The Story Teller

by Margaret Coel

  He tried to call her when he got back to his room. A woman said Vicky had left, and when he pressed for answers, she insisted she had no idea where Vicky had gone. He’d set down the phone, his thoughts a pool of worry. Where was she? She’d promised to call and let him know what she was up to. He felt angry and helpless.

  Now he waited outside a closed door down the corridor from the dining room. The sounds of the other priests at breakfast—the clanking of dishes and scraping of chairs, the occasional laughter of Jesuit camaraderie—floated around him. Behind the closed door was the provincial. Before Father Stanton had stepped inside, Father John had made it clear he intended to wait until he saw their boss.

  Suddenly the door opened. Father Stanton—black suit, puffy red nose, and thick neck—filled the doorway. “Five minutes, O’Malley. That’s all you get.”

  Father John moved past him into a room as large as the living room in a well-to-do home, with twin sofas angling toward a wall of windows that overlooked the grassy slope he’d walked across earlier. Beyond was the lake, striped in blues and whites in the morning sunshine.

  He crossed behind the sofas to the dark wooden desk where Father William Rutherford sat hunched over a paper of some sort. Almost twenty-five years earlier, they’d been in the seminary together. Two young men, ambitious and idealistic, eager for the careers ahead. A teaching position in philosophy at Georgetown for Rutherford; a position in history at some equally prestigious Jesuit University for him. It was a goal Rutherford had achieved, until the father general in Rome had made him a provincial in charge of his fellow Jesuits.

  While Father John—well, he’d never made it to a university faculty. He had found himself on a different path, shunted there by the terrible thirst that, even now, had a way of coming over him at unexpected moments.

  “How are you, John?” the provincial said. He did not look up.

  “There’s an important matter I’d like to discuss with you,” Father John began. “I want to open a museum in the old school building at St. Francis.”

  William Rutherford lifted his eyes. There was tiredness, a kind of disillusionment in his expression, and for an instant Father John wondered if he had also found himself on an unintended path. “So I’ve been given to understand,” the provincial said. He waved toward an upholstered chair next to the desk. “Have a seat.”

  Father John sat down and began explaining the importance of a museum large enough to hold collections now scattered about the reservation, the importance of their history to the Arapahos. He was about to explain the importance of the old school when voices erupted outside. The door burst open.

  “Beg your pardon, Fathers.” Brother Timothy shuffled into the room, Father Stanton behind him. “I tried to tell him,” the priest said.

  “What is it?” This from the provincial in an irritated tone.

  “A visitor for Father O’Malley,” Brother Timothy said. “She says it’s urgent.”

  Father John was on his feet, striding past the two men and down the corridor toward the entry, vaguely aware of Father Stanton’s voice behind him. “This is highly irregular, O’Malley. Highly irregular.”

  Vicky stood inside the door, dressed in blue jeans and T-shirt, black hair hanging loose and brushing her shoulders, not pulled back the way he was used to seeing her. The voices of Father Stanton and Brother Timothy burst from the corridor, an angry chorus, and he took her arm and led her outside. It was quiet. The parking lot below lay dappled in the morning sunshine.

  “I’m going out onto the plains,” she said. “To southeastern Colorado.”

  “What?” This woman was full of surprises. He could never guess what she might do; it was never the logical, the most prudent course.

  She said, “I’ve been awake most of the night, trying to figure out the missing piece. Suddenly it hit me. Emil Coughlin said Todd had gone to southeastern Colorado to talk to ranchers about two weeks ago. When he got back he immediately went to the museum and requested the Smedden Collection. It wasn’t luck, John. He knew exactly where to look, which means he found out about the book on his trip. Someone told him. Someone down there knows the book was in the museum. All I have to do is follow Todd’s footsteps.”

  Father John shook his head. There were probably dozens of ranchers in the area; how would she ever find the one who knew about the book? And what if she did find the right person? She might seal her own fate, and probably that of the rancher. The whole idea was crazy.

  “Do you want to come?” she asked.

  Father John kept his eyes on hers a long moment. What she was proposing could get her killed. The kid who knew about the ledger book was dead; so was a girl who might have known. Yet Vicky was determined to find proof the book existed.

  He took his eyes away and stared out over the campus. Inside the building behind him was the provincial he’d come to Denver to see, and he’d only begun his argument for the museum. It was entirely possible he would never have another opportunity, even more possible his boss would consider him unredeemable—a man who would walk out of a meeting, a recovering alcoholic, never to be trusted, never to be counted upon.

  He looked back at the woman beside him. She had pushed herself away from the railing: a bird poised for flight. There were no words to make her reconsider, no sensible, logical argument to steer her away from danger. He said, “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Vicky drove the Taurus—an unaccustomed situation, someone driving him around—but she’d balked at his suggestion they take the Toyota. The rental car had air-conditioning, she’d pointed out, and the early-morning sun already burned with ferocity. It would be even hotter on the plains.

  They caught I-70 and headed east across Denver, sunshine streaming over the stockyards and coliseum, the miles of block-shaped buildings on both sides of the highway. Vicky kept her eyes straight ahead, talking about the two dead kids, the ledger book that would be destroyed, pages cut out and sold around the world. If it hadn’t already happened. “We’ve got to find the proof it was in the museum,” she said, taking one hand from the wheel to push back her hair. “Before anyone else is killed.”

  Exactly, Father John was thinking, which was why he was here. All they had to do was retrace Todd’s steps. That could be hard. He let out a long sigh, and Vicky glanced at him. He gave her a smile of encouragement.

  Gradually the city fell away and traffic became lighter: a few semis and pickups ahead, an occasional car whipping by in the passing lane. The plains stretched around them—a great expanse of flat, grass-stubbed land. Outside his window, Father John could make out the gentle dips and swales, the arroyos that broke the earth into jagged pieces, like the shapes of a jigsaw puzzle.

  They sped on. The air-conditioning hummed softly; the car felt cool and comfortable, but the sun created sparkling mirages on the asphalt ahead. At Flagler, they stopped for gas and bought a couple of sandwiches and two cups of coffee. Then they drove down the wide, shady streets to a little park where they ate lunch at a picnic table under the sprawling branches of an oak tree. At a nearby table sat another couple. Several toddlers tumbled over the grass, giggling and squealing. Across the park, a baseball game was going on. He watched a kid in a white uniform race around the bases. A shout went up from the grandstand behind home plate. This was how other people lived, he thought. Saturday in a small town. Picnic in the park. Coach the Little League game.

  When they got back to the car, he took the wheel and turned south onto a ribbon of asphalt flung across the open plains. It looked like the reservation—Indian country. An occasional ranch house, a clump of barns rising against the horizon. Vicky seemed relaxed beside him, her breathing quiet and regular. For a long time he thought she was asleep. He switched on his tape of La Traviata, glad he’d gone up to his room for the tape player and his cowboy hat. He’d need the hat on the plains. He was used to the opera on long drives.

  Vicky stirred beside him, and he took his eyes off the road, glancing at her: she had b
een awake all the time.

  “Every time I cross the plains,” she said, her voice mingling with the music, “I imagine warriors riding in the distance, and great buffalo herds, and tipis in the cottonwoods along the streams. Sometimes I think I see children playing, the women fetching water or gathering wild fruits. Sometimes I think I’m with them.” She shifted in the seat; he could feel her eyes on him. “I know it doesn’t make sense.”

  Father John glanced at her again, meeting her eyes a moment. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

  A sign rose on the highway ahead: EADS. He let up on the accelerator. In another moment they were gliding down the wide street with pickups and trucks in front of squat, flat-roofed stores and cafés. Down a side street, he glimpsed a stone building that looked like the libraries in small towns across the country. He swung around the block and parked in front.

  Inside was a reading room with tables and chairs on either side and a counter jutting from the back wall. Except for an elderly man poring over a newspaper at one of the tables, the library was empty. They walked to the counter, and Father John tapped a little bell. It jangled into the quiet.

  Almost at once a door behind the counter opened and a middle-aged man in a short-sleeved white shirt with a black bolo tie at the collar stepped out. “Didn’t hear you,” he said. His eyes fell on Vicky a moment—an appreciative gaze—then moved to Father John. “Visiting our fair town, are you?”

  “We’re looking for a family that ranched in this area around the turn of the century.” Vicky clasped her hands on the counter. “The name was Smedden.”

  The librarian picked up a pencil and gave his front teeth several taps. “Doesn’t ring any bells,” he said. Then: “Hold on.” He disappeared behind the door. In another moment he was back with a thick, green-bound book. He flipped it open. “This old county directory might tell us something,” he said, pushing through the pages.

  He stopped. An index finger ran down a page in the middle of the book. “Aha. J. J. Smedden ran a ranch out near the county line in 1900.” Another flip through the pages. “Still there the next year, and the next.” Flip. Flip. “Aha. Not listed in 1904.” He slammed the book shut. “There was a bad drought about that time. A lot of ranchers didn’t make it. Just picked up and left.”

  “Where exactly was the ranch?” Father John asked.

  The librarian motioned them to the right of the counter. He reached up and pulled on a cord. A large map rattled down over the shelves of books. “Kiowa County,” he said, sweeping one hand across the width of the map. “East county line over here.” He tapped a black line on the far right. “Ranch was probably about here.” Another tap halfway down the line.

  “Who owns the ranch now?” Vicky asked, expectation and excitement in her voice.

  “A corporation.” The librarian snapped the map back up into its holder. “Lot of ranches in that area are agribusiness. Tough for families to compete with corporations.”

  Vicky whirled around and walked back to the counter. The air was thick with her disappointment and frustration. Suddenly she turned back. “Look,” she said, eyes flashing, “about two weeks ago a graduate student at CU-Denver came through here. He was talking to people, trying to find the sites of Indian battles and villages. Did he come to the library?”

  Nodding slowly, the librarian moved back behind the counter. “Todd Harris,” he said. “I helped him many times. A fine young man. I could hardly believe the article in the paper about his murder. It’s getting so nobody’s safe anymore. Can’t walk down the street without getting killed.”

  Father John was at Vicky’s side. “Can you tell us which research materials he was using?”

  “Same as usual.” The man gave a little shrug. “Old county maps. He was rechecking data, I suppose. Said he was about to finish his thesis and had a job at a museum somewhere up in Wyoming. I wished him luck. Next thing I heard, he was dead.”

  Father John was quiet, aware of Vicky leaning into the counter beside him. “Did he say anything about Sand Creek?” she asked in the same tone of hope.

  The man raised his eyes to the ceiling—remembering. “He said he was going to run up to Sand Creek and take another look around.”

  * * *

  Outside, the afternoon heat hung in the air like invisible smoke. Father John could feel the sun burning through the shoulders of his shirt as he followed Vicky to the Taurus nosed against the curb. “I’ve never been to Sand Creek,” she said, crawling into the passenger seat. “Would you drive?”

  24

  As they headed east Vicky kept her eyes on the narrow, dusty road ahead. What route had the soldiers followed, she wondered, as they rode through the ice-filled night, fortifying themselves with whiskey for the killing ahead? The bluffs, the Indian village below, Chief Niwot and the Arapahos camped in the big bend of the creek. The story was seared into her mind. She was immensely grateful that John O’Malley was here. “I’m not sure I could go alone,” she told him.

  Father John nodded and gave her a quick glance. There was sympathy in his eyes. “We don’t have to go,” he said.

  Vicky was quiet a moment. “Something at the site—maybe the site itself—led Todd to the ledger book.” It sounded crazy, but the man next to her was taking her there anyway, guiding the Taurus down the dusty, gullied road.

  Ahead was a large sign, an intrusion on the plains. As the car slowed Vicky caught the block letters: SAND CREEK BATTLEFIELD. It amazed her that anyone would call the massacre a battle. They were heading north now, the sign behind them. After several miles—an interminable number of miles—they made a left past a small ranch house and slowed onto a bluff. Suddenly the car stopped.

  Vicky let herself out into a pervasive stillness, vaguely aware that Father John had started walking toward the ranch house. She moved to the edge of the bluff, feeling cold despite the sun on her face, the hot breeze rippling the air. Below lay the site of the village, the winding dry creek bed, the old cottonwoods, leaves shimmering in the sun. This was where the soldiers had halted their horses before the attack.

  After a few moments Father John was back, and they started down the bank, sliding in the dry earth. She had to catch herself from falling into a clump of grass. He took her hand, steadying her until they reached the bottom. Together they started across the field, wild grasses crumpling beneath their steps. At the big bend in the creek bed, she stopped. “My people were here,” she said, sweeping out one arm. “They heard the gunshots and ran out of the tipis. They were running every which way; they didn’t know where to go. And Chief Niwot called out—run up the creek—while he walked forward to meet the soldiers. He held out his hands in peace.”

  Vicky swung around and headed for the dry creek bed, a wide, flat indentation in the earth. Father John was beside her, walking north in the soft earth, the direction the people had taken that morning. Running, running from the soldiers galloping behind. Vicky started walking faster, sensing something behind her, a great malevolent force pushing her forward. And then she was running full out, a sharp stitch in her side, gulping in air, arms flailing, the sound of horses’ hooves beating like drums in her ears.

  “Vicky! Stop, stop!” She felt John O’Malley’s arm around her, slowing her. She was stumbling, nearly falling, and he pulled her toward him and held her. Her heart was thumping; she fought for breath. Together they slumped down against the soft bank. She heard his voice again, steady and soothing. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” For an instant a sense came over her—a kind of remembrance—that they had been in this place before. In that other time. Together.

  “It’s only some men on horseback,” he said.

  “What?” She turned toward him, trying to focus on what he was saying. And then she saw six or seven cowboys riding across the bluff. They nosed the horses down the bank and came across the field. Father John was already on his feet, pulling her upright, and they started retracing their steps, walking toward the riders.

  “This is private la
nd,” one of the men called as they rode up.

  “Sorry,” Father John said, his eyes on the man who seemed to be in charge. “I stopped at the ranch house. Nobody was around.”

  The man laid the reins lightly against the horse’s neck. “You’ll wanna be gettin’ on outta here.”

  Vicky said, “A young man—a student—came here a couple of weeks ago. Did you happen to see him?”

  “We throw people outta here every day,” one of the other riders said.

  “He was looking for some of the old-timers around here,” Vicky persisted. “Do you know who he might have talked to?”

  The first man shrugged. “Don’t know as I ran into him.”

  “Hold on there.” The second man again. “I seen him wandering around here. Yeah, about two weeks ago it was. Indian fellow. Seemed harmless enough, but I tol’ him to clear on out.”

  Father John took a step toward the man. “Did he say why he was here?”

  “Well”—the second man shifted his weight in the saddle—“like the lady here says, he wanted to know if there was any families around that went all the way back to the battle. So I sent him down the road a piece to talk to some folks.”

  “Smedden?” Vicky heard the hope in her tone.

  “Lawler’s the name. Been around a hundred years, I guess. Nobody goes all the way back to the battle. Nothing but Indians around then.”

  “Don’t forget the soldiers.” A man sitting a gray mare in the rear spoke up. There was a little guffaw from the others.

  “Smedden,” the first man said, pushing up his cowboy hat and staring past them, as if he’d caught a glimpse of something in the distance. “Name has a mighty familiar ring. Ran a big ranch on east of here a long time ago. The old grandma that lives with the Lawlers is one of ’em, if I remember rightly.”

  “Where can we find the ranch?” Father John asked.

  “Keep on goin’ down the road,” the second cowboy said. “Ten miles or so. Big white place. You can’t miss it.”