He had spent the dinner hour in the office, thinking about Eldon, trying to recall everything the man had told him about himself when he had applied for the museum job last winter. A master’s degree in museum management, class work completed for a doctorate from the University of Wyoming. He was writing his dissertation. Expected to finish it by the end of the year. Oh, the practical experience of running the Arapaho Museum would be of immense help, he’d said. He’d held other museum jobs, mostly as an assistant to department managers or curators. Never actually managed a museum before, but Father John had seen the ambition, the willingness to do whatever it took to get a job done, an eagerness to get ahead, shining in the man’s eyes. He had proposed an exhibit on the Show Indians in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. Father John had taken a chance on Eldon White Elk, an Arapaho from Oklahoma. He liked the man’s enthusiasm and ideas. And it seemed appropriate for an Arapaho to manage the Arapaho Museum.
Now Eldon was gone. Kidnapped, abducted, held against his will, whatever it was called now. But the man knew the museum business, and Father John kept coming back to that. He understood the importance of obtaining provenance for items the museum purchased. He knew that a shadowy world of illegal trade in Indian artifacts existed. He had been approached by two outsiders who could be responsible for Trevor’s murder.
Sandra had worked beside him, three or four hours a day, five or six days a week, for several months now. It was possible the girl knew more than she realized. Father John had already called her mother when Bishop Harry stopped at his door and said he’d take the men’s committee meeting this evening. He thanked the bishop. He didn’t say he had forgotten about the meeting.
The front door flung open as he got out. “That you, Father?” Barbara Dorris stood in the doorway, backlit by the light inside. The noise of a TV rumbled toward him. She had already answered her own question because she was moving backward, motioning him into the living room.
“How’s Sandra doing?” The instant he stepped inside, he saw the girl curled up on the sofa, legs tucked under her, chin bent into a black and white pillow shaped like a bear. She stared glassy-eyed at the TV across the room, a detective show, judging by the sirens and gunshots.
“You can see for yourself.” Her mother nodded in the girl’s direction. “She hasn’t moved from that sofa since we got back from the mission. I don’t know what to do. Maybe she’s in shock or something. Maybe she should’ve gone to the hospital. See if you can talk to her, will you, Father?”
Father John went over and sat down at the other end of the sofa. The girl hadn’t taken her eyes off the TV. “Feel like talking, Sandra?” he said.
A minute passed before a commercial for insurance blasted into the room, several decibels higher than that of the program. Barbara walked over and switched off the TV. “Do you mind?” Sandra said. “I’m watching that.”
“Father’s come all the way out here to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing just fine.” The girl turned toward Father John. Dark shadows ringed her eyes. She hiccoughed a couple of times and jammed a fist against her mouth. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I’m worried about Eldon,” he said.
Sandra threaded the corner of the pillow through her fingers. “Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”
“You were upset this afternoon when you realized he could be hurt.”
“Blood on the floor,” she said. “What was I supposed to think?”
“I know you want to help find him.”
“What are you suggesting?” Barbara had sat down on a chair next to the TV. “Sandra doesn’t know anything. How could she? She’s wasn’t even there.”
Father John didn’t take his eyes from the girl. Something about her was off: the way she averted her eyes and dug at the pillow with nervous fingers. The aftereffect of shock. This afternoon, she had been distraught, almost out of her mind, but now she seemed distant and cool, as if someone else had found the museum office ransacked, blood on the floor and her boss missing.
“Look at me, Sandra.” He kept his voice low and firm, the counseling voice to pull people out of the memory and into the present. The girl took her time lifting her eyes to his. “Did Eldon ever mention the two men who approached him at the powwow a couple of weeks ago?”
The girl shook her head.
“The men were trying to buy artifacts from Arapahos,” he said. “It’s possible they were involved in the theft, and they could be involved in Trevor’s murder.”
“Are you saying two men came to the museum and attacked Mr. White Elk?” Barbara’s voice had moved up a half octave. “Why doesn’t the fed arrest them?”
“Gianelli’s trying to find them.”
“Well, how would Sandra know anything? She works part-time at the museum. What does she know about theft and murder?”
Father John looked back at the girl seated a cushion away. “I’ve been thinking Eldon might have been alarmed at the idea of outsiders trawling for artifacts. He was always looking for benefactors to help purchase any Arapaho artifacts that became available. He didn’t want them to leave the rez. Do you remember when I brought Trevor Pratt over to the museum?”
He waited until the girl gave a reluctant nod, as if she remembered but wished she didn’t.
“Eldon was beside himself at the idea of getting Arapaho artifacts from the Wild West Show. He started planning right away to make Black Heart’s things the centerpiece of the exhibition, and you helped him.”
“I still don’t see…” the girl’s mother said.
“Try to remember, Sandra,” Father John said. “Eldon wouldn’t have liked the idea of outsiders hunting artifacts. He might even have tried to contact other Arapahos the men talked to. I’m thinking he would have explained that he would try to find the money to purchase any artifacts they wanted to sell. Maybe he kept a list of Arapahos who might be willing to sell. It could explain why the intruders took Eldon’s computer. It could explain why they took Eldon. They’re trying to identify possible sources.”
“Sandra doesn’t know anything about this,” Barbara said.
“You worked with Eldon.” Father John watched the girl. “You helped him with all kinds of tasks. Did you help him contact any Arapahos the outsiders had talked to?”
“I was working on the exhibition,” Sandra said.
“Someone might have agreed to sell to the two men. Someone could know where to find them.”
“This is upsetting my daughter,” Barbara said. “I wish you would stop.”
Father John pulled back until the armrest pressed against his spine. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I’m afraid Gianelli will ask the same questions.”
“He already did,” Barbara said. “Sandra doesn’t know anything.”
Father John turned toward the girl again. “I was hoping you may have recalled something that might help locate Eldon.”
“You think they’re gonna kill him like they did Trevor?” The girl’s eyes were fever bright.
“I think he’s in danger. He’s hurt. He has to be found soon.”
The girl dipped her head into the pillow. The lamplight shone in her black hair.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” he said.
“But you have, Father.” A plaintive note sounded in Barbara’s voice. “See for yourself. My daughter doesn’t know anything. She’s an innocent victim.”
Father John got to his feet. “If you think of anything,” he said, looking down at the girl hugging the pillow, “even in the middle of the night, will you call me?”
The girl’s mother flung herself toward the door. She yanked it open, stood to the side, and gripped the knob. “I don’t mean to be impolite…”
“I understand.” Father John put up one hand. He wished them both a good night’s sleep and went out into the evening. The cool breeze brushed his face and neck. An uneasy feeling lodged inside him; something not quite right. The hysterical girl from this afternoon sitting glassy-eyed in
front of the TV, immersed in a detective show—she had objected when her mother turned it off—disengaged from what happened, as if it had happened in the show.
Father John took a U-turn and headed out to the road, uneasiness sticking with him like a shadow as he plunged after the headlights that shot into the darkness. She had taken something, he decided. Something to calm her down, disengage her. Alcohol had once done that for him. God, after what the girl had been through, he couldn’t blame her.
22
FATHER JOHN SPOTTED the pickup as he came around Circle Drive. He pulled into the curb in front of the residence, slid out from behind the steering wheel and slammed the door, all senses on alert. The pickup stood off to the side under an enormous, century-old cottonwood, as if the driver had tried to hide the vehicle. He could feel pinpricks of danger on the back of his neck. “Who’s there?” he called.
“Cam.” The man’s voice came from the vicinity of the pickup, as if the pickup itself had spoken. Father John saw the tiny red flare of a burning cigarette and realized someone was leaning against the hood.
“How’s it going?” Father John said.
“We need to talk.” The man flicked the cigarette onto the ground. Little red flames spit into the air like dying fireworks.
“Let’s go inside.” Father John started up the walk. He could hear the clack-clack of the man’s boots behind him.
A dim night-light cut through the darkness in the residence. Father John flipped the switch, and lights burst overhead as Cam Merryman stepped into the entry. Father John shut the door. He could hear Walks-On scrambling to his feet in the kitchen. A low, rumbling growl erupted from the dog’s throat as he came down the hallway. “It’s okay,” Father John said, leaning over to take hold of the dog’s collar. Walks-On kept his nose pointed in Cam’s direction. He had only to loosen his grip on the collar, Father John knew, and the dog would be on the man. Usually Walks-On was friendly. He and the bishop had a running joke about how the dog would welcome burglars and show them around. Not tonight.
“Coffee?” Father John looked up sideways at Cam.
“I wouldn’t turn it down.”
“Kitchen’s this way,” he said, nodding toward the end of the hallway. He could feel Walks-On relaxing beneath his hand. He held onto the collar and crab walked the dog behind Cam Merryman. He waited until the man had sat down at the table, then guided Walks-On over to his dish before he let go of the collar. He shook out some dog biscuits. The spicy odor of meatloaf filled the kitchen. Elena would have left dinner in the oven, the way she always did when he didn’t show up at six o’clock, which was most of the time.
Father John lifted the coffee canister out of the cabinet and set about brewing a fresh pot. “Hungry?” he said to the man drumming his fingers on the table.
“You offering something to eat?” Cam jerked his head back in a nod.
Father John turned on the coffeepot, pulled the plate out of the oven, set it in front of the Arapaho and peeled back the foil. Hot steam rose off the large slab of meatloaf covered in tomato sauce and helpings of boiled potatoes and green beans. He got the man a fork and knife and slid the napkin holder across the table. The sound of dripping coffee mingled with the noise of the dog pushing his dish into the corner. By the time the coffee was done, Father John had found some cold meatloaf in the refrigerator and made himself a sandwich. He poured out two mugs of coffee, put them on the table, and sat down across from his visitor.
“What’s on your mind?” he said.
The Indian had already finished most of the meatloaf and potatoes. Now he sipped at the coffee. “You tell me why the fed thinks I got something to do with the guy from the museum getting kidnapped.”
“Gianelli came to see you?”
“Second time since the artifacts got stolen. Harassment, you ask me. First time was because Mickey Tallman’s gonna see me go back to prison or die trying. Told the fed all kinds of lies about how I had reason to take off with his ancestor’s stuff. Second time was tonight. I figure you must’ve told him something that sent him over to my place.”
Father John took a bite of the sandwich. He waited a moment before he said, “Was it supposed to be a secret that you spoke with two white men at the powwow?” He followed the food with a drink of coffee. “A lot of people must have seen you.”
Cam set his fork down and leaned over the plate so far that tomato sauce licked at his shirt. “I don’t know who the hell they were. I never seen them before or since. I don’t need the fed sniffing around thinking I steal artifacts and kill people. ‘What happened to Eldon White Elk?’ he says. Hell, I don’t even know Eldon White Elk.”
“How about Trevor Pratt?”
The Arapaho surveyed the rim of his mug. Finally he lifted his eyes. “He came around once. Wanted to know if we had any stories in the family about when Sonny Yellow Robe was in the Wild West Show. What did we think happened to Black Heart’s stuff? What happened to Sonny?” He stretched his shoulders into a long shrug. “Hell, even Buffalo Bill never knew what happened to him. Only story the family had was about Buffalo Bill himself showing up on the rez and knocking on my great-grandmother’s door. Said he wanted to express his sorrow about Sonny not making the trip home. Never got on the ship with Black Heart. Made Buffalo Bill real sad, ’cause he said Sonny was a good man. He said that when the Ogallala holy man, Black Elk, went with the Wild West Show, he got lost and missed the boat home. Showed up in Paris a couple years later and Buffalo Bill bought him a ticket home. It was like Buffalo Bill was hoping Sonny would show up the next time the show went to Europe.”
“You tell Gianelli this?”
Cam shook his head, leaned back, and began tapping his fork against the edge of the plate. “What difference does that old stuff make? The fed wanted to know about the white guys that stopped me at the powwow. They come out of nowhere. Couple of outsiders. I could tell by looking at ’em they were trouble, and I don’t need trouble.”
“What gave you that impression?”
“The way they acted. They were white, so that put them in charge, even though one was Mexican, I think. They said they had money to buy Indian artifacts, like they was used to flashing money around Indians and getting what they wanted.” He blew a stream of air out of his nostrils, then forked the last of the meatloaf and potato into his mouth. Finally he said, “I hate white guys like that.”
“I don’t like them much myself,” Father John said. “What did they want to buy from you?” He had seen Cam Merryman dance at powwows. He didn’t remember anything out of the ordinary about his regalia.
“That’s the weird part.” Cam took a drink of coffee and blinked at Father John over the rim. He sat the mug down, pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, and smoothed it open between them. “I copied this out of a book some years back. This here’s the group picture of the Arapahos who went with the Wild West Show in 1889 and 1890.”
Father John leaned toward the photo. At least a hundred Arapahos standing in rows on bleachers, looking wide-eyed into the camera. Each row loomed over the one below. Cam set a finger on the tall, dark-haired bearded man in white buckskins, head high and shoulders straight, in the middle of the front row. Father John could have identified Buffalo Bill from across the room. “Colonel William F. Cody,” Cam said. “Got the name Buffalo Bill ’cause he killed so many buffalos.” He shrugged and moved the tip of his finger to the imposing Indian on his right. “Chief Black Heart,” Cam said. The regalia the chief wore were familiar: striped shirt, beaded vest, breastplate, wrist guards, leggings, and moccasins, the headdress with dozens of eagle feathers.
“Sonny Yellow Robe,” Cam said, sliding the tip of his finger across the image of the man next to Black Heart. “See how close he’s standing to Black Heart? You can tell he was the chief’s bodyguard. He was Black Heart’s adopted son, so he protected him. That’s why Black Heart never believed Sonny took his regalia. You ask me, the Tallman clan likes holding grudges. All except for Bernard, the
old man. I heard him say once, ‘We don’t know what happened, so let it go.’ Too bad he can’t rein in that grandson of his. Anyway, see the vest Sonny’s wearing?”
The vest was beautiful, Father John said. Not as intricate or spectacular as the vest worn by Black Heart, but impressive nonetheless. He wondered if someone had made it for him. Perhaps his sister. He had never heard that Sonny Yellow Robe was married.
“The white men wanted that vest,” Cam said.
“You have the vest?” Father John heard the surprise in his voice.
Cam shook his head, then took another drink of coffee, as if he were considering the possibilities, the might-have-beens. “Sonny must’ve kept his stuff with him. I don’t guess he had much. Nothing but a vest with a few beaded designs, a headband with a couple of feathers. No breastplate or fancy fringed shirt. No wristbands or gloves. Looks to me like he’s wearing canvas trousers, not buckskin. Most of the other Indians in the front row are wearing beaded moccasins. Sonny’s got on boots.”
Father John squinted at the photo. What Cam said was true. Compared to the other Indians, Sonny’s regalia looked thin and worn. Even the boots, scuffed and curled at the toes. If Black Heart had adopted him, it must mean the man had lost his parents, maybe his family. Nothing had come down to him from his own ancestors. It struck him that Mickey Tallman could have drawn the same conclusion. A man with almost nothing might be tempted to steal his adopted father’s regalia.
He tried to concentrate on what Cam was saying: If Cam wanted something like Sonny’s, he would have to make it himself. “Last year, I shot a deer and dressed it out. We had real good meat all winter. I tanned the hide and made myself a vest, did the beading myself, just like my grandmother showed me when I was a kid. Those dumb white guys thought the vest was Sonny’s. They said they had buyers for Wild West regalia. Offered a hundred dollars. I laughed in their faces and walked away.”
“Did you see anybody sell to them?”
“All I wanted was to put as much distance between them and me as I could. I got the feeling they might just help themselves to my vest, pull it off my back.”
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