“How many years were you and your father county commissioner? Fifty? Did you change the records so they showed exactly what you wanted?” Keep him talking, Father John was thinking.
“They outdid themselves,” Vicky shouted.
Ned jerked her arm, nearly lifting her off her feet as lightning danced through the canyon, bouncing off the ground. It had moved in close, striking all around them.
“There are sworn statements in the records that Mathias Cooley bought a lot of ranches on the reservation,” Vicky shouted into the storm. “My great-grandfather’s. Ernest’s. Harvey’s. A lot of others.” She snapped sideways, momentarily breaking the rancher’s grip, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
Father John held his breath. Stay calm. Stay calm. He tried to send her a silent message. This was a waiting game.
“Forgeries,” Vicky yelled, her voice still defiant. “So many forgeries it’s a joke. Mathias Cooley was planning to take over the whole reservation.” She faced her captor again. “What happened? Didn’t your great-granddaddy live long enough to see his plans through? Why leave those forgeries in the county files? Did you really think someday the Cooleys could claim all that land?”
The rancher flinched, jerking the nose of the rifle upward. Water ran like black oil along the metal barrel. “This is our place,” he shouted. “Indians don’t belong here.”
Father John took another step along the pickup. Thunder cracked overhead, and another flash of lightning lit up the grove of aspens upslope. Rain splashed against the file box, rolled over it. It felt heavy in his hand. “I’m going to set the records on the seat,” he shouted as he reached through the opened window. “Let her go and I’ll drop the box. The records are yours.”
Ned flung Vicky out to one side, and Father John lowered the box onto the seat. Then he heard the snap of the bolt, muffled in the rain. He looked up into the barrel of the rifle. Just then Vicky whirled around and flung herself against the rancher. The rifle flew out of his hands as he stumbled sideways, slipping in the mud, fighting for balance before pitching forward.
“Run,” Father John shouted. Vicky started up the mountain and into the clump of aspen trees. Father John was close behind as thunder shook the ground, muffling the crack of the rifle.
They sprinted sideways, left, then right, up the slope in the rain, slipping backwards in patches of mud, pushing through mushy mounds of wet twigs and pine needles. Thunder shattered the air again, and he didn’t hear the shot that whizzed past his ear. “Stay low, stay low,” he shouted, digging his boots into the mud that oozed over the packed earth. God, they were going to be struck by lightning, if they didn’t get shot first.
Another shot, and Vicky went down. “No!” Father John shouted. He threw himself on top of her, pain ripping through him as his shoulder snapped out of its joint.
“I’m okay, I’m okay!” she yelled, scrambling uphill, pulling on shrubbery for support. She got to her feet and started running again, but he had to wait. He couldn’t catch his breath—his shoulder was on fire. He forced himself to his feet. Cooley would be close. He could be in the rifle sights. Taking off his cowboy hat, he aimed it sideways at a clearing between the trees and tossed it with all the strength he could muster. The gunshot erupted. Staying low, he zigzagged uphill after Vicky. He could see the soles of her sneakers kicking back little clumps of mud.
Vicky reached the ridge and started up the stand of boulders where he and Anthony had climbed last night. “Wait!” he hollered, stooping between two boulders. It was here somewhere, hidden behind the bushes, but he couldn’t spot it. He couldn’t get his bearings in the rain. “I see you!” Ned shouted from below. He couldn’t see them, Father John knew, or he would shoot them.
Vicky inched her way back down to him just as lightning lit up the ridge where she had been standing. “Oh, God,” she said. “We’re going to die.” Rain was running down her face and arms in little rivers, and she was shaking. Her T-shirt and jeans were covered in mud.
Father John pulled her down. “Stay low,” he ordered. Where was the boulder Anthony had climbed last night to survey his world? If he could spot it, he could find the bushes below it.
“He’s coming,” Vicky shouted just as Father John saw what he was looking for.
“This way,” he said.
“No. He’ll see us.” Vicky crouched closer to the ground.
He gripped her arm hard and pulled her sideways a few feet up the mountain. The rifle exploded behind them, and the bullets slammed into a nearby boulder, blasting off one corner. Fragments of granite bit his face and neck, and Vicky screamed into the rain.
He had to let go of her arm to push the shrubbery to one side. As soon as she saw the narrow space between the boulders, Vicky slipped inside and he followed, allowing the branches to fall slowly back into place. There was the sound of boots squishing in mud and scratching against rocks. He held his breath and closed his eyes in the darkness. It was dry in the tunnel, and quiet, as if the storm had disappeared. He leaned against the rough, cold granite, afloat in pain. His arm hung loose in its sling, like a raft floundering on a river.
After a few moments he began inching his way along the tunnel, so narrow in one place he had to turn sideways. Then he saw the faint light ahead. Vicky was already in the little room, just big enough for a boy to sleep in, to live in, while he waited for the eagle. Boulders arched overhead forming a solid roof, except for one spot the size of a saddle that was covered with brush. Gray daylight filtered through, and water ran along the branches and dripped onto the dirt floor.
Vicky had slumped down against the wall. In the faint light he could see the smears of mud on her face. He crouched beside her. “The eagle catch,” she whispered. “How did you know?”
He didn’t say anything. It hurt to talk.
“Tell me later.” Still a whisper. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette on you?”
He laughed silently, which sent the muscles of his arm into paroxysms of pain. God, this woman was full of surprises.
“I know you’re here. I’ll find you. You’re gonna die.” The rancher was shouting from somewhere above them, only a few feet away. Father John knew he could push through the brush and grab Ned’s feet, but he was having trouble just breathing with the pain. And he only had one arm. And he didn’t want anyone to die here. He could see the outline of Vicky’s face. She was staring straight ahead, holding her breath. No more jokes.
“You can’t hide from me.” The rancher shouted again, his voice further away, muffled in the rain. Father John could picture where Ned was standing now: On the flat surface of the highest boulder, where he and Anthony had stood looking out over the plains. The mountain fell away on the other side, a sheer thousand-foot drop into the canyon below.
The rifle cracked again, then again, then again. “Jesus,” Vicky whispered, hunching toward him. Suddenly the rock Father John and Vicky were leaning against reverberated with the explosion of thunder. Lightning flashed through the brush roof. A thousand lights seemed to turn on around them, and electricity buzzed around the rock walls. The thunder crashed again. Then quiet. They waited, not speaking, barely breathing.
After a long while—he couldn’t have guessed how long—Father John pushed himself up with his good arm, wincing with pain. “Wait here,” he whispered as he started to edge back down the corridor. He pulled the branches aside and looked out. The rain fell in enormous drops, but it was less furious. Staying low, he slipped through the opening and started up the boulder field, looking around, half expecting the rancher to jump out, slam the bolt, and pull the trigger.
It was all he could do to climb over the wet granite. His cowboy boots slipped, and he fell backwards, clipping his dislocated shoulder. Fighting the blackness that threatened to engulf him, he crawled a few feet before he got himself upright, gripping his shoulder the whole time to keep it from flying away from some centrifugal force of pain. Slowly he worked his way upward until finally he was on top. T
he rain had settled into a fine drizzle, and the sky was beginning to lighten; there was a strip of sunlight across the plains in the distance. He moved slowly toward the far edge of the boulders and looked down. Ned’s body, arms, and legs akimbo like those of a disjointed rag doll, lay on a little cliff that jutted out from the granite wall. “May God have mercy on your soul,” Father John whispered.
“It’s over.” Vicky’s voice startled him, and he whirled about. She had climbed up the boulders and was standing next to him, and he hadn’t known she was there.
He put his arm around her to help her down the mountain, but he knew she was the one helping him, with her arm around his waist. The storm was over, and the last of the gloomy daylight almost gone, but the sky was dark and ominous with more rain. They were halfway down when Father John heard the sirens screaming up the canyon. The road below filled with BIA and Fremont County sheriff patrol cars, their red and blue lights flashing. Then he saw Anthony zigzagging toward them, waving both arms. He was hollering that Melissa was okay.
Walking with them down the last hundred feet of the slope, Anthony kept up a steady patter. Dorothy had defied her brother. For the first time in her life, she’d stood up to him and said that Melissa was free to marry anyone she chose. Ned Cooley went crazy and locked Melissa and her mother in the old cabin. Anthony had to break down the door to get them out. They were scared to death. They said Ned had gone crazy. They didn’t know what he might do next.
Close to the bottom, Anthony stopped and turned toward them. “Geez, you two don’t look so good,” he said.
Banner ran up as they came out of the stand of aspens, his face flushed the color of ripened berries. “Where’s Cooley?”
“On the other side of the mountain,” Father John said. “Dead.”
Before he could say anything else, the police chief held up one hand. “Anthony told me all about Cooley. I just hope you got the proof.”
“You’ll find it there,” Father John said, nodding at the blue pickup as they made their way toward the patrol cars. A whole army of policemen milled about, boots squishing in the muddy shoulder of the road. A police radio was squawking. Banner opened the back door to a patrol car, and Vicky crawled inside. Just as Father John was about to get in beside her, he spotted the FBI agent wearing a silver slicker and floppy plastic hat. There were questions in his eyes as he came around the car.
“You want your murderer, Miller?” Father John called. “You’ll need a helicopter.”
Then, to the BIA police chief standing beside him, Father John said, “Get me to the hospital, will you?”
33
THREE MONTHS LATER, the Toyota bounced across the field, careening over the ruts and sagebrush. Father John hit the brakes and brought it to a stop behind several other pickups and a few rusted-out sedans. The crowd was already gathered at the Ethete powwow grounds. It was nearly the end of October, the Moon of Falling Leaves, and the thistles and scrub brush across the reservation were tinged with red. Even the ground had taken on red tones. The sky was low, fading into gray-blue with the approach of winter.
Father John slammed the door to the Toyota and started toward the Arapahos, aware he was late. He knew, though, that they wouldn’t start the ceremony until everyone was there and ready. He’d been in a meeting most of the morning with the adult education teachers at St. Francis Mission, and then he’d stopped by the hospital to see Lucy Elkhorn. He’d anointed the old lady last week. There would probably be another wake and funeral in a few days. The Provincial had promised him a new assistant before Christmas, but Father John could have used the help now.
He’d gotten a postcard from Father Brad a few days ago. He was teaching freshman English at the Kansas City Jesuit prep school, charged with the mission of preparing scion sons for future scion positions. He liked it, but he’d asked about the people on the reservation and said he hoped everything was going well.
After the news about Ned Cooley had taken over the headlines—CNN had sent it around the world—the Provincial had been vague about Father John’s next assignment, and Father John hadn’t asked for clarification. He was at St. Francis Mission on the Wind River Reservation for now, and that was enough. He didn’t want to know what the future might hold.
Father John made his way through the crowd to Harvey’s family. The musicians had already taken their places around two kettle drums. A campfire was burning where Harvey’s tipi had stood, and a large frying pan sat on the fire grate. Several elders huddled around Will Standing Bear, preparing the blessing. Father John missed Vicky at gatherings like this. She’d been in L.A. for almost two months now. The last he’d heard she had landed a good job with a downtown law firm.
First Father John paid his respects to Maria who was sitting in a lawn chair near the campfire. He could see she was still in the half-life. Perhaps she would never leave. Perhaps she was too old to live only with the living.
Then he shook hands with Rita and with Anthony, who clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him for coming. Father John winced. His shoulder was like a raw wound, slow to heal, but then, he was no longer the promising young pitcher at Boston College who threw out his shoulder from time to time and confidently waited for it to be as good as new. Medical school was great. Anthony was saying. He was working hard and learning a lot. He’d be back at Wind River Reservation as a pediatrician soon, the way time flew. The young man seemed more serious, more thoughtful.
“Heard from Melissa?” Father John asked.
“A few postcards.” Anthony shrugged. “Melissa and her mother are in Italy.”
Instinctively Father John placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You know, Melissa’s not responsible for what her uncle did.”
“I’ve told myself that a thousand times, ten thousand times.” Anthony was looking out across the plains. “Harvey was like a father to me. It’s hard. I don’t know, maybe in time ...”
“Heard about Vicky?” Rita asked, taking a new direction.
Father John shook his head. He wasn’t sure he wanted to move on to this subject.
“She’s spending a lot of time with her kids out in L.A. They’re gettin’ to know each ether again, and she’s glad.” Rita took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on him. “I really miss her. It’s good she’s comin’ back. This is where she belongs.”
“She’s coming back?” Father John asked. He couldn’t believe the news hadn’t flashed over the moccasin telegraph. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to hear it, and yet, now that he had heard, he was glad.
Suddenly the drumbeats started up, loud thuds punctuating the air. The singers began to chant as the crowd formed a circle around the ground where Harvey had been killed. Will Standing Bear lifted the frying pan from the fire grate and walked into the circle. Allowing the cedar smoke to waft through the air, he prayed in Arapaho, his voice rising over the drums and the chanting.
Father John lifted his heart in prayer along with the elder who beseeched Shining Man Above to reclaim this place from the evil that had defiled it, to make it holy again for human beings and other creatures. The sacred cedar smoke crawled over the ground like fog, then rose and drifted through the crowd, symbolizing respect for life, for all living things.
Berkley Prime Crime Mysteries by Margaret Coel
THE EAGLE CATCHER
THE GHOST WALKER
THE DREAM STALKER
THE STORY TELLER
THE LOST BIRD
THE SPIRIT WOMAN
THE THUNDER KEEPER
THE SHADOW DANCER
KILLING RAVEN
WIFE OF MOON
EYE OF THE WOLF
THE DROWNING MAN
THE GIRL WITH BRAIDED HAIR
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The Eagle Catcher Page 21