Eye of the Wolf, page 25
sandwiches with her mug.
“Thank you, Eva,” Father John said. He picked up the bologna sand-
wich and took a bite, then another. The cold, gray morning, the images
of the bodies reeling in his mind—he was more tired and hungrier than
he’d realized.
“Oh, I know there’s crazies out there,” Eva said, crossing her legs
and working her shoulders into some kind of comfortable position
against the rungs of her chair. She took a sip of coffee and went on.
“But crazy as Frankie Montana is, carrying on his grudge with
Shoshones, nobody thought he was that crazy.”
“Killer’s not Arapaho.” Ethan’s voice boomed through the room, the
voice of a chief speaking to the village.
Father John looked over at the old man, aware that Eva had lowered
her mug and was also staring at her father. A moment passed. The house
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was quiet: nothing except the raspy sound of Ethan’s breathing. The
muscles in his jaw flexed before he said, “We didn’t have no place to go
when we came here to he’teini:ci’e. Our lands gone, all the places that we
called home, gone. Government kept telling the chiefs, ‘Don’t worry.
We’re gonna find you a reservation,’ and the chiefs kept saying, ‘Let us
go to the Powder River country. Let us go to the Platte.’ There was wa-
ter in them places, not like the no-water land down in Colorado where
the government wanted to send us. The chiefs said, ‘How we gonna live
without water?’ So they kept pestering the government. Things was des-
perate. The people was hunted all across the plains, like we was wolves
the soldiers wanted to exterminate. Some of the young men, they’d get
fed up. They was scared. They started going on raids, stealing food and
livestock. Some ranchers got killed down by where Lander is now. So
Shoshones went to Captain Bates and said, ‘We seen the Arapaho village
out in the canyon in the badlands. We can get revenge on those killers.’
That’s how come Captain Bates and the Shoshones went out there.”
The old man closed his eyes, as if he were watchingthe images play-
ingacross his eyelids. “It wasn’t Arapahos that killed them ranchers,” he
said after a moment. “My grandfather was hunting in the area. He seen
a raidingparty of Sioux goin’ to the ranches. It was Sioux that killed
them people. The Arapahos that died at Bates, they was innocent.”
The elder took another drink of coffee, allowingwhat he’d said to
drift through the room, like a shadow from the past. He stared over the
rim of the muga moment, then set it on the table. “Maybe that’s the rea-
son Chief Washakie said yes and let our people come to the reservation.
’Cause he’d found out that they’d killed innocent people. No Arapaho’s
gonna kill Shoshones, make them start thinking about how the reserva-
tion used to be theirs, and how, maybe, that’s the way it oughtta be.”
Father John took the last bite of his sandwich and washed it down
with coffee. He’d been worrying about Shoshones and Arapahos killing
one another; he hadn’t thought about this. . . . He took another swallow
of coffee before he said, “You think the Shoshones might ask the gov-
ernment to remove the Arapahos? Send them somewhere else?”
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The elder threw his head back in a single nod. “They could file one of
them lawsuits against the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Claim their lives was
in danger, that the reservation wasn’t safe no more. There’s government
land all over the place they could move us to, if that’s what suited them.”
Father John was aware that Eva had dropped her head, her gaze fixed
on the mug cradled in both hands. They’d already discussed this possi-
bility, he was thinking. He wondered how many other Arapahos were
looking at their houses, their barns and pastures, and wondering if the
government could do that. Transfer them over to some other lands. Ten
acres someplace else for the ten acres they had on the rez.
He set the mugdown and stared at the shadow it cast on the table.
If the Shoshones could prove that Arapahos were behind the murders
of their people, the government might settle a lawsuit by moving the
Arapahos.
“What’s got me worried,” Eva began, a reluctance in her tone, as if
she didn’t want to contradict her own father, “is that some fool like
Frankie Montana doesn’t realize what he’s doing.”
Ethan looked over at his daughter. “Tihko’:no:ku’no: nihno’:howo’
ho’xei’hino,” he said. Then—a glance at Father John— “When I opened
my eyes, I saw wolves.” He paused a moment before going on. “There
was wolf scouts that brought Washakie and the soldiers to the village.
The ho’:xei always sees what he’s doing.”
It was a few minutes before Father John got to his feet, thanking Eva
again for the sandwich and coffee, thanking the old man for his time. A
few minutes, in which he’d talked about how the investigation hadn’t
proved anything, how they shouldn’t worry about what might happen
until the killer had been found. Platitudes. The logic of platitudes. And
all the time, he was aware of the polite masks that had come over the
faces of Ethan and his daughter. They hadn’t wanted to contradict him.
He motioned the old man to stay in his chair, sayingthat he’d find his
way out, but Eva reached the door ahead of him and held it open. “I
hope you’re right, Father,” she said, as he stepped out under the gray sky.
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25
“Tribal War on Reservation.”
Vicky spotted the headline splashed across the front page of the
Gazette the minute she walked into the coffee shop. She stood sus-
pended in the doorway, forgetting to shut the door, until the cool air
sweeping past caused heads to turn in her direction, eyes glazed in im-
patience. She closed the door, walked over to the newspaper rack, and
lifted out the top paper. Folding the newspaper in half to hide the
headline, she walked over to the counter. Who was she kidding? News-
papers were spread open on every table. Everybody in the shop was fix-
ated on the story. She could feel the eyes following her with new interest,
boring into her with the obvious questions: Arapaho? Shoshone? Which
side did she fall on?
Vicky asked the bored-looking girl behind the counter for a cup of
coffee, black. She slid the newspaper under her arm and fumbled in her
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bag for her wallet, withdrew a dollar bill, and pushed it across the glass
countertop.
No, thank you, she didn’t care for anything but coffee, she heard
herself saying, although she’d planned on a Danish, something to get her
through the morning. She no longer had any appetite. The sugary smells
made her stomach jump. A hiss of conversation ran through the sounds
of coffee sloshing into a mug. Yesterday, the news had been filled with
the murder of another Shoshone, Eric Surrell. And now this! Headlines
screaming what everybody on the reservation feared, giving the fear
substance, making it real.
God, she hoped Frankie Montana had a solid alibi this time.
The eyes were still following her as she carried the coffee over to a
table near the door and sat down, letting her bag drop at her feet. Nor-
mal. Normal. She would read the newspaper article. Drink the coffee.
Go to the office just as she’d planned. Saturday morning—she’d have
the office to herself. No phone calls, no interruptions. She would pack
her files and take a final look at the notes she’d written for Adam on the
wolf management plan. Everything neatly pulled into place before she
left. And this afternoon, she’d look over vacant office space in Lander
with a realtor.
She shrugged out of her coat and unfolded the newspaper. Halfway
down the front page was the photograph of a middle-aged man and
woman leaning on each other, faces contorted in grief. The caption said,
“Martin and Lois Surrell, members of the Shoshone tribe, fear their son
was murdered in old tribal feud with Arapahos.”
Vicky started skimming the article itself. It was worse than she’d ex-
pected, pounding out the same points over and over. Shoshones and Ara-
pahos, traditional enemies. Ancient animosities resurfacing. Four
Shoshones murdered where Shoshones had massacred Arapahos in nine-
teenth century.
And the quotes from people across the reservation: Shoshones say-
ing that they never did trust Arapahos, that Arapahos had always been
out for revenge, that they’d waited a hundred years for the chance. And
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Arapahos talking about how Shoshones never wanted them on the
reservation, how it must’ve been Shoshones themselves that shot those
three other Shoshones, so they could blame Arapahos and have an ex-
cuse to get Arapahos off the reservation.
The article ran into the inside. More quotes and interviews with the
families of the murdered men, all of them saying what fine young men
they had been. Three of the victims had been students at Central
Wyoming, the article said. Trent Hunter. Rex and Joe Crispin. They’d
gone to the site as part of a class assignment. Investigators were not cer-
tain as to what took Eric Surrell there, except that he was Hunter’s
cousin and may have wanted to see where his cousin had been killed.
Another photo appeared on the inside page, an elderly man, with a
full head of white hair, looking out over rimless glasses that sat partway
down his prominent nose. The perfect picture of a professor, Vicky
thought. Hovering near the man was a young-looking woman with
black, curly hair. Professor Charles Lambert and his wife, Dana, ac-
cording to the caption. Three of the Shoshone victims had been enrolled
in the professor’s class on the war on the plains.
Vicky read quickly through the rest of the article. Professor Lambert,
described as an authority on the Bates Battle. The professor himself de-
scribing Trent Hunter and Rex and Joe Crispin as excellent students
who immersed themselves in the details of various battles. They had
been especially interested in the Bates Battle, and the professor had sug-
gested that his students visit the site. Bookstores in the area had ordered
large numbers of Lambert’s latest book, Tribal Wars. According to Lila
Benson at Books on Main, the publisher had moved up the shipping date
by almost two weeks in order to accommodate the interest in a nine-
teenth-entury massacre that threatened to reignite a tribal feud.
Vicky closed the paper and studied the byline, somebody named
Liam Harrison. An AP article, it would be published in newspapers
around the country, around the world. She was beginning to think she
would be sick. She folded the paper down until it was a narrow, thick
stack, as if she could fold the story away, then pulled on her coat, lifted
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her handbag off the floor, and walked out of the shop, leaving the folded
newspaper on the table.
She moved through a wall of cool, moist air that parted as she
headed down Main Street. An imitation of the sun glowed through the
layer of gray clouds. There was little warmth in it. She caught sight of
the reflection moving beside her in the store windows: Indian woman
clutching the top of the black bag slung over her shoulders, crystals of
moisture glistening in her black hair. There was no one about, except for
the occasional vehicle grinding down Main. There were so many issues,
she was thinking, important issues such as managing the wolf popula-
tion, handling the oil and gas leases, and preserving the water rights and
the timber rights, that Arapahos and Shoshones had to work together
on. They had to trust one another, or they couldn’t live together at Wind
River.
Who are you? Why are you doing this to the reservation?
Vicky let herself in the main door of the brick office building and
climbed the stairs, the sound of her footsteps clacking into the quiet. In
the office, cool air streamed through the vents, and she kept her coat
thrown over her shoulders as she worked at her desk, organizing and
shuffling papers, trying to concentrate, unable to push out of her mind
the fear that the newspaper was right, that a tribal war was about to
erupt on the reservation. Detective Burton was good at his job, she told
herself. He’d arrest the murderer and everything could return to normal.
Normal.
The sound of her voice in the silence startled her. She was talking to
herself.
She slid some papers into file folders and set them in the cardboard
boxes that she’d brought to the office last night, then taped the tops
closed. The movers would bring the boxes when they came for her fur-
niture. The other file folders would stay: They were part of the firm,
hers and Adam’s. Theirs. She laughed out loud at the idea that there had
been a “theirs.”
The phone started ringing. She reached for the receiver, then pulled
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her hand back. An old habit, that was all. Emergency calls came on the
weekend. There was no need to take an emergency call to a firm of
which she was no longer a part. The ringing stopped; the call went to
the mailbox. Whatever it was, Adam would get the message Monday.
She taped up the last box and was about to crawl back into her coat
when she heard a faint metallic sound, like keys clinking together, com-
ing from somewhere in the building. There had been noises yesterday
evening, too. When she was leaving, she’d run into the dentist from the
office downstairs, on his way out after treating a patient with a
toothache.
The ringingstarted again. She stared at the phone, countingthe rings.
Three. Four. She leaned across the desk and picked up the receiver.
“Vicky Holden,” she said.
“Oh, thank God you’re there.” Lucille Montana’s voice was edged
with barely controlled hysteria. “I been calling your apartment, and I
been calling the office. I didn’t know what . . .”
Vicky cut in, “Tell me what happened, Lucille.”
“They came for him.”
“Lucille, start at the beginning.”
“Bustinginto the house, like that, Detective Burton with two
deputies and some rez cops. What right do they got to bust in that way?”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying they broke through your door?”
“Soon’s I opened the door after I hear somebody pounding, they bust
right in, not waiting for me to say it was okay, and that detective shout-
ing, ‘Where’s Frankie?’ It scared the shit outta me. I think I said, ‘What
d’ya want him for?’ I can’t even remember for sure. One deputy looks in
the kitchen, then heads down the hall to the bedrooms, and Burton’s
saying they got a warrant for Frankie’s arrest and they’re executing the
warrant.”
“On what charges?” Vicky sank onto the edge of the chair. She
could feel the answer in the pit of her stomach. Burton had found the ev-
idence to link Frankie to the murders.
“Homicide!” The woman was shouting down the line. “Four counts
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of homicide. I told that detective he was crazy, and all the time, I’m
looking down the hallway expecting to see that deputy dragging Frankie
into the living room, and I’m praying, Vicky, like I never prayed in my
life, that Frankie heard all the commotion and got himself hidden in the
closet or something.”
“Try to be calm,” Vicky said. “They’ll take him to the county jail.
I’m on my way over. Frankie will have a court hearing first thing Mon-
day, and I’ll do my best to get him released. Can you put the house up to
secure the bond?” She’d done that before, Vicky was thinking.
There was hesitation, then a sputtering noise, like a small engine try-
ing to turn over. “There was gunshots, Vicky.”
“Gunshots!”
