“Where are the Lakotas?” She ignored the invitation in the man’s eyes to keep the conversation on Ben.
Redman let out a short breath. “Pine Ridge, my guess. Took off with the bank bag . . .”
“They stole money?” Ben hadn’t mentioned money.
“Cash and checks. Ben had ’em ready to take to the bank in Thermopolis. Bag was on the desk, time he told the Lakotas to pack their gear and get off the ranch. Didn’t turn his back more’n a minute, and the bag was gone. So were the Lakotas.”
A sense of relief washed over her like a cool blast of air. Vicky leaned back against her chair. So this was why Ben had been so angry. The ranch hands had stolen the bank bag from under his nose. He would have tracked them down, threatened to report them to the fed. But he wouldn’t have wanted to report other Indians. He would have handled the matter himself. Return the money, he would have told them. No questions asked. Case closed. If they didn’t—they would have understood—he would smash in their faces, then report them.
It made sense. It explained why the ranch hands had waited for him on Rendezvous Road.
But there was another possibility. Vicky looked away. The knot in her stomach felt like lead. It could also explain why the Lakotas would have left for Pine Ridge before Ben was shot.
And yet . . . Ben had met them that afternoon, she was sure. He had known where to find them.
She felt a path opening ahead, if she could only reach it. She clasped her hands over the table. “What else can you tell me?”
“Forget it, Vicky. Those guys are gone. They got the money and took off.” Something caught his attention—boots clumping across the porch—and he scooted his chair back and glanced out the front window.
Vicky followed his gaze. Men in cowboy hats, backlit by the sunlight, moved like shadows beyond the glass. She was aware now of the low murmur of voices. She said, “Did the Lakotas have relatives on the rez?”
Redman shifted back toward her. “You and the fed ask the same questions. Possible, I guess. They came and went as they pleased around here. Couldn’t depend on ’em. Maybe visiting relatives. How do I know?” He shrugged. “Ben didn’t like their ways. Had a couple arguments, gave ’em warnings. Trouble is, we were shorthanded. Finally he decided to let ’em go. Not soon enough, you ask me. Nobody liked ’em. Kept to themselves. Acted high and mighty, like they had some special power nobody else had. Lakotas!”
“They shot Ben,” Vicky said after a moment.
Redman looked skeptical. “That’s what you want the fed to think.” He glanced over his shoulder at the window. The sounds of boots pounding and scraping the floor and the murmur of voices drifted through the log walls.
Vicky kept her eyes on the man across from her. “I want the fed to find Ben’s murderers.”
Redman stood up and leaned over the table. “I don’t know what went down out on Rendezvous Road.” He hesitated. “But I know you had reason . . .”
Vicky jumped to her feet and locked eyes with him, daring him to recount her life to her: Ben’s drinking, the beatings, the day she’d finally mustered up enough courage to take the kids to her mother and drive to Denver in a rusted-out Chevy with the reverse gear shot.
The man glanced away. “Ben getting involved with that white woman and all.”
“What!” She felt as if she’d taken a blow in the face. “What white woman?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Don’t tell me you don’t know.”
She started laughing, too. She had to hold her hand over her mouth against the rising sense of hysteria. How like Ben! Pleading with her to come back to him. We’ll be a family again. And all the time, there was another woman.
“What’s the woman’s name?” She didn’t care, she told herself. “She might know about the Lakotas.”
Something different came into the man’s eyes, as if he’d caught an unexpected glimpse of her, and in that glimpse had seen the determination to find Ben’s killer. “Came to the ranch once. Blond hair, real pale face, big blue eyes. She’s a looker. Stayed with Ben up at his cabin.”
Vicky crossed to the window, struggling to calm the mixture of irony and grief that churned inside her. The little cabin nestled in the pines. Quiet and remote. We’ll be a family again.
She stepped back. Outside, cowboys were shouldering together on the porch, crowding the steps. A couple of cowboys ran across the open field toward the bunkhouse, carrying coils of thick rope. All the hands gathering, all convinced of her guilt.
She turned back to the man watching her from across the table. “Her name, Redman. I have to know her name.”
“Nobody around here poked into Ben’s business.”
“Did you tell the fed about her?”
“Wasn’t his business. I ain’t saying nothing that hurts Ben’s reputation. He was a good man.”
He was a bastard, she thought. A handsome, charming, manipulative bastard, but . . . She closed her eyes and took in a long breath. He didn’t deserve to be murdered.
She started for the door.
“Hold on.” The man’s footsteps scraped the floor. He stepped between her and the door. “Let me see what’s going on out there.”
He cracked the door open. The voices outside went quiet. And then, someone shouted: “Where is she? Bring her out here. What’s she got to say for herself?”
Redman slammed the door. “Looks like we got ourselves a lynch mob.”
The room started to close in around her, hot and bright and airless. The buzz of voices came from far away. Her mouth felt dry. “I can’t hide here forever,” she said. “They think I killed Ben. I have to convince them they’re wrong.”
“You don’t get it.” Redman kept one hand flattened against the door, as if he might prevent it from bursting open. “Ben was the chief. We respected him. We would’ve followed him into fire, and now he’s dead. They’re riled up enough to kill whoever did it.”
He lowered his head, a bull gathering strength for the charge. “Wait here.” He flung open the door, stepped outside, and slammed the door behind him. His voice sounded hollow and distant through the log walls. “We don’t want no more trouble around here. Ben’s killer is gonna be arrested and convicted. He’s gonna pay in the regular way.”
“She’s gonna pay our way.” It was the raspy voice of the cowboy on the porch when she’d arrived. What had he done? Run back to the barn and office? Shouting, She’s here! Ben’s killer!
Vicky yanked open the door and stepped onto the porch.
“There she is!” the raspy voice yelled.
16
Vicky stared at the wall of cowboy shirts and blue jeans blocking her path to the steps and the Bronco below. The air crackled with hostility. Masculine smells of leather, perspiration, and tobacco clogged her nostrils. Most of the cowboys looked Arapaho. Her own people! A few familiar faces among them. Dark eyes stared back at her from beneath the brims of cowboy hats. Expressions were fixed, unreadable. The men seemed to breathe in unison, with long exhalations that sounded like the air hissing out of tires.
“Let’s make room.” Redman shouldered his way into the crowd, but the cowboys closed around him.
“Let me pass.” Vicky started across the porch, aware of the stifling heat, her blouse damp against her back. The cowboy with the raspy voice blocked her way.
“Why’d you kill Ben?”
She looked up into a brown face ignited with hatred. The silver snaps down the front of his yellow shirt glinted in the light.
“How dare you,” she said, fighting for the implacable courtroom voice that masked the sense of being on a precipice, the abyss yawning around her.
“Tell us the truth.” A bassoon voice emerged from the shadows by the railing. “You hire somebody to shoot him?”
“Get out of my way.” Vicky tried to sidestep the yellow shirt.
“Let her through,” Redman shouted from over by the steps, but his voice was lost in the roar of voices that pressed around her.
“Ben wouldn’t be dead, weren’t for you.”
“What happened, Vicky?”
She tried again to dodge past the heavy male bodies, but they formed a phalanx in front of her. She stepped back, trying to clear a little space. “I know Ben was your boss,” she began, choosing the words, adjusting the inflections by the faintest twitch in the brown faces, the way she delivered a summation to a jury when her client’s future depended on the impact. “You respected Ben. You loved him.” She paused, giving them time to absorb the idea, reconnect with some lighter part of themselves. “I loved him, too,” she said.
“You’re lying.” The yellow shirt leaned toward her. She could feel little pricks of spittle on her cheeks.
“I loved him once,” she said. “You’re forgetting Ben was the father of my children. I did not kill the father of my children.” There, she’d said it again. She’d vowed she would not defend herself from something she hadn’t done, but she’d said it.
A half-second passed. No one spoke. The breathing seemed quieter, resigned. The cowboy in the yellow shirt stepped to the side. “Time we head out for Ben’s wake,” he said, his voice cracking with smoke.
One by one, the other cowboys rearranged themselves on either side of the porch until she could see down a narrow corridor to the top of the steps where Redman was beckoning her forward.
She kept her eyes straight ahead, not wanting to unhinge the brief pardon she’d received, and followed the man down the steps to the Bronco. Her hand shook over the door handle, the ignition. Finally the engine burst into life, and she drove toward the ranch entrance, vaguely aware of the shadows moving in the rearview mirror.
Not until she’d crossed the cattle guard did she feel her heart begin to return to its regular rhythm. She sped east, her thoughts on the white woman. She would be beautiful. Young and beautiful, that was certain. There had been a beautiful twenty-something in Ben’s life a couple years ago. Another thing was certain: The white woman lived somewhere in the area. Ben never liked too much inconvenience with his affairs.
The roofs of Thermopolis shone through the trees ahead. She slowed through town, then sped up again on the highway south. Ben’s wake was at Blue Sky Hall this evening. You’re not welcome, Hugh Holden had told her. But Lucas and Susan would be there and, she resolved, so would she. The kids might need her.
It struck her that the white woman might also be there.
Father John reached across the desk and picked up the phone on the first ring. He felt a stab of impatience at the sound of a man’s voice—another parishioner wanting to know about Ben Holden’s wake. Father John told him what he’d heard. Blue Sky Hall, eight o’clock. No, he wouldn’t be holding the service. The family wanted a traditional ceremony. Amos Walking Bear was in charge.
A trace of bewilderment worked into the voice at the other end of the line. Ben Holden. Such a big man. He’d expected a man like Ben Holden would be buried from the mission.
So would the board of directors, Father John thought, setting the receiver in place. He was already steeling himself for the questions and the sly comments masked as criticism. Explain, Father O’Malley, how you expect to attract Arapahos to Catholicism when a leading man, like Holden, is buried in the traditional manner? Should we, perhaps, direct our resources to places where we may expect a higher degree of success?
Father John went back to work on the changes he’d made in the annual report. He’d added a new section on the programs he hoped to start: day care and senior care; tutoring center for elementary kids; lay ministry for the sick and shut-ins. Above the section, he’d written: St. Francis Mission in the Future. Now he drew a black line through the title. Too grand and hopeful. He didn’t want to alienate the directors. He wrote: Proposals.
He stuffed the loose sheets of paper inside the file folder, then picked up the phone again and dialed Minnie Little Horse’s number. He’d been trying to reach the old woman all morning and hoping each time the phone rang that she was calling with news about Dean.
The buzzing noise continued. Minnie and Louise were probably at Banner’s office, still providing names, addresses—which meant, he realized, that there was no news. Day six now, and Dean was still missing.
He grabbed the folder and strode down the corridor toward the source of computer keys clicking in the quiet. Father George was hunched over the monitor. The other priest glanced up, then sat back in his chair and began flexing his hands, like a pianist before a concert. “How’s the report?”
Father John set the folder on the desk. “I think it’s finished.” He hoped he’d included everything, every possible reason to continue St. Francis Mission.
“Not a moment too soon.”
His assistant had that right. The bishop would be pulling into Circle Drive at any moment; the directors would arrive tomorrow. The opening meeting was set for tomorrow night, and the tone for the weekend would be established.
Father George went on: “I’ll make the changes and print out copies.” His eyebrows came together in a concentrated line, and Father John realized that the man loved playing the keys, bringing the words to life on the screen, like a conductor calling forth the notes of the symphony in his mind.
“I must say, John”—now the other priest was rotating his shoulders and rolling his head—“you’ve advanced some strong arguments on behalf of the mission. However . . .”
Father John raised both hands. He didn’t want to hear again about allocating resources and quantifying data. He pulled a metal chair next to the desk, straddled it backward, and rested his arms over the top.
“You were right about the shadow dancers,” he said. “I went to the ranch yesterday.”
The other priest’s eyebrows shot up. “You went up there?”
He was looking for somebody, Father John said, tossing off the explanation. He didn’t want to elaborate. Looking for a missing Arapaho probably wasn’t the kind of thing the directors thought the pastor of St. Francis Mission should be doing.
He nodded toward the monitor. “Can you find the website?”
“If it’s there, I can find it.” Father George shifted forward and moved the mouse around the gray pad next to the keyboard. The screen began to change; columns of figures gave way to a maze of graphics and text with icons across the top and down the sides. Click. Click.
“Here we go,” he said. The screen started to scroll and a photo of Orlando came into focus: long, white robe; straight black hair cut below the ears; eyes uplifted; hands outstretched.
Father John leaned closer and read the text.
Prepare yourself for the new world. The great event will sweep away all evil and destroy the oppressors of Indian people. The ancestors will walk among us once again. I, Orlando, the son of Wovoka, have gone into the shadow land and heard the words of my father. What Hesana’nin has promised will come to pass.
“How many followers so far?” Father George clicked on the mouse.
“About thirty, I’d guess.” Another photo flashed onto the screen. Father John recognized the Charles Russell painting of a village in the Old Time. White tipis rising against the clear blue sky. A mountain meadow with streams carving through the wild grasses. Buffalo grazing in the distance. Children playing a stick game; women tending to iron kettles hung on tripods over the campfires; men lounging by the tipis, carving arrowheads, bending branches into bows. A lodgepole stood in the middle of the village, a black crow perched on the top.
“So this is paradise.” Father George clicked the mouse again. A map of the Wind River Reservation covered the screen. A black line traced the winding road into the mountains, a black circle outlined the ranch. Another click and the map was replaced by a photo of Orlando seated cross-legged inside a tipi, arms outstretched. The banner across the top read: JOIN THE SAVED AT THE SHADOW RANCH. COME TO ME.
“There’s your strong, charismatic male leader.” Father George tapped the screen. “Preaching an apocalyptic religion organized around core beliefs. Believers
are cut off from families and friends in a secluded area.” He swiveled toward Father John. “The classic attributes of a cult, just as I’ve been telling you. I say we denounce Orlando from the pulpit on Sunday.”
Father John stared at the photo on the monitor. Orlando looked younger, more robust, a larger version of the frail, sick man he’d seen doubled over in a fit of coughing.
He said, “I spoke with Amos Walking Bear. The elder thinks the followers will drift away when they realize the new world isn’t coming, just as the Ghost Dancers finally lost heart.”
Except for Chief Big Foot’s band, he was thinking, trudging through the snow, still clinging to Wovoka’s message, with the horror moving toward them, like a storm darkening over the mountains.
“We have an obligation to guide our parishioners . . .” Father George hesitated. “As long as we’re here.”
The other priest was right. The armed guards, the women huddled in the tipis, and Dean Little Horse, the unbeliever, were missing. Father John couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling that had clung to him since he’d driven out of the ranch, as if some nameless force were approaching that couldn’t be turned back.
“I’ll talk to Amos about calling a parish meeting.”
“Meeting?”
“Amos and the other elders can explain the old Ghost Dance religion and the fact that Wovoka preached peace and forgiveness. They can help the people understand the difference between a man like Wovoka and . . .” He swallowed hard. “A prophet like Orlando.”
Father George sat back in his chair, rested his elbows on the armrest and steepled his hands together under his chin. “Maybe I’m missing something,” he began, “but it seems to me that Wovoka proclaimed the end of the world, just like Orlando. Sounds like the same apocalyptic message.”
The Shadow Dancer (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 13