The flap snapped open. Buffalo Bill, still in his white buckskin shirt and trousers, beckoned them inside. The tent was double the size of the tipis, set up like a house, with a bed on a metal frame against the left wall, a desk in the back, and four chairs around a table on the right. Sonny recognized the two white men seated at the table: Major John Burke, black hair and black beard surrounding a white, moon-shaped face, rounded shoulders inside a white shirt with black suspenders. Burke talked to the newspapers, ordered the flyers and posters that went up in every city the show visited, and made sure the public knew the Wild West was coming. Next to him was a stick-thin man with a wormlike black mustache. Nate Salsbury, Buffalo Bill’s partner, Sonny realized, although he had seen him in camp only once. They must have just arrived because neither man had been at dinner this evening.
Buffalo Bill pulled out two vacant chairs. “Have a seat,” he said. “I’m afraid we have some bad news.” He started pacing around the center of the tent, pulling at his goatee. Sonny waited until the chief had sat down before he took the other chair. He was thinking that somehow Buffalo Bill must have heard Marks had tried to kill him tonight.
Salsbury emitted a short cough that sounded as if he were clearing his throat. Then he said, “The commissioner of Indian affairs is calling for the removal of all Indians from the show.”
Sonny could feel the chief tense beside him. The commissioner had given Buffalo Bill permission to put Indians in the Wild West. The government agents on the reservations also had permitted the Indians to leave. Now if the officials said Indians could no longer travel with the show, they would have to go home.
“It will be the ruin of us.” Buffalo Bill stopped pacing and faced the table. Deep creases of worry lined his forehead; the lamplight flickered in his blue eyes. “How can we tell the story of the West without Indians? Our exhibition will be a sham. Don’t those knuckleheads in Washington know the good we’re doing? We’re bringing the heroic story of America to people everywhere. We present the true story of civilization reaching across our great continent.”
“The commissioner has been duped by the outrageous lies White Horse gave to the New York Herald,” Salsbury said. “Unfortunately he believes the Show Indians are mistreated and starved.”
“White Horse is a fool,” the chief said.
“The men from the consulates were here all day,” Buffalo Bill said. “They spoke to the Indians. They saw the camp. They will tell the newspapers what they saw with their own eyes.” He leaned toward Black Heart. “I’ve tried to tell John and Nate that as soon as the Herald prints the story…”
“Unfortunately we don’t have any more time.” Major Burke sat with his hands clenched on the table. “We must speak to the commissioner before he orders us to send the Indians home.”
Buffalo Bill drove a fist into his opened palm. “This isn’t just about White Horse’s lies. Folks that hate the idea of Indians being in the show have gotten to the commissioner. The so-called reformers say we’re encouraging Indians to relive uncivilized ways, when they want Indians learning white ways. Well, I say they don’t know what they’re talking about. But the commissioner has left us no choice. We have to cancel the next season so I can go to Washington and talk some sense into folks.”
“But we can’t cancel right away,” Salsbury said. “We’ll lose all our money on preparations for the shows into October. The soonest we can cancel will be after the Stuttgart show. Then we can go into winter camp while you take the Indians to Washington and meet with the commissioner.”
“We’ve called you here to help.” Burke gave a little bow toward Chief Black Heart. “You are the leading man of the Arapahos.” He turned toward Sonny. “You are his adopted son. You both speak good English. We want you to go to Washington and talk to the commissioner. We must gain time to finish this season before the colonel himself can travel to Washington.”
Black Heart nodded. “We will go.”
Sonny could feel the pride swelling in his chest. To have an important mission, to save the other Indians in the show so they could collect their pay and go home with money for their families—they were warriors again, he and Chief Black Heart.
“When do we leave?” Black Heart said.
“Tomorrow,” Burke said.
Black Heart would take his regalia, Sonny was thinking. It would be safe from the grasping hands of Herman Marks. For a moment he hesitated about telling Buffalo Bill about Marks, then decided BB would want to know. Sonny stood up and walked over to the big man. “Could I speak with you privately?” he said.
20
A TWO-YEAR FEDERAL investigation into the theft and illegal sale of Indian artifacts came to a close yesterday when the ringleader was sentenced to one year in the county jail. Thomas Plink, Kiowa, Colorado, had pleaded not guilty to misdemeanor charges of theft, sales of Native American property, and conspiracy to transport stolen Native American goods across state lines. A day-long trial ended in a guilty verdict. Other alleged members of the gang, identified as Hol Chambers and Raphael Luna, remain at large. They were charged in absentia.
According to Ann Cambert, assistant district attorney, the gang specialized in robbing Native American graves in Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah and stole items such as bonnets, spears, hatchets, spear points, bows and arrows, and buckskin clothing. Such Native artifacts are becoming more and more rare and bring high prices from collectors on the illegal market. “It is difficult to bring thieves like Plink to justice because they operate below the radar,” Ms. Cambert said. “Most of the gravesites are in rural areas. Months can pass before Native American families realize their ancestors’ graves have been robbed. Collectors protect the thieves because they supply the items they want. We are very pleased with the results of our investigation and the guilty verdicts.”
Ms. Cambert said that Plink is believed to have been involved in the theft and sales of Native artifacts since he was a boy. “He grew up in East Texas and learned early on that Native people bury valuable items with the dead. Over the years, we believe he dealt in millions of dollars worth of stolen items.”
THE FRONT DOOR slammed. Vicky jerked her head away from the computer screen and squinted past the beveled glass doors to the outer office. In the faint glare of light, she could make out the figure of a man. Something changed in the atmosphere. She got to her feet as the French doors swung open.
“You here alone?” The ceiling light flooded over Adam. “You should keep the front door locked.”
Vicky dropped back onto her chair, her heart hammering. “Annie must have forgotten to lock up.” Annie and Roger had left together, she was thinking. The only thing on their minds, each other.
“You should talk to her.”
Vicky didn’t say anything. This was how it had gone when Adam was her partner: take care of this or that, handle this or that. Adam issuing orders, moving on to more important things, not giving the small details a second thought.
Adam put up the palms of his hands, as if he had sensed her annoyance. “Old habit, I’m afraid. Must be a big case to keep you here so late.”
“What brings you here?” Vicky said.
“I was hoping to find you.” He plopped down on a side chair. “I have some news and… well, I have a favor to ask. Want to get a bite to eat?”
Vicky hesitated. Except for a granola bar, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The little hunger cramps she’d ignored now seemed more intense. “Give me a minute.” She turned back to the computer, clicked through a series of screens and tapped the print button. From the outer office came the noise of the printer choking into life and spitting out pages. Annie and Roger had been about to leave when Vicky returned from Dubois. She had spent the last couple of hours searching the internet for two men: Trevor Pratt and Thomas Plink. She had found more information on Trevor. On YouTube, the keynote speech Trevor had given at a conference in Santa Fe for collectors and dealers of Indian artifacts, Trevor’s face almost lost in the glare of spotligh
ts. Collectors magazine had listed him among the country’s top ten dealers of Native American artifacts. Other than the blurred YouTube video, there were no other photos that she could locate. She wondered how he had managed to scrub photos off the internet. There were only a few articles on Thomas Plink. All related to his trial and conviction. The man had kept a low profile, buried in darkness like the artifacts he dug out of graves.
She turned off the computer, and lifted her bag out of the bottom drawer. Adam ushered her through the opened French doors and across the outer office. She adjusted the main light switch until a faint night-light worked its way through the bungalow, then dug in her bag for the keys and locked the front door on their way out.
The restaurant had that late, about-to-close feeling. Customers at only two tables finishing coffee and dessert. A hostess with red curls plastered to her head looked half-asleep at the front counter. Vicky half expected her to tell them the kitchen was closed. Instead, the hostess lifted two menus out of a box and headed into the dining room. Vicky slid across the blue plastic cushion of a booth next to the plate glass window, and Adam settled himself across the table. Outside, old-fashioned streetlamps lit the sidewalk. The occasional vehicle crawling down Main Street shot a flare of yellow light along the asphalt. She liked the quiet, the sense of winding down, that settled over Lander in the evenings.
“God, Vicky, I’ve missed you.” Adam looked at her over the top of the menu.
“Is that the news you wanted to tell me?”
He laid the menu down. “Yeah, maybe it is. Have you thought about us?”
“About practicing together again?”
A waitress in dark slacks and a white blouse with coffee stains dribbled down the front materialized at the table. They both ordered hamburgers and coffee. After the waitress walked away, Adam shook his head slowly, as if he’d reached a reluctant conclusion after a lot of thought. “You’re set up in the bungalow now. There isn’t room for a partner.” He gave her a smile tinged with sadness and regret. She had moved her office once out of the bungalow and into a sleek brick building on Main Street with two story windows. How intimidating the building must have been to people who found their way off the rez and into her office. Still they came. She and Adam had hired Roger Hurst to relieve Vicky of the nuisance cases, as Adam had called them. Except those were the cases, helping her own people, that had made her feel like a lawyer.
“I’ve taken a lease on an office at the end of Main Street,” Adam went on. “Small, nothing fancy. Perfectly fine for handling natural resources cases. Anyway, I’ll be traveling as usual.” He leaned over the table. “We can still work together, as colleagues, I mean. Run things by each other. It would be helpful.”
“As long as there’s no conflict.”
“You mean, I’m trying to protect tribal rights to oil and gas on a rez and you’re representing a rancher who might get screwed?”
Vicky smiled. “Something like that.”
The waitress appeared with a tray of hamburgers and mugs of coffee. She balanced the tray on one hand like a contortionist while offloading the plates and mugs. After she turned away, Adam took his time spreading ketchup and mustard over the hamburger patty and closing the bun. He took a bite and chewed for another long moment. Finally he said, “What do you think?”
Vicky spread a little ketchup on her own hamburger and lifted it to her mouth. “About your office? I think it’s fine.”
“About us,” Adam said.
Vicky worked at choking down a bite of hamburger. She took a drink of coffee and winced. The hot liquid burned a trail down her throat and into her chest. “I don’t think there is an ‘us,’” she said.
“But there was once, and there could be again.” Adam ate for another minute or two before he said, “It’s up to you, Vicky. Either we try to put things back together, or we forget the whole idea. I came back because I don’t want to do that.”
“How can I trust you?” she said. It had been the same problem with Ben Holden, all those years of wondering and suspecting and smelling other women on his clothes, until she had finally summoned the courage to divorce him and strike out alone.
“That should never be a problem.”
“What about the Crow Reservation? Are you telling me there wasn’t another woman?”
Adam picked up a french fry and chewed it down to the end. “You and I were estranged.”
She shrugged. It was true. She had to give him that.
“What about you and John O’Malley?”
“What about us?”
“Don’t tell me…”
“Oh, for godssake.” Vicky wadded up her paper napkin and threw it onto the table. “You know there has never been anything…”
“Things could change,” Adam said. “He could leave the priesthood. It’s happened before. What would you do?”
“This conversation is ridiculous.”
“I’m trying to have an honest conversation. You’re the one who wants to make certain we can trust each other.”
Vicky plucked her napkin back into her lap and went on eating. God, Adam could cut so close to the bone, as if he knew exactly where to strike at her nerves. She didn’t want to think about John O’Malley anymore. They worked together when the situation presented itself. Artifacts her client had donated to the museum had been stolen, so they were thrown together again. She was fairly certain he didn’t want that any more than she did.
She watched Adam Lone Eagle finish the last of the hamburger, then push the french fries across the plate before he ate another one. He took a sip of coffee, avoiding her eyes, she felt, but knowing she was watching him. He was not perfect, but he was a good man. He cared about their people as much as she did. Every case he worked on had helped the tribes benefit from their own oil, gas, water, timber, and grazing lands. The big things, he called them, that brought jobs and money to reservations and gave people hope and helped to cut down on the DUIs and bar fights and assaults and drug cases that walked into her office. She laughed.
Adam lifted an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“I was thinking the way you help our people could put me out of business.” She waited a beat before she said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”
He gave her a lingering smile. “We’ve got a lot going for us, Vicky. What do you say?”
She took her time trying to sort it out, all the implications and consequences of getting back with Adam, all the changes that had come into her life. She was tired of being Woman Alone. The truth of it sat like a heavy stone inside her. The name defined her, but she knew the grandmothers had also intended for the name to give her strength. Even drawing on that strength had taken its toll.
“We can try,” she said finally.
Adam gave her a smile that said he had already known the answer. “Good,” he said, covering her hands with his.
“You need a favor?” Vicky said, pushing on as if she weren’t aware of the warmth of his palms flowing into hers, as if the tectonic plates of her life hadn’t just shifted.
“Favor?” Adam seemed to hesitate. “Oh, yes, as a matter of fact. You remember the friend I told you about on the rez? Mary?”
Vicky pulled her hands free. She felt as if she had made a turn into familiar territory. There was always a “friend” down the street, across town, in Casper or Hardin, on the rez.
“There’s nothing between us, Vicky,” Adam said. “I can’t prove that to you. No irrefutable evidence. You have to trust me.” He shrugged and, not waiting for a response, said, “I talked with her son, Petey. You know the family?”
Vicky nodded. She had gone to high school with the boy’s father. Petey must be in his mid-twenties now, a little younger than her own kids, Susan and Lucas. In her memory, he was still a little kid running around the powwow grounds, stealing cookies from the food booths.
“The hospital released the kid today, but he’s still depressed,” Adam said.
“I’m not sure what you think I can do.”<
br />
“I tried talking to him. No response. He doesn’t trust me.” Adam shrugged. “Look, I knew Mary before he was born. We went to high school together on Pine Ridge. Anyway, I told her I’d ask you to talk to him. Besides, I think you’ll be interested.”
“Adam…” Vicky began. There was so much going on right now: the missing artifacts, Trevor’s murder. She’d been sucked into a whirlwind.
“You should know that Petey just got fired from his job,” Adam said. “Until yesterday, he worked for the security company at the airport.”
21
THE HOUSE FLOATED ahead in a globe of light dropped into the darkness of the plains. Overhead, pinpricks of stars shimmered and twinkled in the black sky. Father John followed the shaft of headlights down the dirt road for a half mile, then turned right and bumped over the borrow ditch and across the hard-packed yard. The house was small and rectangular, lights flaring in the windows and streaming onto the yard. He parked close to the front stoop and waited a couple of minutes. He had called Sandra Dorris’s mother an hour ago and said he would like to drop by. She had told him to come anytime.
All afternoon shock waves had rolled over the mission like thunder claps. The phone had started ringing almost immediately. How could the museum director disappear? For more than a hundred years, the mission had been a safe place, a cottonwood-brushed oasis in the turbulence that, at times, bore down over the rez. He had left the phone to Bishop Harry, who was good at handling emergencies—he’d seen his share in Patna, India—and walked down to the dirt road that ran parallel with the Little Wind River. Elena had seen a dark sedan leave the mission. Whoever had broken into the museum had come by the back road. Father John wasn’t sure what he might find. Officers from the rez had already combed the area. Nothing out of place, except for the sagebrush and wild grasses knocked down in places, but that could have been caused by wild animals—coyotes, squirrels, raccoons. Even the officers might have trampled the brush.
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