The Story Teller

by Margaret Coel

  The librarian seemed to gather herself inward, hesitating. “The file contains a complete list of all documents in the collection.” She nodded toward the wall of filing cabinets beyond the stacks.

  “The collection, please,” Vicky said.

  Sighing, the young woman got to her feet, a slow unfolding. “The collection is in storage. It will take a few moments.”

  Vicky walked across the reading room and sat down at a vacant table. An elderly man at the next table was running a magnifying glass across a yellowed newspaper. He turned watery blue eyes on her a moment before peering again through the glass. There was the quiet jangling of the phone, the soft scuffing of footsteps somewhere in the stacks. Finally the librarian appeared with a brown carton the size of a large hatbox. She set it in front of Vicky and handed her a pair of white gloves. “Will that be all?” she asked, as if she’d just delivered a hamburger.

  “I would also like to see the past year’s sign-in sheets for Todd Harris,” Vicky said.

  “The past year?” The woman blinked behind the glasses. “That information’s in the database. It will take a while to print it out.”

  “I’ll be here,” Vicky said, raising the lid on the carton.

  “We are trying to cooperate with you people.”

  Vicky glanced up. The remark surprised her. “My people appreciate it,” she said. After the young woman had turned away, she pulled on the gloves and began lifting out the documents—a collection of deeds tied in faded blue ribbon, a brown envelope stuffed with old maps, stacks of envelopes with folded letters, edges crinkled and brown, several small, bound books, a handwritten manuscript.

  She sank back against the hard chair rungs and stared at the manuscript. The writing was faded and smeared. Across the first page were large, capitalized words: MEMORIES OF J. J. SMEDDEN. Quickly she flipped through the other pages, glancing at the headings: Boyhood in Missouri. Sergeant in Civil War. Soldiering on the Plains. Ranching Days.

  Setting the manuscript aside, she leafed through the small books: journals telling of the weather, the cattle sold at market in Denver, the cattle lost in the storms of the 1860s, 1870s. She stood up and lifted the rest of the documents and papers from the carton. More manuscripts. More journals. And then she saw it: a gray ledger book pressed against the bottom. It was probably six inches wide and twelve or thirteen inches long. Her hands shook as she brought it out of the carton. Slowly she dropped to the chair and pushed the carton aside. She laid the book on the table. A faint red stripe ran down the front cover, which was roughened with age. She opened it carefully. On the first page, inked words precisely formed: Accounts. Double D Ranch. James J. Smedden, proprietor. Down the left were notations: feed, chickens, harness, halter. On the right, columns of figures. With a sinking heart, she turned the rest of the pages—similar notations, similar figures.

  A ledger book. A common ledger book kept by every rancher and farmer, every store owner in the West. The same kind of ledger book kept by the government agents to the Plains Indian tribes. How the warriors prized them! Would trade buffalo robes or ponies for a simple, gray-clothed ledger book with empty pages and a couple of pencils—colored pencils were best. Precious possessions with which to write the stories.

  It felt stuffy in the reading room, as if the air had been sucked away, and Vicky leaned back into the chair. Was this where Todd had found the ledger book? Pressed against the bottom of the carton, under the other ledger book? What had he done? Did he lift it into the air, scarcely aware of the precious possession he held in his hands? Open the cover, study the first page, the following pages, reading from right to left, the way ledger books were meant to be read, getting a sense of the story. At what point did he realize the story was about Sand Creek? What clues did he find? The uniforms of the soldiers? The detailed drawings of the rifles? The guidons of the Third Colorado Regiment? The village in the big bend of the creek bed. The name glyph—a red bull—above the pictograph of No-Ta-Nee, the storyteller.

  Vicky let her eyes roam about the room. The elderly man peering through the magnifying glass; other patrons engrossed in old books and manuscripts, the librarian bent over a printer behind her desk. Did anyone notice a young man at one of the tables, hunched over a ledger book?

  Three days Todd had come to the museum to study the ledger book, the account of the massacre. Another voice, another point of view that would expand and shape the story of that terrible day. How could he contain his excitement? Whom did he tell?

  Vicky rummaged through her bag for the small pad and a pen. She opened the pad and jotted adviser. It seemed logical, yet Emil Coughlin had denied knowing about the ledger book. He’d claimed he hadn’t talked to Todd after he’d gotten back from his research trip to southeastern Colorado. She drew a black line under the word. She had interviewed clients who, with a mountain of evidence proving their guilt, had claimed they were innocent.

  She made a large question mark after adviser, trying to think what she would have done had she found the ledger book. Her eyes scanned the room. She would have taken the book to the librarian: “Did you know . . . ? Do you realize . . . ?”

  Is that what Todd had done? Had the librarian called Rachel Foster? Is that when the ledger book disappeared?

  Vicky wrote down curator and underlined the word. Then she slipped the pad and pen inside her bag. Carefully she set the documents back in the carton, the flush of anger warm in her face. Something had alerted Todd that the ledger book was in danger—that he was in danger because he’d found it. What happened when he came back to the museum on the third day? Was that when he found the ledger book missing? Did he fear he would be accused of taking it? Is that why he drove to the reservation to see Father John, the only man he knew he could trust?

  Vicky fixed the strap of her bag over her shoulder and walked to the desk. The printer made an intermittent shushing noise, like a broom pushing against dry leaves. Scooping up a stack of paper, the assistant handed it to her. “Copies of the sign-in sheets,” she said.

  Vicky rifled through them. There was no mention of the J. J. Smedden Collection before last week. Not until last week had Todd used the collection. Not until then had he found the ledger book. She said, “Did Todd Harris tell you about the ledger book he discovered?”

  The young woman’s head jerked backward, as if she’d been slapped. Her eyes blinked rapidly. “Ms. Foster said you believe the museum owns a ledger book. It’s not true.” The hint of a smile began to play at the corners of her mouth—a kind of embarrassment. “All of us here wish it were true.”

  Vicky wondered about the inducements that would cause a young librarian to lie. A hefty bonus paid under the table from the sale of a ledger book valued at exactly $1.3 million? Enough to risk a career? A reputation? A criminal charge? She said, “I would like to see the file on the Smedden Collection after all.”

  A mixture of relief and eagerness crept into the young woman’s face. This was firm ground—the retrieval of materials and files. She gave a quick nod and dodged into the stacks. When she didn’t reappear after a few minutes, Vicky started back along the rows of metal shelving, past the spines of old books, the cartons jutting forward. She found the assistant at the filing cabinets, stooped over an opened drawer. “I don’t understand,” the woman said, her voice tense. “It should be here. It must have been misfiled.” After a moment she slammed the drawer and yanked open the drawer below.

  Vicky watched the thin fingers combing the folders. Whoever had taken the ledger book had removed all the records, every possible trace, just as she had suspected.

  Abruptly Vicky swung around. She retraced her steps through the stacks and out into the corridor. The light flickered above the elevator: Three. Two. One. She felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath; her heart raced. The ledger book was on the market. A dealer could have bought it today. How long before the pages would be in expensive frames on the walls of collectors willing to pay thousands of dollars for an example of Plains Indian art?<
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  There was so little time. But she had something now. She knew where the ledger book had been lost in the museum; she’d found the dealer waiting to handle it, waiting on the highest bid. Steve Clark would have to take her theory seriously.

  19

  The lawns and pathways of Regis seemed familiar, Father John thought as he pulled into his usual parking spot behind the Jesuit residence. The sun dipped toward the mountains, an orange ball of fire suspended in a sky as blue and clear as a mountain lake.

  He’d spent most of the afternoon at Doyal and Mary’s, eating a bologna sandwich and a piece of white cake, sipping hot coffee, while he visited with the grandmothers and elders who had sat in the front pews at Mass this morning. Neighbors and friends, cousins of cousins, blood relatives and spiritual relatives—a gathering of Indian people. How many gatherings had he attended on the reservation? So many funerals; he could no longer keep count. And afterward he was always the guest of honor—the priest whose prayers accompanied the spirit into the sky world.

  He knew that later today Mary and Doyal would fly to the reservation. He also knew, although no one had told him, that everyone at the house had chipped in—hard-earned dollars, carefully counted out change—so the old couple could take their grandson to the Middle Earth for burial.

  He mounted the front steps at the residence, wondering what Vicky had learned at the museum, if she had gone to the police, if she had called. He’d felt a stab of worry as he remembered the determination in her eyes when she’d walked out of the sacristy this morning. What was it that drove her? As if she could right past wrongs—a lone woman. How appropriate the grandmothers’ name for her: Hisei ci nihi. Woman alone.

  He was about to let himself inside when the door swung open and Father Stanton appeared. “So, you’ve finally returned,” he said. “I believe your memorial Mass was over at eleven this morning. Where have you been?”

  “What’s going on?” Father John had no intention of accounting for his time, even though the black-suited man blocking his way was his superior.

  The other priest squared his shoulders. “The provincial had a break in his schedule this afternoon, and I convinced him to meet with you. You were nowhere to be seen, however.”

  “I can meet with him now.”

  Father Stanton threw his head back and gave a little laugh. “The provincial left thirty minutes ago. He has a busy schedule, a great many matters to deal with while he’s here. If this museum of yours is so important, you should have made yourself available.”

  “What about this evening?” Father John asked. “Tomorrow?”

  “The provincial has meetings through the noon meal tomorrow, after which we will depart for the airport. I’m afraid you have missed your opportunity, Father O’Malley.” He shook his head, an expression of mock sorrow in his face. “Perhaps the next time the provincial comes this way.”

  “I intend to see him,” Father John said. “You’re going to have to squeeze me in.”

  The other priest stepped back, a startled look in his eyes—the alcoholic priest; one never knew what to expect. “Your attitude is highly inappropriate,” he managed. “Need I remind you—”

  “I’ll be in the provincial’s office first thing in the morning,” Father John said, brushing past the other priest.

  The air was stuffy in the entry, faint with the odor of fresh fish and brewing coffee. From somewhere came the clatter of dishes and pans, the usual preparations for dinner. Before starting up the stairs, Father John checked the small table against the back wall. There was a folded sheet of paper with J. O’Malley scrawled on top. He picked it up. One P.M. Professor Good Elk called.

  Father John glanced at his watch: nearly half-past four. He might catch Good Elk before he left his office. Crumpling the paper into the little wastebasket next to the table, he walked back outside, past Father Stanton, who was leaning against the railing, staring at the blue rim of mountains in the distance. He cut across the campus, walking around a group of students lounging under a tree, papers scattered about.

  Inside the Main Classroom building, he took the stairs two at a time and strode down a corridor to the history department office. The secretary looked like one of the students he’d passed—white T-shirt, blond hair tucked behind her ears. She glanced up from the book in front of her. “You’re the mission priest!” she said, eyes wide in surprise, as if a strange new creature had happened along. She babbled on: Oh, she’d heard he was on campus. The tall man in the cowboy hat. All the students were wondering—

  “Is Professor Good Elk in?” Father John interrupted.

  Before she could reply, a barrel-chested man with dark, slanted eyes and black hair combed back from a round, puffy face stepped through the door behind the desk. “Well, Father O’Malley.” His voice boomed into the quiet office. “Come in. Come in.”

  Father John stepped past the door, and the professor gave it a shove—a loud thwack. “Have a seat, Father.” He motioned toward a chair at the corner of a desk that reminded Father John of his own: the papers and folders that seemed to reproduce themselves in front of his eyes, the endless matters demanding his attention.

  He perched on the edge of the chair, where, he imagined, students usually sat, supplicants awaiting favors—a different class, a better grade. The professor folded his large frame into the chair behind the desk. He swiveled slowly from side to side. “Your friend has caused a lot of unnecessary trouble on Indian reservations.”

  So this was why Good Elk wanted to see him: to convince him to talk Vicky into giving up her search for the ledger book. He said, “I take it we’re talking about Vicky Holden.”

  Good Elk stopped swiveling. “I made a few inquiries. Didn’t take long to find out you and Vicky Holden work on the Wind River Reservation. I figured you gotta be friends.” He shrugged. “Point is, Father O’Malley, Cheyennes are refusing to acknowledge the inventory from the Denver Museum of the West. Same with Lakotas, Kiowas, and Comanches. Everybody’s waiting to see if the museum is hiding a ledger book that belongs to Arapahos. Everybody’s saying, what’s the museum hiding that belongs to us? Nobody trusts the museum. Whole NAGPRA process has dropped in its tracks like a shot coyote.”

  Father John held up one hand. “An Arapaho ledger book on Sand Creek is missing,” he said “As soon as she finds out what happened to it—”

  “There’s no Sand Creek ledger book,” Good Elk cut in. The chair squeaked as he leaned back. “There was one written by a Cheyenne warrior, but it was destroyed years ago. Only one page is extant, and it’s in a museum.”

  “Todd Harris, the student who was murdered, found the book.” A theory, Father John knew, but it made sense, and he had learned that Vicky’s theories—her instincts—had a way of being right.

  “Yes, yes.” The professor waved one hand. “Rachel Foster has told me what Vicky Holden claims. How could an Arapaho warrior write about Sand Creek? No Arapahos were there. Sand Creek was a massacre of Cheyenne people.”

  “The Arapaho Chief Niwot and his band were there. Fifty of them were killed.” Father John felt the hard knot of anger in his throat. Was this what drove Vicky? The flare of anger at each new injustice?

  The professor fixed him with a cold stare. “You’re out of the history field, Father O’Malley. A lot of things have happened since you got stuck at a mission in the middle of Wyoming. Obviously you’re uninformed of the new scholarship. The Arapahos missed the party Colonel Chivington and Governor Evans threw for my people at Sand Creek.”

  Father John drew in a long breath. “How much is the land worth that the Cheyennes hope to reclaim? Enough to rewrite history?”

  Good Elk brought one fist down hard on the desk. Little piles of paper jiggled and slid sideways. Levering himself onto his feet, he said, “This isn’t about land.”

  Father John was on his feet. “Don’t give me that, Good Elk. You’ve staked your reputation on a piece of revisionist history that you hope will force the government to give all the
land to the Cheyenne tribe. The last thing you want is a ledger book that proves Arapahos were also at Sand Creek.”

  The professor shifted his massive bulk over the desk, eyes black with rage, cheeks mottled with angry red splotches. “Let me tell you what you want, Father O’Malley.” Little specks of spittle landed on the papers. “A museum at St. Francis Mission. Well, the provincial happens to be a friend of mine. He knows what you’re after. Yesterday, at the meeting in the mountains, he asked me what I thought. You know what I told him? The whole idea stinks. Arapahos didn’t leave behind enough artifacts to fill up a garage.” He stopped. Pulling himself upright, he drew in a long breath. “The provincial takes my advice. I am, after all, a Native American. Tomorrow when I meet him, I can tell him I’ve changed my mind. That the museum at St. Francis Mission would be a fine idea. I guarantee you’ll have your museum this summer.”

  “Let me guess,” Father John said, struggling to contain his fury. “All I have to do is convince Vicky Holden to give up any notion of a Sand Creek ledger book.”

  The professor nodded. “Soon as Arapahos give up this preposterous notion, the rest of us can get on with the business of reclaiming our artifacts. I’m offering you a good deal, Father O’Malley.”

  “No deal.” Father John swept one hand across the desk. A pile of books thudded against the floor. He turned and walked out of the office.

  20

  Vicky hurried through the patterns of sunshine falling across the plaza in front of the Denver Police Department complex. Two buildings of sand-colored brick, massive and impersonal symbols of authority, formed an L along the plaza. A young couple—Hispanic, perhaps, faces grim—exited the wide glass doors of the building on the right. Vicky let herself into the other building, nearly colliding with a couple of uniformed policemen on their way out.

  The stretch of lobby across the front was dim and cool as a vault. A murmur of voices floated from the roped-off area in the far corner where a sprinkling of people sat hunched in metal-framed chairs. Straight ahead was a reception counter, and beyond, a four-foot-high wooden railing that blocked off access to a bank of elevators.