The Man Who Fell from the Sky

by Margaret Coel

  Butch looked around, as if spies might be hiding in the grass. There were only the five of them, Butch and Sundance, she and Jesse, and Anthony. “I reckon we’ll go where the wind blows,” he said.

  Jesse took her arm and walked her across the yard to the house. It was as it should be, she thought, she and Jesse alone in the house, Anthony helping on the ranch. She had never thought she’d see Butch Cassidy again. After he had gotten out of prison, he rode off. Didn’t even come by to say his good-byes. It was his way.

  She sank down at the kitchen table as Jesse poured two big mugs of coffee. “Those boys’ll be fine,” he said when he set the mug in front of her, but the way he said it, she knew he was trying to cheer her up. And maybe cheer up himself. “Looks like they’re about ready to take off.” Jesse was at the window, looking out. Then he set his mug down and went back outside.

  Mary stayed at the table and sipped at the coffee. She had said her good-byes years ago. Let him go with the Great Spirit.

  She got to her feet at the sound of boots on the back step. The screened door flew open and Butch hurled himself inside. “I want to leave you something.” He took a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and spread it flat on the table. She knew in an instant what it was: the pencil marks, pressed down hard, that resembled four trees set in the four corners. On the south tree was what looked like a horseshoe. Beyond the north tree was a clump of boulders that lifted off the top of the page. Over to the right, the banks of a lake and an odd, squiggly line, like a strip of land jutting into the lake. Yesterday morning, he was gone when she had served breakfast. She thought he had left forever, but by midafternoon, he was back, and she had understood.

  “You want me to keep this safe for you?” If the Pinkertons found him, they would find the map, and they would take the treasure.

  “If you and Jesse need the money, you know where it is.”

  “I would never take it,” Mary said. “It’s yours, and I hope someday you will come back to claim it.”

  “Maybe so. But you promise me, Mary, you’ll use it if you need it. You’ll keep your ranch and take good care of yourself and Jesse. You promise?” He was smiling at her, and she had never been able to resist that smile. She promised.

  23

  “HEARD ANYTHING MORE from the anonymous caller?”

  Ted Gianelli nodded Vicky into a hard-backed chair, inched past the desk in the closet-sized office, and dropped into his chair. He clasped his hands over his stomach, a calm, unhurried look about the man, the inexhaustible patience of an experienced investigator. The music of an opera drifted across the office. Rigoletto, Vicky guessed, although she didn’t recognize the aria.

  “I’m here about Ruth Walking Bear,” Vicky said. She perched on the chair and allowed the music to wash over her. Feeling calmer, more settled. She had waited in the parking lot a good fifteen minutes, watching the vehicles streaming down the street, unsure of what Ruth might be driving. The sun beating down, white clouds skimming through the blue sky. There was no sign of Ruth. Finally she had gone into the small entry, pushed the button on the metal communicator in the wall, and said she was here to see Agent Gianelli. A few moments later, she was following the agent down the long corridor to his office in the back.

  Now she told the agent that someone had broken into Ruth’s house and ransacked it. Ruth should be here, she was thinking, telling her own story.

  Gianelli’s eyebrows lifted a quarter inch. “She report it to the tribal cops?”

  Vicky said she wasn’t sure.

  The fed leaned into the laptop, tapped a few keys, and stared at the screen. “Reported at two forty-five this morning. Officers responded at three fifteen. No sign of burglar. Homeowner said nothing had been stolen. She believes dead husband’s cousins, Bernie and Big Man White Horse, are responsible.”

  He looked up, and Vicky said: “I think Bernie’s husband was looking for the map.” She could still see the couple seated across from her, the greed flashing in their eyes. The hard look of disgust when she told them she couldn’t help them. And Big Man saying there were other ways to get the map. “Bernie took Ruth out last night and kept her out late. Ruth thinks she was giving Big Man time to ransack the house. Any results from forensics?”

  Gianelli drew in his cheeks as if he were sucking on a cigar. “Paper dates from the last part of the nineteenth century. Not enough pencil traces to provide a conclusive date. So the scrap of paper doesn’t prove anything definite. Pencil marks could be from last week.”

  “Or from the 1890s. If the pencil marks can’t be dated, then we don’t know when they were made.”

  The fed beat a rhythm with his pen on the desk, and Vicky went on: “It’s possible Robert had the original map drawn by Butch Cassidy, and Big Man was desperate to find it. Which means . . .” She had his full attention; she could feel the intensity in his gaze. “Whoever ransacked the house didn’t know the map could have been destroyed.”

  Gianelli was nodding, his gaze still fastened on her. Finally he said, “The anonymous caller called Father John this morning. If a lawyer can’t spur us in the right direction, he thinks a priest might be able to.”

  Vicky looked away. It made sense the caller would get in touch with John O’Malley. The caller was desperate and frightened. He needed help, and that’s what her people did when they were butting their heads against the wall of white officialdom, the impersonal, automatic machinery of the law—they called the white man they could trust.

  “Even if the burglar didn’t know the map had been destroyed,” Gianelli was saying, “it doesn’t mean he wasn’t at the lake. He could be the anonymous witness if”—he lifted his hands—“Robert was murdered. The coroner says there is little evidence of trauma, but Robert was wearing a bulky vest that could have prevented any bruising. There was muddy debris under his fingernails, but that could have resulted from his trying to lift himself out of the lake. We haven’t found any real evidence he was murdered.”

  He waved a hand now and started to his feet. Vicky remained seated. “There’s only one reason anyone would destroy the map.”

  Gianelli dropped back down, curiosity working through his expression. “Are you going to tell me that Robert found the treasure and somebody killed him for it? What’s the killer going to do with gold coins and bills from the 1890s? The minute he walks into a bank or visits a coin dealer, questions will be raised. Word will get out, people will know an old treasure had been found. Quite a risk to take, when the guy might be involved in murder.”

  Vicky took a moment before she said, “He won’t do anything. Not until the investigation is closed and Robert’s death is declared an accident. Then he’ll go to another state and cash in a treasure where no one is likely to connect it to Butch Cassidy or Robert’s death.”

  The fed lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “For how long? A hundred years? Folks have trekked through the Wind Rivers looking for buried treasure based on a rumor that an outlaw had hidden his loot hereabouts.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands over the desk. The edge formed a crease across the front of his shirt. “Everybody loves the old outlaws of the West like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Why? Because they outwitted the law? That’s part of it. But the most important thing is, they robbed the banks and railroads that ordinary folks considered bloodsuckers. So folks cheered them on. They were heroes. And they live on because no one wanted them to die in a shoot-out in Bolivia. I’m sure you’ve heard stories about Butch visiting friends in Fremont County in the 1930s. That is all they are, Vicky. Stories of treasure buried by an outlaw who never died.”

  He stood up this time and made a point of checking his watch. “Sorry, Vicky. I’ve got an appointment, so unless there is something else . . .”

  Vicky got to her feet. “You’ll be the first one I call.”

  * * *

  SHE HAD TO shield the phone from the sun in order to read th
e text message from Annie. “Father John called.” Still gripping the phone in one hand, Vicky crossed the parking lot to the Ford, started the engine, and rolled down the windows. Heat emanated off the leather seats and accumulated in the air like a compressed fireball. She tapped on John O’Malley’s name and waited a half minute until the buzzing noise sounded. Then the familiar voice was on the other end: “Vicky. Thanks for getting back to me.” She asked if he had time for lunch. He was about to head to Ethete to visit elders at the senior center, he said, but he could meet her first. She suggested the restaurant at the casino.

  * * *

  VICKY FOLLOWED BLUE Sky Highway north, then zigzagged east toward Ethete when she spotted the crowds ahead, the traffic stalled. She slowed behind a pickup and looked out the open window. The documentary film crew, filming horseback riders trotting over the prairie, crossing the road, and trotting on toward the mountains.

  The line of traffic began inching forward along the road the riders had crossed. She started to follow the pickup truck when a man stepped out and held up a red stop sign. She slammed on the brake and rapped her fingers on the steering wheel. No telling how long the delay would be.

  The riders were coming back. No special order now, no cameras trained on them, and she understood the director must have decided to reshoot the scene. One of the riders looked like Butch Cassidy, broad shouldered, muscular, and confident in the saddle, blond hair escaping from the rim of his cowboy hat. She must have seen a photo of the man, she was thinking, or maybe the actor crossing the road just happened to look the way she imagined Butch Cassidy. Riding close behind was a thin, smaller man, darker complexioned, impatience stamped on his features. Sundance Kid, most likely. She wondered if the real Sundance had looked as surly and restless. Other men followed, and on their faces, the haunted, desperate looks of men on the run.

  A short gap, then another group galloped past: Arapahos, riding tall and easy in the saddle, the horses at their command. They were good with horses, her people. Experts. She recognized several of the men from the powwows, and a few had been at Ruth’s the day Robert died. Dallas Spotted Deer rode past. Then he spurred the horse and galloped around the other Arapahos. In the last bunch of riders was Eldon Lone Bear, staring straight ahead, as if the road that interrupted the endless prairies had never existed.

  Behind them rode a bunch of cowboys, silver badges on their shirts glinting in the sun, holsters moving up and down on their hips. Still more cowboys followed, horses snorting and prancing. And in the rear, two official-looking men with broad cowboy hats, holstered guns, rifles in scabbards.

  She put the scene together now: they were filming a getaway following a robbery, Butch and the gang on the run, and behind them a posse of deputies and civilians and finally, Pinkerton agents. She tried to remember what she had read about Butch Cassidy, how Pinkerton agents had tracked him and Sundance to Bolivia. But Butch had once been part of this place, a friend to her people. Riding behind the outlaws came Arapaho warriors. Shielding Butch from the posses and Pinkertons. Throwing them off the trail.

  Finally, all the riders crossed to the other side, and the man stepped back and turned his sign around: Slow. Vicky inched forward, then pressed down on the accelerator and drove toward Ethete.

  24

  IT WASN’T THE Wind River Casino on Highway 789 that drew tourists from across the West, but a smaller casino in Ethete, with flashing neon lights, clanging slot machines, and the quiet concentration of people pulling levers and pushing buttons in front of dancing colored lights. Most of the players were Arapahos, but some white faces bobbed about, tourists in shorts and tee shirts, who had ventured off the highways and into the center of the reservation. The restaurant was in a back room, booths and tables with a few people working on hamburgers and toasted ham-and-cheese sandwiches. John O’Malley sat at a table for two against the left wall. He stood up as Vicky walked in.

  “How are you?” He took her hand, his palm warm against her own, and guided her onto the chair.

  She couldn’t help but smile at the way he always asked how she was, as though it were important to him. And how had he been since she had last seen him at Ruth’s? He sat down across from her and lifted a hand off the table as if to wave away any response other than that he was the same. She jumped in then, ignoring the rest of the polite preliminaries, the give-and-take of random comments meant to affirm the human connection between them before business could be discussed. The connection with this man was always there. From one meeting to the next—after weeks or months—always the same. They always picked up where they had left off.

  “I understand you heard from the anonymous witness.” The dining room started to fill up, chairs scraping the floor, people scrambling into booths. As many tourists as Arapahos.

  “He told me he had called you.”

  Vicky nodded. “What do you make of it?”

  “He sounded Arapaho, and he sounded scared. I think he’s telling the truth. I tried to convince him to go to the fed.”

  The waitress appeared, a frazzled look about her, glancing from table to table as if she wasn’t sure where to alight first. The buzz of conversations mixed with the noise of the kitchen door swinging back and forth. They ordered hamburgers and iced tea and, when the waitress moved away, Vicky said, “He’s too frightened to come forward, even though it could be the only thing that will save him.” She leaned closer, conscious of the people at the tables around them. The Arapaho lawyer and the mission priest having lunch together! The news would hit the moccasin telegraph by midafternoon. All the better if someone could report what they had been talking about.

  Keeping her voice almost to a whisper, she said, “If the killer knows there was a witness, he will go after him. He’s already killed once.” She looked away for a split second, then went on: “The witness could explain how Robert got into the lake. What happened? Did someone hold him down in the water? Ruth thinks Robert always went treasure hunting alone, but Cutter . . .”

  John O’Malley’s face remained still, the face of the confessional, she thought, the counselor. And yet, she had caught the flash of light in his eyes. She knew him so well, the little ways in which he revealed himself, the thoughts he would never express. “Cutter Walking Bear, Robert’s cousin,” she explained. “His name used to be James. He’s returned to the rez.”

  “I’ve met him. He stopped by the mission this morning. Visiting the old place, remembering when he was a kid in school.”

  Vicky waited while the waitress delivered plates of hamburgers with fries dangling off the edges and glasses of iced tea. An image of Cutter fluttered in her mind: tall and good-looking, brave and competent, like a warrior in the Old Time. “He’s trying to reconnect with the past,” she said when the waitress had moved away. “His family moved to Oklahoma when he was a kid. It must have been hard.” She stopped, surprised at the compassion, the raw feeling in her own voice. Another look in John O’Malley’s eyes now, a reluctant acceptance, as if something like this were bound to occur. “We’re just friends,” she hurried on, sensing an odd urge to explain. There was no need for explanation, and yet . . . somehow there was. “We were in school together. Reconnecting with schoolmates is a way of remembering what he lost.” She opened the bun and poured a little ketchup over the hamburger, wanting to eradicate any notion of a personal relationship between her and Cutter Walking Bear—he was a friend; she had other friends. Except that she didn’t. They were both adrift, searching for their pasts, she and Cutter.

  She kept going: “He claims he went treasure hunting with Robert from time to time. If Robert took Cutter along, why wouldn’t he have taken others? There’s more.” She was warming to the subject now, moving the conversation onto safer ground. She told him that someone had ransacked Ruth’s house last night. “Ruth thinks it was Big Man, Bernie Walking Bear’s husband, and I suspect she’s right. Bernie and Ruth went barhopping in Riverton, and when Ruth got
home, she found the house turned upside down.”

  John O’Malley finished chewing a bite of hamburger, then he said, “You think they were looking for Robert’s treasure map?”

  “What they didn’t know is that the map was destroyed. I found a torn, singed piece at the lake.” She saw by the little nod he gave and the flare of comprehension in his eyes that John O’Malley reached the same conclusion she had reached: whoever had ransacked Ruth’s house didn’t realize the map no longer existed. “The cousins thought the map was as much theirs as it was Robert’s.”

  “What about Cutter?”

  Vicky took a bite of her own hamburger. After a moment she said, “The treasure hunt was an excuse to go to the mountains and spend time with his cousin. He thought the map was a phony, like all the other maps around here. Even Ruth thinks that Robert’s grandfather had probably bought the map at a trading post.”

  John O’Malley took a drink of tea. A puzzled look in his expression now, as if he had been turning something over in his mind that didn’t make sense. “Let’s say Robert’s map was genuine, from Butch Cassidy himself. How would Robert’s grandfather have gotten it?”

  The same question had occurred to her. “All we know is that when he died, Robert found the map before any of the other cousins got there.” She paused, a new idea inserting itself into her thoughts. “Ruth said none of the cousins had shown any interest. No one had ransacked Robert’s house looking for the map. Then Robert died, and rumors started on the moccasin telegraph that he had found something. All of a sudden, the map looked genuine, and the cousins started thinking there might be more treasure buried in the same location. Why else would the cousins show an interest?”

  John O’Malley finished the last of his hamburger and came back to the same topic. “There is still the question of how Robert’s grandfather acquired the map.”