him an Arapaho name and had made him feel as if he belonged among the people.

  The two other old men pushed their chairs back and rose quietly, as if sensing Will and the missionary priest wanted to talk in private. As they shuffled behind Father John, one patted him on the back. “Two of our councilmen dead now. We don’t want no more. Thank you, Father, for what you’re doin’.”

  The Arapaho woman sat a bowl of stew and a plate of fry bread on the table, and Will picked up a metal pitcher and poured Father John a mug of coffee. “Eat and drink,” the elder said, pushing the mug toward him.

  Politeness came before questions. Eating and drinking first, then discussion. The stew was hot and delicious. The broth was thin, filled with whole carrots, chunks of potatoes and beef so tender Father John could cut it with a spoon. Stew was an Arapaho specialty, he knew. In the Old Time, every family kept a pot of buffalo meat and wild vegetables simmering all day over the fire in the center of the tipi.

  Father John pushed the empty bowl to one side and waited. It was not polite to speak before the elder indicated he was ready for the talk. After a moment Will Standing Bear said, “It’s good Anthony’s at his home now. But his trouble ain’t over, Teenenoo Hiinooni’it.”

  “I’m trying to help him,” Father John said, “but I’m not getting anywhere. I wonder what I should do next?”

  “To wonder is to begin to know,” the elder said, his eyes watery but his gaze firm. “In the Oldest Time, Our People lived in the place where the sun rises, close to the waters that have no other side. At night they would go outside—all the men and women and children—and look up at the stars and moon. They wondered about the mystery of creation. And they wondered and wondered. One night in the Moon of the Drying Grass two stars streaked through the sky and fell near the village of Our People. Then two glowing shapes came into the village. They were the beautiful Star Men. Because Our People had wondered, the Star Men came to give them the precious gift of knowledge. They taught Our People all about the Star Nations, and the Milky Way and about all of creation. And they said not to be afraid, but Our People were still afraid. Knowledge is a hard gift.”

  The senior citizens center was quiet except for the gentle clatter of dishes and the soft swishing of a wet cloth as one of the women wiped a nearby table. Father John found them reassuring, this old man’s stories that he had heard from his grandfather who had heard them from his grandfather—stories emanating through time, like a faraway light in a dark tunnel.

  After a moment Father John said, “Harvey was working on at least two things that could have led to his murder. He’d asked Marvin Antelope for a report on the oil wells that stopped pumping in the southwest. Ernest was angry with Harvey for not doing something about it. Maybe somebody else was angry. Oil’s worth enough to kill for, I guess.” He was thinking of Father Brad’s hit-man theory, even though it still seemed preposterous.

  “Lots of things more important than oil,” Will Standing Bear said. “Our Arapaho Way, our religion, our elders and our children, our brothers and sisters, all the creatures that make our life rich—the four-leggeds and the wingeds—Sun that shines every day, Mother Earth that gives us all we need to live. Lots of things.”

  Father John realized he’d been looking at things through his own eyes, the eyes of a white man. Oil means money, which places it high on the white man’s scale of values. Oil is important to Arapahos, too, but in the whole scheme of things, its importance is minor. That didn’t mean Harvey hadn’t died for it, however.

  “There’s something else, Grandfather,” he said. “The Cooley ranch deal.”

  A long silence seeped into the space between them. Finally the elder said, “I told my grandson what my grandfather told me soon as I was this high.” He flattened one hand and brushed it over the table. “Our People don’t trust the agent.”

  “But government agents don’t run things on the reservation anymore,” Father John said. “The people do. Why is it important today that Arapahos didn’t trust old Mathias Cooley a hundred years ago?”

  “My grandfather would not speak of it. None of the elders would speak of it. They said some things must not become words until the time is ready.”

  “What does that mean, Grandfather?” Father John persisted.

  “This is our place on the earth. The Cooley ranch is next to our place. So we must live side by side, and the Cooley family is very powerful. I think that’s why my grandfather said it is best not to speak of these things.”

  “But what made Harvey change his mind about buying the ranch?”

  “My grandson told me he believed the t
ime was now ready to make many things known.”

  Father John sank against the padded back of the folding chair and drew in a long breath. So Harvey had discovered something while researching Arapaho history. Chances are that’s what he had wanted to talk to him about the morning of the powwow. “Do you have any idea what Harvey had found?”

  The elder shook his head slowly. “My grandson was always finding secrets buried by white men.”

  Buried was the right word, thought Father John, taking the first sip of the coffee the elder had poured. It had turned cool. Harvey had often complained about how the records of government dealings with Arapahos were hidden in other government records, making it difficult to locate information. To find out about some Indian battles on the plains, he’d had to slog through records of the entire Civil War.

  “Niatha’s too clever for himself,” Will said. The Arapaho word for white man was also the word for spider, a mysterious, clever creature. “Niatha tries hard to bury his shameful deeds. Trouble is, he wants to write everything down. So pretty soon somebody like Harvey finds what Niatha wrote down. Niatha gets tangled up in his own web.”

  Father John was thinking of some of the events Harvey had talked to him about—events that whites, especially those involved—would want to hide. What cavalry man wanted his family and friends to know he had ridden into an Arapaho village of women and children and killed everyone there? Yet somebody had written it down. It was somewhere in the records, all the horror. On the other hand, what difference did it make if such things became known today? Everybody involved was dead.

  He finished off the coffee and set the mug on the table. Will Standing Bear kept his eyes on him, as if prodding him on. The elder didn’t have the answers—he would tell him if he did. He expected Father John to connect the parts. He was counting on him to do so.

  Father John began stumbling out loud down the relentless path of logic. “Harvey was always pushing to find out what happened on the plains in the Old Time. He discovered something new, something no one had ever known before, something in the past that someone did not want uncovered. It had to do with something Arapahos consider important.” He took a deep breath, turning over in his mind what Will had told him. Arapahos value many things more than oil. All living things. Sun. Mother Earth.

  “Of course,” Father John said, pushing back his chair and jumping up. The chair squealed against the tiled floor. Why hadn’t he seen it? It was as obvious as the whole outdoors. “Land,” he said. “Harvey stumbled onto something that had to do with Arapaho land, something about the Cooley ranch.”

  Will Standing Bear got to his feet and leaned against the back of his chair. “When you find what it is, Teenenoo Hiinooni’it, you’ll know who took my grandson’s life from him.”

  “Thank you for all you have given me, Grandfather,” Father John said, picking up his cowboy hat.

  “Something else.” Will Standing Bear pushed his chair against the table. “My grandfather said that when the murderer tries to eat, all the food’s gonna taste bad.”

  Father John walked out to the parking lot with the elder and helped him into his Chevy pickup. The old man pulled himself upright over the steering wheel before turning on the ignition. Remembering his promise to Ernest, Father John held up his hand and leaned toward the opened window. “One more thing, Grandfather. Ernest wants very much to see you.”

  The Indian stared out across the steering wheel. “Yes,” he said, after a moment. “Ernest is ready now. I will go to see my grandson.”

  The dry wind blew little eddies of dust across Seventeen-Mile Road. The heat inside the Toyota was stifling, even though the sky was as gray as the strip of asphalt ahead, and steel-colored clouds rose over the rim of the Wind River Mountains. He kept one finger on the hot steering wheel, aware of perspiration soaking the back of his shirt. For the first time since Harvey’s murder, he felt as if he had finally found the right path. Now he knew what to look for in Harvey’s history files.

  25

  BEFORE FATHER JOHN could return to Harvey’s office, he had to put in a little time in his own office. The stack of messages and bills and other mail, the unreturned phone calls all needed attention. St. Francis Mission seemed to be running itself these days, although Father John had to admit his assistant was doing a good job of holding things together. As soon as he got back, he stuck his head in Father Brad’s office and told him he appreciated his efforts.

  The young priest grinned, then mentioned he’d just finished counseling a couple with marital problems. Father John had married them last May. He thanked his assistant again, feeling guilty for not having been here. Then Father Brad said the Riverton coach had called. His team would be at St. Francis tomorrow morning ready to go against the Eagles. Father John had forgotten about the game, but he knew the kids wouldn’t forget.

  “I won’t be leaving anytime soon,” Father Brad said, shoving his swivel chair back from the small oak desk in his office. The desk was clear as a blank sheet of paper, except for the yellow tablet the young priest had been writing on.

  “The Provincial called again?” It seemed a minor annoyance now, a mosquito buzzing around.

  “He wants me to stay on awhile.” Father Brad smoothed the top of his hair, which already lay like mown hay against his head. “I was hoping for a teaching post this fall, but ... well, if I have to stay on, it won’t be too bad, I guess.”

  Father John got the picture. The Provincial wasn’t about to move the assistant, not when he intended to move the superior. Somebody had to stay, and this young priest, even though he didn’t know it yet, was about to be in charge of St. Francis Mission.

  “The Provincial’s bent out of shape you haven’t returned his calls,” Father Brad went on. “I told him you’ve been pretty busy.”

  Great. Busy investigating a murder. Just what he wanted the Provincial to hear. Father John felt irritated, then he realized his assistant had stalled for him, tried to give him an excuse. “Thanks,” he said again.

  As he sat down at the desk in his own office, Father John’s eyes fixed on the blue message sheet on top of a stack of paper. “A.M. Thursday. Provincial. Call back. Important.” He crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket.

  The next message: Homer Lone Wolf called from Denver—reversed charges. Baby okay after operation. Homer keeping pledge.

  At least there was some good news, Father John thought as he flipped through the rest of the stack, pulling out obvious bills. He opened each envelope and made a new stack with the contents. There was no way he could pay all the bills this month, any more than he had paid them last month. St. Francis Mission was always short on funds. He slit open a plain envelope with no return address. A five-dollar bill fell out. A donation. Donations came from unexpected places. Last month out of the blue, a large check had arrived from a lawyer in Baltimore, someone he’d never heard of. And before he’d come to St. Francis, some anonymous donor had willed the Toyota to the mission. It was a kind of miracle, the way St. Francis kept going.

  Father John called Elena and asked her to put up some bologna sandwiches for later. Then he paid bills until the balance in the Mission checkbook hovered around zero and, at five o’clock, he locked up the office. Father Brad had already left, probably to get in his afternoon run down Seventeen-Mile Road, which had begun to make Father John feel a little guilty. He knew he ought to get in more exercise than an occasional run around the ball field with the Eagles.

  Over at the priests’ residence, he picked up the cooler with the sandwiches and cans of Coke and stashed it in the back of the Toyota. Next to it he laid his fishing pole, tackle box, and waders. Driving out to Harvey’s ranch, he listened to La Traviata and thought about Anthony’s loss. He felt a sense of unworthiness that the young man had asked him along on his first fishing trip without Harvey. He would do his best to be a good friend, even after he left Wind River, but he knew that no one would ever fill the empty space Harvey’s death had left in his nephew’s li
fe.

  Cool mist sprayed upward as Father John moved with his neoprene waders into the water. A few feet from the shore of Washakie reservoir, he planted both feet on a bed of pebbles that promised to be stable. Steep, rocky slopes of Washakie canyon rose all around. The sky was blue-gray, but the clouds bunched overhead were laced in black.

  Father John flipped the line back, then snapped the pole forward to cast further out into the dark blue water. The number 14 Adams fly that Anthony had suggested he try skimmed across the surface before catching on a boulder that jutted out of the water. He had no illusions about being a great fisherman, not like people from these parts. The first time he’d ever tried fishing had been with Harvey six years ago. He’d come here every summer since, sometimes with Harvey and Anthony, sometimes with other friends from the reservation. Ned Cooley had invited him on a couple of fishing trips. Those invitations he’d turned down.

  Anthony was along the shore a hundred yards away. He had reeled in a three- or four-pound trout thirty minutes ago. Father John had watched him dip his net and scoop up the flailing fish. Holding it upside down, he’d removed the hook before putting the trout back into the water. That was the last strike for either of them.

  Father John was about to back cast again when he saw Anthony coming along the shore toward him. Picking his way wherever he could get a sure footing in the water, Father John walked toward the Indian.

  “That’s enough for me,” Anthony said as Father John scrambled out of the water. “Trout ought to be biting in this weather, but they’re not. Maybe it’s not going to rain after all,” he said, glancing at the darkening clouds overhead.

  “They’re not biting anywhere if not here.” Father John pulled down the tailgate of the Toyota and laid his rod on the ridged bed. This was the best place on the reservoir. All the good fishermen came here. It was where Harvey had always fished.

  Balancing against the tailgate, Father John removed the long neoprene waders. Then he pulled on his cowboy boots. Through a clearing in the thick stand of ponderosas alongside the road, he could see down Washakie canyon to where it spilled out onto the flat, open plains. It looked like a perfectly framed picture postcard—golden plains under a sea-blue sky dotted with clouds.