The Eagle Catcher (14 page)

Vicky looked out across the plains as if she were trying to remember, to pull something out of the far distances. After a moment, she looked back at Father John. “Grandfather used to say nobody could trust the agent, but he never explained why. It's part of the wisdom here even though Mathias Cooley's been dead a hundred years.”

When they reached the Bronco, he opened the door for her. Vicky tossed the black bag over the front seat, then slipped inside. “I'm thinking about moving to L.A.,” she said. She pulled the key out of the bag but made no effort to start the engine. “Larry's been offered a position with one of the big firms there. Token Indian and all that. He wants me to come with him.”

“Will you go?” Father John rested his forearms on the window ledge and bent toward her. He felt the old wariness gathering inside him, preparing him for the answer. He knew she was involved with a Lakota lawyer in Lander, but he never thought about it, except once in a while. And then it was only to hope he was good to her.

“I don't know,” she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

He wanted to say “I hope you won't go,” but of course he couldn't. He was a priest, and she was a friend, that was all. He could never tell her how much he enjoyed having her at the edges of his life, working with her, walking into Blue Sky Hall and seeing her through the crowd of Arapahos, hearing her laughter break across the din of other voices.

“I like being here with my people,” she said, turning toward him. “I flatter myself, I guess, by thinking I can help them. But I could practice Indian law in L.A. You know, help the Indigenous Peoples of North America.” She laughed, but there was little mirth in her eyes.

He was aware of the wall blocking off the feelings inside him. This was how it always was. He was a traveler passing through the lives of others. He was always going away from the people he learned to care about, or they were going away from him. Maybe it was best. It kept things from getting complicated. But it seemed harder now. He felt as if he'd finally come home here at Wind River, yet people were still going away. Harvey was dead. Now Vicky was thinking about moving. Once he would have nursed a bottle of whiskey and waited for the pain to dull, but that wasn't an option now.

“You'll be leaving pretty soon yourself,” Vicky said.

“I hope not. I've asked the Provincial to extend my stay. The six-year rule is for superiors, and I've only been the superior at St. Francis three years.” This was surface talk, and the expression on her face told him that she knew it. What he wanted to say was: “I plan to stay on. You stay on, too. Let's both be here.” But then he would have had to add: “And we can continue to be good friends.” That was all he had to offer, and it wasn't enough.

Switching on the ignition, Vicky smiled, almost as if she knew the rest of it without his saying the words. The Bronco pulled out, and Father John watched it until it disappeared over the rise on Little Wind River Bottom Road.

 

Father John kept the steering wheel steady with one finger. Seventeen-Mile Road stretched ahead, awash in amber twilight. The hot, dry wind whistled through the cab, nearly drowning out the plaintive sounds of “Di Provenza il mar.” The father imploring his son to return home made him think of how much Harvey had loved Anthony, and how hard it was going to be on the young man now that the only father he'd ever had was dead.

He thought of his own father and how he had worshipped him. With all his faults, he had worshipped him. His father had tended the steam furnaces at Boston College, and a lot of days he wasn't sober enough to finish the job. As a kid, Father John used to stop by after school and give his father a hand. He had learned his way through the labyrinthine tunnels under the college long before he ever set foot in the classrooms above. Often he wondered what his father would have thought, had he lived long enough to see the Great Fall. Whether he would have been ashamed, as his mother had been, or whether it was what his father had always expected.

Father John shifted in the seat and forced his mind back to Anthony. The young man's whole life was dangling from a thin string. How long would it be before the FBI agent got the results of the lab tests? Of course, Anthony's fingerprints would be on the knife. It was his knife. Whoever had used it to kill Harvey would have worn gloves and hoped some of Anthony's prints would still be detectable. It didn't take a genius to figure that out.

Father John glanced in the rearview mirror. A BIA police car, lights flashing, was coming up behind. He'd been lost in his own thoughts and hadn't heard the siren over the wind and the music. Easing on the brake, he pulled the Toyota over to the side of Seventeen-Mile Road. He'd probably been speeding. It wasn't the first time his foot had gotten heavy on the gas pedal.

He hit the stop button on the tape player and rolled the window all the way down, keeping his eyes on the side mirror. The short, heavyset Indian disengaging himself from the patrol car had been at the powwow grounds yesterday with Banner.

“We been lookin' all over the rez for you,” the patrolman said, stooping slightly at the opened window. “All hell's broke loose with Ernest Oldman. He's gone crazy for sure. Chief Banner can use your help.”

F
OUR BIA PATROL cars were strung bumper to bumper out in the oil field on the southwestern edge of the reservation. Father John gunned the Toyota down a graveled road and across the field, bouncing over the packed earth. Banner and about a dozen BIA policemen huddled beside the patrol cars. Several hundred feet beyond, Ernest was circling an oil pump that rose out of the ground like the blackened frame of an ancient tipi. Suddenly Ernest faced the pump and raised a rifle to his shoulder. The sharp crack split the air like a sonic boom.

Father John flipped off the ignition and hopped from the Toyota while it was still coasting to a stop. Doubling over, as if to avoid the whirling rotors of an invisible helicopter, he ran toward the patrol cars. Banner motioned him on, and Father John hunkered down beside the chief.

“Ernest's been shooting at that pump for the last hour or so,” Banner said. “He gets tired of that, he's likely to shoot himself. He's gone certifiable.” The chief kept one hand over the mouth of a bullhorn. Another rifle shot sounded overhead.

“Got a team ready to crawl in behind him, but it's tricky as hell. Ernest spots 'em, he'll turn around firing. Somebody might get killed. You think you could try talkin' him into layin' down that rifle?” Banner handed the bullhorn to Father John.

Dear Lord, thought Father John. Ernest was drunk, and Father John was an expert on drunks. There were the quiet ones—like himself—who sat in an easy chair wearing down a bottle of whiskey until they passed out. And there was the kind like Ernest that went to bars and picked fights with everybody there, stabbed people, shot people, and remembered nothing afterwards, insisted they couldn't have done anything so terrible—Father John had counseled them all, but the drunks like Ernest were usually in custody or in the hospital, the crisis over. He'd never had to talk a drunk out of destroying an oil pump—or killing himself—and he didn't want to do it now. But he had to try; there was no other way. Stretching himself slowly upward alongside the patrol car, he set the bullhorn on the roof and, shoulders hunched, knees bent, leaned into the mouthpiece.

“Be careful,” the police chief said.

“Ernest, this is Father John O'Malley.” His voice echoed across the open field. In the deepening dusk, Ernest and the black pump looked like two shadows plastered against the horizon.

Suddenly the Indian swung around in a half circle and pointed the rifle toward the patrol cars. “Get out of here,” he shouted.

“I'm coming out to talk to you.” To his own ears, he sounded as if he were shouting into a barrel. “I don't have a gun. I just want to talk. I'm coming now, Ernest.” Father John straightened up and started around the patrol car.

“Hell you are.” Banner said, gripping his leg.

“Let go.” Father John didn't take his eyes off the shadow of the Indian in the field. He had to see Ernest face to face and look into his eyes. Banner's grip relaxed, and Father John wrenched his leg free. He started slowly across the open field, arms outstretched and palms up, hoping Ernest wasn't too drunk to recognize the Arapaho sign of peace.

“Be careful, Father,” one of the BIA policemen called from behind.

“Go back,” Ernest shouted. “I don't need no talkin'.” He waved the rifle toward Father John, as if zeroing in on a target.

Father John walked on, his pace slow and steady. He kept his eyes on the shadow ahead. The wind moved the air gently around him, and sagebrush crackled under his boots. “Take it easy, Ernest.” His voice was low, just loud enough for the Indian to hear. “It's a bad deal, these oil wells going dry. I know how much you need your share of the royalties for Jenny and the kids.” He was taking a gamble, mentioning Ernest's family. It might calm the man, or set him off.

Father John was close enough now that the rifle barrel looked like a wide, black tunnel. “You hear what the business council's doing?”

Ernest stopped waving the rifle, and the barrel dropped a couple of inches. Father John kept coming. He was only a couple feet from Ernest now. He could see the metallic sheen of the rifle. It had a pink cast.

“The council ain't doing nothin'.” Ernest brought the rifle up again.

Father John stopped. The sour smell of whiskey floated in the space between them, and for a moment Father John thought he was going to retch. He swallowed hard. Keeping his voice low, soothing, he said, “Harvey asked for a full report. The natural resource director's putting it together now. Business council will have it in a couple days.”

“What good's that gonna do me?” Ernest raised the rifle slightly, a reflex. Father John felt the metal barrel graze his arm. The Indian's eyes were outlined in red.

“As soon as the report's completed, the council can request the Bureau of Indian Affairs to conduct an investigation. It's a start.”

Ernest exhaled a long breath. His shoulders sagged, his whole body seemed to relax, and Father John felt himself begin to relax. “Let me have the rifle,” he said, taking a chance on the moment.

Keeping the barrel pointed down, Ernest held out the wooden stock, as if he were handing over a stab of beef. Father John took the gun. The wood felt cool and clammy. Tears were running down Ernest's cheeks, and he lowered his face into the palms of both hands. After a moment he looked up, his cheeks streaked with gray dust. “Jenny took the kids and went away. I ain't got nothin' left. No family. No job. No money.” He swung around and kicked the metal oil pump.

“Where did she go?”

“Vicky took ‘em to those shelters at Ethete, but they ain't there no more. Nobody'll tell me where they went. I didn't mean to hurt Jenny none,” Ernest said. “I just had a little too much to drink was all.” He started to sob.

Vicky hadn't said anything about taking Jenny and the kids to the shelters, but it didn't surprise Father John. “Come on,” he said, putting enough pressure on the Indian's arm to nudge him forward. They started walking across the field, Ernest swaying side to side. Father John kept one hand on his arm to steady him.

Banner and the other BIA men had stepped out from the patrol cars and were coming slowly across the field toward them. Father John kept talking quietly to Ernest “We're going to help you straighten everything out. Trouble is you've been tryin' to handle this alone. It's not easy alone. We all need help every once in a while. Have you talked to your grandfather?”

“He don't wanna talk to me,” Ernest said.

“Maybe that's not true.”

Ernest stopped and turned toward Father John. “Will you ask him?”

Father John nodded. He intended to talk to Will Standing Bear anyway, right after Harvey's funeral. Maybe the elder would be willing to meet with his grandson. God knows Ernest needed his grandfather now. Being a mediator in family disputes—that was something Father John was used to.

 

After handcuffing Ernest and reading him his rights, Banner ushered him into the back seat of one of the patrol cars. The Arapaho slumped against the car window, looking exhausted and, oddly enough, almost sober.

“You like givin' heart attacks?” the chief asked, taking the rifle from Father John.

Father John stuck both hands in the pockets of his blue jeans to keep them from shaking. He could feel the muscles in his legs twitching. “Not really.”

Banner exhaled a deep breath. “Thanks,” he said. Father John saw the mixture of relief and concern in the Indian's eyes.

“We could have Harvey's murderer here,” Banner said, nodding toward the patrol car.

“Seems to me Ernest was shooting at all the forces that took Jenny and the kids away. He might've mistreated them, but he doesn't want to lose them. I don't think he'd commit murder. That would drive them away permanently.”

“Maybe you're right,” the chief said. He didn't look convinced.

Father John guessed he must have convinced himself. Why else had he walked into the barrel of a rifle held by a drunk? The patrol cars and policemen looked like ghostly figures in the gathering darkness. The sky had turned violet, and the sigh of the wind sounded far away. Nothing made sense; it was as if balance and order and harmony had disappeared from the earth. It would not be restored, he knew, until Harvey's murderer was found.

 

The stars twinkled overhead like lights in some faraway city as Father John turned onto Circle Drive at St. Francis Mission. The evening air was warm with no hint of rain. All it had done this summer was threaten to rain, with gray clouds obscuring the sun and stars awhile before blowing over. He wondered how much longer before the hay dried up in the fields and scattered in the wind across the plains. He felt weary, bone weary. He wanted to hit the bed and sleep a long time and blot out all thoughts about Harvey and Anthony, about this woman at the edge of his mind, about the poor drunken slob he had just helped to get arrested.