The Eagle Catcher (22 page)

Great. Busy investigating a murder. Just what he wanted the Provincial to hear. Father John felt irritated, then he realized his assistant had stalled for him, tried to give him an excuse. “Thanks,” he said again.

As he sat down at the desk in his own office, Father John's eyes fixed on the blue message sheet on top of a stack of paper. “A.M. Thursday. Provincial. Call back. Important.” He crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket.

The next message: Homer Lone Wolf called from Denver—reversed charges. Baby okay after operation. Homer keeping pledge.

At least there was some good news, Father John thought as he flipped through the rest of the stack, pulling out obvious bills. He opened each envelope and made a new stack with the contents. There was no way he could pay all the bills this month, any more than he had paid them last month. St. Francis Mission was always short on funds. He slit open a plain envelope with no return address. A five-dollar bill fell out. A donation. Donations came from unexpected places. Last month out of the blue, a large check had arrived from a lawyer in Baltimore, someone he'd never heard of. And before he'd come to St. Francis, some anonymous donor had willed the Toyota to the mission. It was a kind of miracle, the way St. Francis kept going.

Father John called Elena and asked her to put up some bologna sandwiches for later. Then he paid bills until the balance in the Mission checkbook hovered around zero and, at five o'clock, he locked up the office. Father Brad had already left, probably to get in his afternoon run down Seventeen-Mile Road, which had begun to make Father John feel a little guilty. He knew he ought to get in more exercise than an occasional run around the ball field with the Eagles.

Over at the priests' residence, he picked up the cooler with the sandwiches and cans of Coke and stashed it in the back of the Toyota. Next to it he laid his fishing pole, tackle box, and waders. Driving out to Harvey's ranch, he listened to
La Traviata
and thought about Anthony's loss. He felt a sense of unworthiness that the young man had asked him along on his first fishing trip without Harvey. He would do his best to be a good friend, even after he left Wind River, but he knew that no one would ever fill the empty space Harvey's death had left in his nephew's life.

 

Cool mist sprayed upward as Father John moved with his neoprene waders into the water. A few feet from the shore of Washakie reservoir, he planted both feet on a bed of pebbles that promised to be stable. Steep, rocky slopes of Washakie canyon rose all around. The sky was blue-gray, but the clouds bunched overhead were laced in black.

Father John flipped the line back, then snapped the pole forward to cast further out into the dark blue water. The number 14 Adams fly that Anthony had suggested he try skimmed across the surface before catching on a boulder that jutted out of the water. He had no illusions about being a great fisherman, not like people from these parts. The first time he'd ever tried fishing had been with Harvey six years ago. He'd come here every summer since, sometimes with Harvey and Anthony, sometimes with other friends from the reservation. Ned Cooley had invited him on a couple of fishing trips. Those invitations he'd turned down.

Anthony was along the shore a hundred yards away. He had reeled in a three- or four-pound trout thirty minutes ago. Father John had watched him dip his net and scoop up the flailing fish. Holding it upside down, he'd removed the hook before putting the trout back into the water. That was the last strike for either of them.

Father John was about to back cast again when he saw Anthony coming along the shore toward him. Picking his way wherever he could get a sure footing in the water, Father John walked toward the Indian.

“That's enough for me,” Anthony said as Father John scrambled out of the water. “Trout ought to be biting in this weather, but they're not. Maybe it's not going to rain after all,” he said, glancing at the darkening clouds overhead.

“They're not biting anywhere if not here.” Father John pulled down the tailgate of the Toyota and laid his rod on the ridged bed. This was the best place on the reservoir. All the good fishermen came here. It was where Harvey had always fished.

Balancing against the tailgate, Father John removed the long neoprene waders. Then he pulled on his cowboy boots. Through a clearing in the thick stand of ponderosas alongside the road, he could see down Washakie canyon to where it spilled out onto the flat, open plains. It looked like a perfectly framed picture postcard—golden plains under a sea-blue sky dotted with clouds.

“How'd things go between you and Melissa's family last night?” he asked.

Anthony was lacing up his sneakers. “Can't you guess? They refused to see me. Cooley ordered me off the ranch. It's bad enough I'm Arapaho, but now I'm also suspected of killing my own uncle.” His chest rose and fell, as if the words took his breath away.

Father John was sorry he hadn't tried to warn the young man. The fact he was suspected of murder made little difference. The Cooleys would never accept an Indian for Melissa any more than the family had accepted an Indian for Dorothy. He wished, with all of his heart, there was some way to spare Anthony from ever knowing that fact, but sooner or later, he would know. Father John pulled the bologna sandwiches out of the cooler and handed one to the Arapaho. Then he grabbed two Cokes. “Now what?” he asked.

Pushing back the plastic bag, Anthony bit off a chunk of white bread and pinkish bologna. After a moment he said, “We're gonna cool it for a while. Melissa thinks her family will come round soon as I'm in the clear. She wants to wait and not push them.”

Father John popped the tab on a Coke and drank almost all of it, letting the cold syrupy liquid quench his thirst before opening his sandwich bag. Anthony had stopped eating and was staring down the canyon at the plains shimmering in the last light of the sun. “Chief Banner and that FBI agent are taking their sweet time about finding Harvey's murderer, and meanwhile my life's falling apart.”

This was how the young warriors were in the Old Time, thought Father John, biting into his sandwich. Impatient to right the wrongs. Anxious to settle matters fast, while the chiefs signed treaties and believed promises. They had brought a lot of trouble on themselves and on their people, those young warriors.

“I heard Ernest went before the tribal judge today for being drunk and disorderly,” Anthony went on. “They let him out on bond. Can you believe it? A crazy guy like that. He's supposed to stay in the rehab program at the hospital. I figure I'll go over and pay him a visit.”

“Look, Anthony,” Father John began, choosing his words carefully. “Ernest didn't murder Harvey any more than he could've forced Charlie Taylor's pickup off the road from his hospital bed. Whoever killed two tribal councilmen is playing for a lot bigger stakes than the royalties from some oil wells.”

Anthony shifted toward him on the tailgate, his expression wary and curious. Father John hurried on. “I think Charlie had an idea of what was going on. He might have known who killed Harvey. When I talked to him, he was either covering up what he knew or he was flat-out lying.”

“What makes you think so?” Anthony asked.

“Charlie said he wanted to see the Cooley ranch deal go through. Then he tried to tell me that Harvey had intended to vote for it.”

Anthony looked puzzled. “He said that? Harvey planned to do everything he could to get the council to vote against the deal. That's what we were arguing about. That and Melissa, of course. You know what's odd, Father?” he said. “Harvey was absolutely sure that Charlie was with him all the way.”

Father John finished off the sandwich. “Could be that Charlie changed his mind about buying the ranch after Harvey was murdered. But why would he do that?” He wished he had asked Charlie's wife that question before she'd left Wind River Reservation today to take her husband's body to Oklahoma for burial.

“Who knows,” Anthony said. “Nothing's making sense anymore. Everything stinks.” He threw the empty Coke cans back into the cooler and slammed the lid. “I'm gonna take a run up the mountain. You wanna come?”

Father John glanced at the sky fading into shades of gray and lavender. It would be dark before long, but he understood the Indian's need to work off some anger and frustration. Anthony needed to feel himself moving across the earth like the wind. “Sure,” Father John said, wishing he were in a little better shape for a run to the top of a mountain.

The young Arapaho sprinted across the dirt road, and Father John followed. There was nobody around. Not more than three or four other fishermen had been at the reservoir in the couple of hours they'd been there. Anthony attacked the mountain like a young bighorn sheep. Three steps right, three steps left, he zigzagged upward through the scrub brush and around the boulders, ducking under the thick branches of ponderosa trees. Father John had to push just to keep the young man in view. He wished he had on sneakers instead of cowboy boots that slipped with every step.

Halfway up, Anthony stopped and waited, but as soon as Father John caught up, he started off again, slicing away the mountain at short angles. Father John had to wait a minute to catch his breath before starting out again. He wondered how this modern-day warrior had ever sat still long enough to be within a few weeks of a college degree.

The Arapaho scrambled up a clump of boulders near the summit and stood on the top, outlined against a sky of deepening shades of blue. The wind flattened his shirt against his back. Father John climbed the boulders, hand over hand, bracing against one in order to leap to the next, trying to keep from slipping back, hearing his heart pounding in his ears. Finally he reached the Indian. On the other side were sheer cliffs of granite that dropped straight into the valley of the next canyon.

Father John let his eyes range across the distant views. Most of the plains lay in shadow, except for a slim golden strip on the east that still caught the setting sun. The ranches were marked off in squares, like patterns in a quilt. Lander huddled close to the foothills while Wind River Reservation spread northward and wrapped around Riverton on the east. So much space, so few people.

Neither he nor Anthony spoke for a moment. Finally the young man said, “Harvey used to bring me here when I was little. He'd tell me to look out there. ‘That's your place on earth,' he'd say. ‘That's where you belong.'” Anthony stretched out one arm. “The beautiful prairie lands, that's what Chief Black Night called this place.”

Suddenly Anthony jumped down and edged his way along the ridge below the boulders. “Come on,” he called. “I'll show you something else.” Father John started after him, but by the time he reached the ridge, Anthony had disappeared. He looked down the mountain expecting to see the Indian zigzagging through the brush and trees, but no one was there. “Where'd you go?” he hollered. The wind sighed through the ponderosas, and the last of the daylight played across the bushes and rocks.

“Here I am.” Anthony sprang upward, as if he'd been propelled out of the pile of boulders a few feet above Father John.

“How'd you get up there?”

“I'm in the eagle catch,” Anthony said. “Only way in is down below.” He nodded toward two boulders, close to where Father John stood, then slid down out of sight. After a moment he appeared several feet down the mountainside. Father John picked his way down. He couldn't make out where Anthony had come from. The boulders were wedged together without enough space for anyone to squeeze through.

“Harvey showed me the eagle catch when I was little,” the Arapaho said. “Only eagle clan people know how to catch the eagles and take their feathers. Harvey was the last to catch the eagles when he was still a boy. He'd gather brush and pile it on top of the catch like a nest. Then he'd lay a dead rabbit on it and slip into the catch below. Sometimes he'd wait there two or three days. Soon's the eagle swooped down for the rabbit, he'd grab it by the legs and hold it while he plucked out a few tail feathers. Then he'd let it go. He always left some sage in the catch to thank the eagle for his feathers.”

Pushing back thick scrub brush, Anthony exposed a narrow opening between the boulders. “Want to go in?”

Father John bent down and looked into the narrow tunnel running under the boulders. If he got inside, he might not get out. “No thanks,” he said. “I'm not a member of the eagle clan.”

“I would've been an eagle catcher like Harvey if the government hadn't outlawed it. Just as well, I guess. It was a lonely job. Now we get our feathers from the forest rangers. Whenever they find a dead eagle, they freeze it and send it to us.” Anthony let the brush fall slowly back into place. There was no trace of the tunnel. “When the eagle catcher dies,” he went on, “he turns into an eagle and flies straight to God.”

The last of the daylight shimmered through the trees under a sky that had turned purple. “Hadn't we better get down?” Father John suggested. “While I can still see where I'm going?”

M
OONLIGHT WASHED ACROSS the red bricks of the tribal office building as Father John turned off the ignition and pressed the stop button on the tape player.
The Magic Flute
snapped off, leaving the last notes to fade in the air. Grabbing the handle of the player, he stepped out of the Toyota. The parking lot was deserted. With no interruptions—just Mozart for company—he could put in a couple hours on the history files. The answers were there, he was certain. He had to find them.

Using the keys Banner had given him, he let himself in the front door and groped along the wall for the light switch. Moonlight poured like rain through the window, but most of the lobby was shrouded in darkness. He thought he saw something move in the shadows of the hallway. “Who's there?” he called.