Buffalo Bill's Dead Now (A Wind River Mystery)

by Margaret Coel

  “A man was murdered,” Father John said. “Another man’s life is in danger.”

  “I never thought that was gonna happen, I swear. I never would’ve gotten mixed up in murder. You gotta believe me, Father.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have called you?”

  Robert shook his head so hard, his whole body was shaking.

  “How did he pay you?”

  “After I took the stuff to the warehouse, I called the number he gave me. He told me to be on Blue Sky Highway just north of Seventeen-Mile Road at 2:00 a.m., park on the side and wait. I waited fifteen minutes. I was about to give up, figuring I’d been played, when I seen headlights. A car slowed down and the driver tossed an envelope out the window. It sped up and was gone. I picked up the envelope, got back inside my pickup, and counted out ten big ones.”

  “What number did he give you?”

  “I flushed the paper I wrote it on down the toilet. I didn’t want anything linking me to whatever was going down at the warehouse.”

  “You have to talk to the fed,” Father John said.

  “No way.” Robert backed into the edge of the adjoining case. “The guy on the phone said something I didn’t tell you. If I snitch, I’m dead.”

  “A man’s life is at stake,” Father John said.

  “I don’t know anything else. I can’t help him.”

  “Why have you told me?”

  “You’re a priest, right? You’re supposed to forgive people.”

  “This isn’t confession,” Father John said. Robert was squinting with such desperation that he tried to soften the rest of it. “Confession means you would have to make amends, Robert. Do what you can to set things right. It’s not just getting things off your chest. If you want me to hear your confession, you’re going to have to tell Gianelli everything so he can find Eldon White Elk.”

  Robert swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He seemed to make an effort to steady his gaze, but his eyes kept darting between the photo and the floor. When he didn’t say anything, Father John said, “You could be dragged into this, Robert. You could be charged with conspiracy to commit murder, as well as theft. Abduction. Burglary. Good Lord, man, if you won’t help Eldon, at least help yourself.”

  “You’re not gonna talk to the fed.” Robert straightened his shoulders, as if a steel rod had just been jammed into his spine.

  “You aren’t leaving me a choice.” Only the two of them in the gallery, he was thinking, and Robert RunningFast had twenty years on him and probably a lot more street experience. He could attack and leave with nothing more than a few bruised knuckles. But Father John had Commonwealth Ave. Nights walking home from late baseball practice, street lights glowing and neighborhood bullies lurking on the stoops he’d passed. He’d learned to defend himself. There were times when they had outweighed him and outnumbered him, four or five to one, but he had learned to outsmart them.

  “It wouldn’t be a good idea,” Robert said.

  “You said your grandmother only cares about the past,” Father John said. “You’re wrong about that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She cares about the future. Your future, Robert. She wants to see you back in college. There’s no reason you couldn’t graduate. Things will go easier for you if you go to the fed. You might get off with a misdemeanor charge that won’t hurt your future.”

  Robert’s shoulders sank again; he dropped his head. “Jesus,” he said under his breath.

  “I can go with you. We can call the fed now.”

  The young man threw up one hand and began backing toward the door. “I gotta think about it.”

  “Listen to me,” Father John said, but he realized he was talking to an empty hall. Robert’s boots clicked across the corridor, the outside door slammed shut. It looked like the photo of Black Heart wobbled a little, but Father John couldn’t be sure.

  * * *

  HE TURNED OFF the light, let himself out the front door, shook the key free from the other keys on the ring, and locked up. The sky was alive in the sunset, the clouds glowing red, gold, and orange, lit from within. He took the steps two at a time, his thoughts on Vicky; they had never left his head. He started around Circle Drive, realizing she had been in his head the entire time he’d talked to Robert. Pushed to the edge of his mind, lingering like an old melody. He smiled, seeing again the way she carved out a circle around the office floor, like she always did when she was upset or trying to work out some thorny problem. So many years they had worked together; he had memorized the little idiosyncrasies that might escape a casual observer. He had learned to trust her instincts, the way she had of leaping toward the truth, while he plodded on, testing the logic of each hypothesis, inching forward.

  And yet, it was difficult to reconcile what they both knew about Trevor Pratt—that he had changed his name, that he was a convicted thief—with the man who had sat in his office. Like a penitent, when he thought about it now. Head bowed, tone somber and serious, as if he were pulling the words from the deepest part of himself. So many tribes have lost parts of their heritage. I want to give back.

  He should have pushed the man. Good Lord, what had he been thinking? He’d counseled all kinds of people. Years of unhappy marriages and relationships, troubled kids, alcohol and drug problems. He knew the questions to ask, and yet he hadn’t asked Trevor Pratt the simplest question. Why? Why was he so keen to give back?

  He wondered now if Trevor would have opened up and told him. It was possible. He could see the man slumped forward in the chair, chin resting in the cup of his hand. Yes, he thought. Trevor might have wanted to tell someone, to unburden himself. He had needed forgiveness. Everything he had done—purchasing the Arapaho artifacts, arranging to donate them to the museum—had been a cry for forgiveness. God help me, Father John said to himself. He had missed it.

  His thoughts swam back to Vicky, her voice drumming inside his head. Trevor hadn’t changed. All her instincts told her that Trevor Pratt was still a thief. In a flash, he saw that what he believed about Trevor was also based on instinct. No logic or accumulation of facts. Just an instinct that the man had wanted to make amends. That’s how it was with instincts: they could be wrong as often as they were right.

  He hurried up the steps to the administration building, intending to check the phone messages, return calls, and spend a little time working on the budget, which didn’t seem to change no matter how he arranged the numbers. Each bill had to work its way up the to-be-paid pile, a slow process that depended on the rate at which donations arrived. There was some consolation in the thought that the donations always arrived. He let himself into the old building and headed into his own office.

  “John!” The bishop sounded agitated. A sense of urgency in the flap of his elbows as he came down the corridor.

  “What is it?” Father John turned and faced the old man who had arrived in the doorway and was gripping the frame to steady himself. “A terrible accident,” he said.

  Father John felt his breath stop in his throat. He knew it was Vicky even before the bishop said, “Vicky’s Jeep turned over on Rendezvous Road. I just got off the phone with the police.”

  “Is she okay?” Father John said. His mouth was dry, the words felt like pebbles he was spitting out.

  “She’s at Riverton Memorial.”

  Father John didn’t know when the bishop had stepped out of the doorway. He had no recollection of retracing his route into the corridor and down the steps. He was in the Toyota pickup, the gas pedal pressed down, flying through the cottonwood tunnel and out onto Seventeen-Mile Road. Ten minutes later he pulled into a spot marked Clergy and ran for the entrance.

  28

  Berlin

  July 23, 1890

  THE EVENING WAS warm, a slight breeze ruffling the tipi flaps. Lamplights glowing in the canvas created cones of light up and down the grassy path and cast a dim twilight over the camp. A few Indians were walking ahead, but most had already retired
. Sonny kept his eyes on the shadows as he walked with Chief Black Heart toward his tipi. Herman Marks dwelled in the shadows. Hushed voices from inside the tipis drifted in the breeze as they passed. A baby wailed somewhere. Every few seconds, Sonny glanced over his shoulder. The flap of the big tipi had been thrown open. He could see the tall figure of Buffalo Bill pacing back and forth inside, lamplights bouncing off his white shirt and trousers.

  Before they left, Sonny had told Buffalo Bill about Marks. The big man’s face had remained as rigid as a mask, but Sonny had seen the anger flare in his blue eyes like tiny fireworks. He had treated the Show Indians like men and women, paid them a fair wage, saw they had the same food as everyone else, the same accommodations. Sonny respected and admired the man for that. Buffalo Bill would put a stop to Marks harassing the people, he was certain.

  It had been a ungrateful Indian, White Horse, who started all the trouble. Told lies about how the Show Indians were mistreated. Lies, all of it. Now the commissioner of Indian affairs in Washington could refuse permission for the Indians to be in the show, even if the Indians wanted to be here. Sonny gave a snort of contempt that some white man they had never met held such power over their lives.

  “What bothers you?” Black Heart said, and Sonny realized he had probably been mumbling and snorting under his breath, his thoughts galloping ahead down the path.

  “The idea all of this could be over for our people,” Sonny said.

  “We’ll go to Washington and speak to the commissioner. We’ll tell the truth.” Black Heart stopped and laid a hand on Sonny’s shoulder. His grip was that of a man who had tamed and ridden mustangs, and roped and branded cattle. A man who had fought in battles and could drive an arrow through a tree. “Are you certain you want to go?” he said. “You could stay here and finish the tour. The money will help you get your own spread when you go back to the reservation.”

  Something seemed to move in the alley of shadows between two tipis. Sonny felt his stomach jump into his chest. Marks could pounce out of the shadows like a grizzly and claw and club at his prey, rip the regalia off Black Heart’s back. A dog trotted out from between the tipis, its muzzle searching the ground.

  Sonny realized Black Heart was still waiting for his answer. “I go with you, Father,” he said. “We can speak the truth in their own language. This is good,” he said, nodding around the camp. “Indians making more money than we knew existed. We’ve crossed the waters, come to strange places and met all kinds of strange people. French and Spanish and Italian and German. They meet us and see that we’re people, too. They learn our ways, how our ancestors lived in the time that is now past. And we remember how we were once free.” He cleared his throat, forced a smile, and tried for a lighter tone. “Besides, two Indians are better than one.”

  Black Heart tossed his head back and laughed. Then he said, “White people that call themselves reformers don’t like us acting like Indians. They say it’s not good for Indians to relive the old ways when we’re supposed to become civilized.” He laughed again, a low, rumbling noise in his chest.

  They walked past the dining tent at the edge of the Indian camp. The dark cone of Black Heart’s tipi was ahead. Sonny turned partway and let his eyes scour the area behind them. Buffalo Bill still pacing, a smaller figure now, taking up less space than usual. “How can there be a Wild West Show without Indians?” Sonny said. “We are the Wild West.”

  “The commissioner will understand.” Black Heart spoke softly, as if he wanted to reassure himself. They had reached the chief’s tipi, and Sonny opened the flap. He stepped inside the cool, quiet space, found a box of matches and lit two oil lamps that faced each other across the center. The chief pulled out the large black leather satchel from its place next to the wall and opened the lid. Then he removed the beaded wrist cuffs and laid them in tissue paper at the bottom of the case.

  “I believe Buffalo Bill will fire Marks tonight,” Sonny said.

  “One last night to keep my ancestor’s things safe.” Black Heart took off his vest and laid it inside the bag. “I will keep the bag here tonight. I will stay awake and guard it. You can stay, too, if you like. We could take turns.”

  An image flashed in front of Sonny, like a vision after long days and nights of fasting and praying. A vision must always be respected. This is the way you must go. He saw Marks slinking past the flap. He would use a club or a knife, a silent weapon. Black Heart’s head would be bashed in and so would his. Or their throats cut. It would happen in a few seconds. No one would hear anything. Marks would take the black satchel, and he and Black Heart would never speak to the commissioner. The Wild West Show would no longer exist.

  “One last night,” Sonny repeated the chief’s words. “Marks will hear that we leave tomorrow, and he will know I’m the one who told Buffalo Bill about him. He is desperate for your regalia, like a wild beast that won’t be satisfied until he devours his prey. You must stay the night at another tipi,” he said. All the other Arapahos would be honored to share their hospitality with the chief. “I will take the regalia to a safe place.”

  “Marks will come to your tipi.”

  “There is another place,” Sonny said. “A secret place he knows nothing about.”

  SONNY WAITED UNTIL Black Heart had disappeared inside a tipi partway down the path, then he extinguished the lamps in Black Heart’s tipi and went outside to stand guard in the shadows. A warrior in the Old Time, making certain the enemy was nowhere about. The glow of a tipi here and there broke the silent darkness. A field of stars shone against the black sky. Sonny felt a pang of homesickness. The night sky over the reservation was as black as coal, the stars full and bright, twinkling like living beings. It would be good to go home. He would take the money he kept in the pouch strapped to his chest and go to the Wind River Reservation, where his sister lived with her new husband. He would use the money to get a little ranch, a few head of cattle. He would find a beautiful Arapaho girl and marry her and they would have many children. He smiled at the thought. He would miss the reservation in Oklahoma and Black Heart, but things were changing there. White settlers moving onto Indian lands. It was as if the land itself had begun folding around the Indians, leaving them in a smaller and smaller place. There was still open space in Wyoming, and he would bring his family to visit Black Heart as often as the government agent gave him permission to leave.

  He went back into the tipi, hoisted the black satchel onto his shoulders, and slipped outside. He crossed the midway fast before plunging into the shadows. The bag scraped at his shoulders. It felt light and precious. He started through the field of brush and grasses behind the camp. The Wild West train stood on tracks across the field, the metal wheels shining in the starlight. Clusters of ancient stone buildings stood in front of the train, abandoned warehouses and other railroad buildings, ghosts from another time when the railroad spur had been part of the main line.

  Last night, after he confronted Marks in Black Heart’s tipi, he had determined to find another hiding place. The old buildings beside the track had reached out to him. This morning, he had walked through them, knocking at the walls, checking on the soundness and tightness. They were older than any buildings he had ever entered. The floors creaked and shook under his boots. The building closest to the train was stone, walls two feet thick and rooms filled with the dry smell of dust. He had kicked up little swirls of dust as he’d walked about. He had stumbled upon a wooden staircase and clumped downward into the basement. A dim remembrance of daylight had worked past the small, dirty windows near the ceiling.

  He had found the perfect place: a large vault with even thicker walls, located across from the stairs. He had only found the vault because the door had been left open, the metal key dangling from the lock concealed in what was meant to look like molding. When he closed the door, the vault became part of the wall. Nearly invisible.

  An abandoned building, a vault no one knew about in the basement, and he would have the only key.

  No
w he made his way around to the back of the old building, glancing about as he went, still expecting Marks to jump from the shadows. A strip of gravel ran alongside the train tracks and butted into the wild grass. He stayed on the grass, footsteps as silent as if he were tracking an enemy on the plains. Odors of coal ash hung in the air. Sonny rebalanced the satchel on his shoulders, holding it with one hand while he opened the back door. He had to turn sideways to step into the small porchlike room that funneled into a corridor with doors hanging open on either side. He closed the back door, set the satchel on the plank floor, and moved toward the narrow, rectangular window. Standing to the side, he cleared a small space on the smudged glass and stared out into the night under the canopy of stars. Nothing moved. From the distance came the nighttime noise of the camp, a muffled cough, a child’s cry, the whinnying of a horse.

  He let several minutes go by—five, ten—before he lifted the satchel and headed down the corridor to the first door on the right. His own body blocked the dim starlight filtering through the window, and he had to feel his way along the corridor, one boot forward, then the other. Turning sideways again, he started down the dark steps into a well of shadows bisected by dim strips of light flowing past the windows. Still feeling his way, he moved toward the vault, focused on a single necessity: Black Heart’s regalia must be safe. The chief must return to Oklahoma with the precious regalia that had been touched by the ancestors, that had covered their bodies. A reminder for the people of who they were, where they had come from, and what the ancestors had believed in.

  He set the satchel inside the vault next to the right wall, away from any light that might throw itself across the floor should anyone manage to locate the vault and open the door. Then he stepped out, slid the door into place and turned the key. The bolt clicked into place. He tucked the key next to the money he had saved inside the tanned pouch around his neck, and headed back across the basement in the direction of the stairs, running his fingers along the cold stone wall to guide himself.