What was going on? Adam Lone Eagle did not approve of clients like Frankie Montana, that’s what was going on. He hadn’t approved of Annie Bosey, either. “We need someone more professional,” he’d argued. “More polished and less nosey.” But Vicky had insisted upon bringing Annie to the new firm. Reliable, unafraid of hard work. Annie had a couple of kids. . . . And she’d seen herself in the woman. Vicky was barely twenty-eight when she’d divorced Ben Holden. Juggling classes at the University of Colorado in Denver, working nights as a waitress, trying to raise the kids. In the end, she’d given up and brought the kids to her mother on the reservation. By the time she’d finished her law degree, Susan and Lucas were old enough to be on their own, but the loss of their childhood—it was always there, like a dull ache.
Ignoring Annie’s probing question, Vicky’d said that she wasn’t sure when she’d get back to the office and pushed the end key. Finally, an officer in the dusty blue uniform of the Wind River Police had guided her through the steel doors and into the interview room in a corner of the jail.
Not exactly the picture of an innocent man, Frankie, tall and wiry, tattoos creeping below the sleeves of his tee shirt, black hair pulled back into a ponytail, striding around the interview room, threatening to break the hell out of there, shouting that he hadn’t done anything wrong, just protecting himself was all. The Shoshones had gone to Fort Washakie looking for him, wanting to start trouble. They had a grudge against him. She’d been aware of the faint antiseptic odor that permeated the air, and the dull daylight filtering past the metal grille on the window. Outside was the empty exercise yard with the concrete floor and the razor wire on top of the high concrete walls.
When she’d asked Frankie about the rifle, he’d stared at her in slack-jawed disbelief. Rifle? There wasn’t any rifle. How could he have a rifle when his deer rifle had been stolen out of the back of his pickup two weeks ago? Anybody said he’d pulled a rifle on those Shoshones was lying.
Vicky forced her attention back to the courtroom. The door on the left had swung open, and Frankie was heading her way, dressed in a tan jacket over a yellow shirt and dark trousers that Lucille had probably brought him this morning for the hearing, hair combed loose over his shoulders, head tilted to the side as he surveyed the courtroom. Close behind, in another dusty blue uniform, was a guard, the black belt weighted with a holstered gun on one hip. The guard nudged Frankie’s arm, guiding him toward the vacant chair at the table.
Frankie slid in beside her, head still pivoting, narrowed black eyes roaming over the benches. Finally, a look of satisfaction imprinted itself on his features. He leaned sideways. “How long’s this shit gonna take,” he said.
Vicky could smell the sour odor of his breath. “As long as the judge wants.”
“Yeah? Well, I want the hell outta that jail. The place stinks. You’d better get me out of there.”
Vicky turned and faced the man. He and Lucas had ridden their ponies together in the summers when they were kids. God, what had happened? “Listen to me,” she said. “I’ll do what I can to get the charges against you dropped, but I don’t work miracles. I’d suggest that you show respect for the court and act like you’re sorry for the trouble you’ve caused.”
“I was defending myself.” Frankie squared himself to the front of the courtroom.
The court stenographer—a small woman with curly black hair and thick glasses—sat down at a table just as a short, stocky man stepped through the door behind the judge’s bench. “Everybody rise,” he called out, as if he were shouting through a megaphone. “The Shoshone-Arapaho tribal court is now in session.”
Vicky got to her feet. From behind her came the scrape and shuffle of people rearranging coats and bags and standing up. She realized Frankie was still seated and tapped the man on the shoulder. Taking his time, he lumbered upward, still leaning forward when the tribal judge, Harry Winslow, two hundred pounds of muscle encased in a black robe beneath a crown of white hair, emerged from the door, gripping a thick file folder in one hand. He glanced around the courtroom, then sat down in the high-backed leather chair behind the bench, and opened the folder.
“Take your seats,” he barked, peering through glasses perched halfway down his nose. More scraping and shuffling as Frankie’s relatives settled back onto the benches. Frankie dropped onto his chair and rolled his boots behind the front legs. Vicky shot him a warning glance as he started to lean back. The man lifted his eyes to the ceiling and clasped his hands across his chest.
“Looks like we’ve got three matters on the agenda this afternoon,” the judge said, glancing over his glasses toward the back of the courtroom. “First matter before the tribal court is the assault charges against Frank Joseph Montana.” A rattling noise drifted through the courtroom, like the sound of boots crunching dried leaves, as the judge thumbed through the papers in the folder.
“Mr. Montana?” He fixed Frankie with a hard stare over the top of his glasses.
Vicky stood up and, gesturing with her head, urged Frankie to his feet. The man pushed against the arms of his chair and lifted himself upward. “My client is present. I’m Vicky Holden, Mr. Montana’s attorney.” This was for the benefit of the court stenographer. She’d lost count of the times she’d appeared in Judge Winslow’s court.
“Mr. Montana,” the judge went on, “you’ve been charged with three counts of assault with a deadly weapon. Do you understand the charges?”
“This is crazy,” Frankie said.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion. I asked if you understand the charges.”
“Yes, your honor,” Vicky said. “My client understands the charges.”
“Let your client speak.”
“Yeah, I understand,” Frankie said after a moment.
“Mr. Raven,” the judge said, shifting his attention to one of the lawyers at the table across the aisle. “What are the specifics of the charges?”
Larry Raven. Vicky had met the man before, still in his twenties, with the ardent, eager-to-prove-himself manner of the law student he’d been only a few years ago.
“Your honor,” the lawyer was saying, “the tribes have charged Frank Montana with three counts of assault on Shoshone tribal members, Trent Hunter, and Rex and Joe Crispin. The assault occurred last Friday evening on Stewart Road in Fort Washakie. While committing the assault, Mr. Montana brandished a rifle and threatened to kill the men.”
“Bullshit!” Frankie shouted.
“Ms. Holden, if you can’t restrain your client, I will see that he’s returned to the jail until this hearing is concluded.”
“I apologize, your honor,” Vicky said. She shot a glance at Frankie and mouthed the words, be quiet.
“It had better not happen again.” The judge was nodding his head, his glasses slipping farther down his nose. He lifted a puffy finger and pushed them upward. “What does your client say to these charges?”
“Your honor,” Vicky began, “my client admits to an altercation. He was driving through Fort Washakie when three men in a pickup forced him to the side of the road, dragged him from his pickup, and began to strike him. He protected himself as best he could before he managed to get back in the pickup and drive his pickup across a yard behind his assailants’ truck. He then drove out to the Wind River highway and escaped. My client denies brandishing a rifle, your honor. He admits that he owned a rifle, which he used for hunting, but his rifle was stolen from his pickup two weeks ago.”
“Any witnesses to the altercation, Mr. Raven?” Judge Winslow peered through his glasses at the papers in front of him.
“The three complainants, your honor.”
“Ah, the three complainants.” Now the judge was staring out over the top rim. “Anybody call the police?”
“Not at the time. The three Shoshones came to the Wind River Police on Saturday morning and filed the complaint. They said they were afraid for their lives. It wasn’t until Sunday that the police located Mr. Montana at his mother’s home and arrested h
im.”
Judge Winslow stayed quiet a moment, peering again at his papers. Finally he looked up. “Well, it looks like we have a case of Mr. Montana’s word against the word of the complainants.”
Larry Raven shifted from one foot to the other and glanced back at the rows of spectators. “Unfortunately, your honor, none of the complainants is here. I left messages at their homes this morning. I hoped they might show up so you could talk to them yourself.”
“Your honor,” Vicky cut in, “the tribal attorney knows that this is not an evidentiary hearing.”
“I can only surmise your honor,” the other lawyer continued, “that either the complainants didn’t get the message as to the time of the hearing or that they are too intimidated by Mr. Montana to appear.”
“Your honor . . .” Vicky said again.
“Out of line, Mr. Raven.”
Vicky pushed on. “These are spurious charges made by three men who don’t like my client. There is absolutely no evidence that my client attacked anyone. When the police arrested Mr. Montana, they searched his mother’s house and his pickup. They did not find a rifle because there is no rifle. The only thing the tribal attorney has is the complainants’ version of what happened, which contradicts my client’s version. I intend to file a motion with the court to dismiss the charges for lack of probable cause. I ask the court to release Mr. Montana on a personal recognizance bond.”
The judge was quiet a long moment. Finally he said, “I’m inclined to go along with you. The fact is, Mr. Raven”—he gave a half-nod the tribal attorney—“this is a case of one man’s word against the word of three other men, who may or may not hold some kind of a grudge. I’m going to grant the bond.”
The tribal attorney flinched backward, as if he’d been struck. “May I remind your honor,” he managed, “that Frank Montana has a record . . .”
“I know all about Mr. Montana’s record.” The judge lifted one hand, then let it drop onto the bench top, making a loud, cracking noise. “You don’t have a case here, Mr. Raven, and I’m stopping it from going forward until I consider the motion to dismiss.”
Behind her, Vicky could hear the labored breathing and a muffled sob. Lucille, sobbing with relief. Vicky felt her own wave of relief washing over her.
Now the judge was staring at Frankie. “Let me remind you that this is not the first time I’ve seen you in this courtroom. The tribal attorney is correct in pointing out that you have a record of offenses against the people on this reservation going back at least two years. Not a pretty record. I have no doubt that you’re capable of assaulting three men. Let me warn you that if you are convicted of the charges, I will see to it that you are banished from this reservation. Do you understand?”
Vicky turned to the man beside her. “Answer him,” she whispered.
“Yeah, I understand.”
“You’re free to go,” the judge said.
Vicky gathered her coat and briefcase and followed Frankie out into the side aisle. She waited until Lucille had stumbled after her son, coat thrown over her shoulders like a cape, glancing back with a look of gratitude on her face, dabbing a tissue at her eyes. Frankie’s relatives crowded forward, patting him on the back as they moved through the double doors into the entry, where another small crowd was waiting for the next hearing.
“Thank you, Vicky,” Lucille said. They were walking through the snow that skimmed the sidewalk in front of the tribal building. The woman reached out and grabbed Vicky’s hand. Her fingers were like clumps of ice.
“Listen, Lucille,” Vicky said, slowly removing her own hand from the woman’s grip and keeping an eye on Frankie, striding around the group of relatives toward an old orange Ford sedan that Vicky guessed belonged to his mother. “I have to talk to Frankie a moment. Do you mind waiting?”
The woman blinked, then drew back, a look of fear shadowing her expression. “You go on,” she said.
Vicky swung around and hurried through the family after the young man who had flung open the passenger door and was about to lower himself inside. “Frankie,” she called.
Frankie Montana took a step back, then straightened his shoulders and rotated his head, flashing a victory grin back at the people clustered on the sidewalk. “Mom’ll see you get paid, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said.
“Do you know what banishment means?” Vicky came around the front of the Ford and faced the man. The door hung between them, Frankie leaning over the top.
“What do I care? You heard the judge. I’m outta here.”
“It means he has the power to keep you off this reservation.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Frankie. Just like in the Old Time when the chiefs banished troublemakers from the villages. They couldn’t see their families. They had to make their own way on the plains, hunt for their own food, find their own shelter. No one would talk to them. They were completely alone. Most of them died.”
“He can’t kick me off the rez.”
“Yes, he can, Frankie. That’s exactly what he can do.”
The man shook his head and gave a snort of laughter. “I ain’t worried,” he said, ducking into the car and pulling the door after him.
“Take my advice, Frankie,” Vicky shouted over the closing door. “Clean up your act.”
4
FATHER JOHN GUIDED the pickup through the wash of snow that passed for a narrow road, bouncing over rocks and ridges, winding around frozen patches of sagebrush and wild grasses. The music of Il Trovatore washed through the cab. He’d been enjoying the opera lately, playing it over and over until the music had become as familiar as the music of Aida, Rigoletto, and La Traviata. He could see the wavy marks of fresh tracks ahead. One of the ranchers in the area, he thought. He’d driven through Lysite thirty minutes ago, the last place that resembled a town—general store, three or four houses, an abandoned gas station—and continued north into what the Arapahos called the badlands, a vast, empty expanse of bluffs that dropped into deep ravines a thousand feet below and ran uninterrupted into the sky all around. There were no trees as far as he could see. Gray clumps of sagebrush broke the monotony of the snow. From time to time, he spotted antelope tracks running alongside the road and, in the far distance, the dark cluster of ranch buildings. From time to time, the faint afternoon sun tried to break through a sky that had turned the color of lead.
This morning, pulling out of the senior center, he’d come close to calling the Fremont County sheriff. He’d punched in half the numbers on his cell before he’d hit the end button. What would he say? Father Nathan had gotten a strange telephone call that might refer to dead bodies? It was possible the bodies were at the Bates Battlefield? Or any one of hundreds of other battle sites? Might? Possible? And a whole platoon of sheriff’s deputies and who knew how many other law enforcement officers could be off on a wild-goose chase.
He’d stopped at the mission before heading out to the battlefield. The moment Father John had let himself through the heavy wooden door of the administration building, Father Ian McCauley, his new assistant, had emerged from his own office at the far end of the corridor. A tall, narrow man with trimmed, blond hair and the usual serious expression stamped on his face, he was closing in on forty, younger than Father John by eight or nine years. When the Provincial had called and suggested the man for the assistant’s job, Father John had been struck by the similarities. Nine years ago, he’d been like Ian McCauley, fresh out of rehab at Grace House, desperate for a job, desperate to prove himself. Oh, Father John remembered what that had been like. And he needed an assistant. The last priest had packed up and left almost three months ago—You know I love it here, John, but a teaching position at Georgetown!—leaving him to run the mission alone for most of the winter. A few weeks ago, Ian McCauley had arrived with a couple of bags, several cartons of books, and an eager gratitude stamped all over him, the kind that Father John recognized had been his own.
“There you are, John.” Ian had come
striding down the corridor with the bearing of a military general, waving a file folder. He’d followed Father John into his office on the right and launched into a speech about how they had to get their ducks in a row before tonight’s parish council meeting so that they knew which programs the mission would have to cancel this summer. Naturally they’d have to back up their decisions with facts and figures.
“Naturally,” Father John had agreed, flipping through the mail, checking the calls on the readout of the answering machine, half expecting to see an unidentified caller who would have a mechanical voice, making sure there wasn’t anything that needed his attention before he drove out to Bates.
Father Ian had nudged a wooden chair across the study, sat down, and plopped the folder on the desk between them. “As I see it,” he’d begun, riffling through the papers in the folder, “and believe me, John, I’ve spent a great deal of time going over the numbers, we’re going to have to cut back on thirty percent of the summer’s programs. Donations have dropped off.” He whipped out a sheet from the center of the stack with the enthusiasm of the alcoholic intent on substituting one addiction for another. “Take a look.” He’d pushed on. “AA, social committee, new parents group all meet at Eagle Hall, which means we need maintenance and electricity an additional eight hours a week. By cutting those hours, we can save . . .”
The other priest had stopped in midsentence, and Father John realized he’d been shaking his head the whole time. “What?” Ian had asked.
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