Watching Eagles Soar (2 page)

The Arapaho Ten Commandments Stories

Stolen Smoke

The First Commandment: I am the Lord Thy God; Thou shalt have none other gods but me.

T
he front door on the Arapaho museum stood open. Father John O'Malley saw the massive door moving slightly in the wind as he crossed the grounds of St. Francis Mission on the Wind River Reservation. Strange, he thought. It was early, not much past seven a.m., too early for Lindy Meadows, the museum curator, to be in. He hadn't noticed the opened door an hour ago on his way to the church for Mass, but it had been dark then. Now the sun glowed orange-red in the eastern sky and cast the mission buildings in sharp relief. A gust slammed the door against an inside wall, sending a loud thwack into the morning silence.

Father John hurried up the steps and across the porch that stretched along the gray-stone facade. As he walked through the entry into the main gallery, his breath stopped in his throat. The glass doors on the exhibit cases hung open. The Arapaho artifacts were gone: feathered belts and wands, painted parfleches, tanned and beaded deerskin dresses and warrior's shirts, an ancient bow and arrow, a council pipe made of black-and-white stone. More than a hundred and fifty years ago, the Arapaho headmen had smoked the pipe in treaty councils with the government to signify truthfulness and good heart.

Still in the case where the pipe had been on display was an old photo of three Arapaho chiefs and several government agents seated in front of a tipi. One of the chiefs held a long pipe with a black stem and white bowl, a mute reminder of the pipe that was now missing.

Whoever had taken the artifacts had picked the locks on the exhibit cases. There were no shards of broken glass, no sharp edges that might have damaged the delicate skins and feathers, and for that fact Father John felt almost grateful. This was a clever thief who knew the value of what he had stolen.

Father John forced himself past the empty cases to the side door that opened onto a smaller gallery, a tight knot of dread in his stomach. The early morning sun broke through the windows and cast a pinkish glow over the diorama of a camp scene from the Old Time: the white tipi standing in the center of the wood floor; the tripod holding a black kettle over a simulated fire; the wax figure of a warrior squatting in front of a frame that held a buffalo skin. On the walls were framed photographs of Arapaho warriors, somber in feathered headdresses, and women and children sheltering in the shade of tipis that rose out of the gray, desolate plains. Nothing had been disturbed, but Father John had the strange feeling that the ancestors had looked on helplessly while the thief had looted the artifacts in the adjoining room.

He tried without success to shake the feeling as he made his way to the library across the hall. Everything looked the same: metal shelves filled with orderly rows of books and brown cartons that held old letters and manuscripts. Obviously the thief wanted only the artifacts. There was an insatiable market for Indian artifacts, Father John knew. Unscrupulous dealers who never asked questions and an army of wealthy collectors who would pay hundreds for a warrior's bow and arrow, thousands for a finely beaded deerskin dress. Once sold, the artifacts would be impossible to trace. He felt a sickening sense of loss as he picked up the phone on the library desk, dialed 911, and reported a burglary at St. Francis Mission.

* * *

“L
ooks like Junior Tallman's work, all right.” Art Banner, Wind River police chief, was leaning over and peering at the lock on an exhibit case. “Yep. Junior can pick a flea out of a nest of rattlers.”

Junior Tallman. Father John let the name roll around in his mind. Familiar, but he couldn't put a face with it. “Who is this guy?” he asked.

The chief straightened up. He was about to say something when Ted Gianelli, the local FBI agent, snapped shut the notebook he'd been writing in and started down the line of exhibit cases toward them. The chief drew in his lower lip and kept an expectant eye on the agent. Father John understood. This was a major crime, which put it in the FBI's jurisdiction, a fact that rankled the police chief. More than once, Banner had complained that the fed, who didn't know diddly-squat about dealing with Indians, got to investigate the really interesting cases while he and his officers were stuck with the grunt work. Two of the chief's “boys,” as he called his officers, had already dusted the gallery for prints.

Gianelli said, “Convicted felon, did time in Leavenworth for breaking into the Ethete Museum and stealing a couple hundred thousand dollars' worth of artifacts. A neat, careful job. If it hadn't been for an informant in Denver, Junior might've gotten away with it. But we traced a couple of stolen artifacts back to Ethete and nailed him. Even Vicky couldn't get him off.”

Father John stuffed his hands into the pockets of his plaid jacket. He remembered now. Vicky Holden, the Arapaho lawyer he often worked with on different cases—divorces, adoptions, getting some teenager into drug rehab—had mentioned Junior Tallman not long ago. Too clever for his own good, she'd said. He'd taken such meticulous care of a fringed shirt and feathered cape—making certain nothing was altered—that the curator at the Ethete Museum had no trouble proving they belonged to the museum. Father John felt a chill pass over him unrelated to the cold breeze coming through the opened front door. The Ethete Museum never recovered the rest of the stolen artifacts.

The police chief cleared his throat. “Count yourself lucky you never met Junior, John. Man's got the conscience of a rattler. If you'd happened by while he was at work here, he would've killed you.”

“You've got to pick him up before he sells the artifacts,” Father John said to the agent.

“Soon's we confirm the prints, we'll arrest him.”

“Prints!” Father John moved in closer, his eyes locked on Gianelli's round, fleshy face. “That'll take time. Junior could be selling the artifacts right now.”

“Let me handle this.” A blue vein had started pulsing in the middle of the agent's forehead. “We can't make an arrest stick without evidence. And I have no intention of tipping Junior off that we're on to him. He'd just disappear on the rez, and we'd be months trying to find him. By then your artifacts would be long gone.”

There was a tap-tap sound of footsteps in the entry, followed by a loud gasp. Lindy Meadows stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the jamb, eyes darting about the empty exhibit cases. “Where are the sacred things?” Her voice came like the wail of a siren. Then she burst into tears. Father John walked over, handed her his handkerchief, and placed an arm around her shoulders. He could sense the trembling beneath the heavy brown coat as the woman dabbed at her eyes.

“What will I tell the old people when they come to visit the ancestors' belongings?” the curator managed. “What can I say to Clint Old Bear? He comes every Friday to visit the council pipe. How will I explain that it's gone?”

Father John didn't know what to say. He'd seen Clint Old Bear in the museum just last week, standing reverently in front of the council pipe, lost in his own thoughts. Clint was a
ne:thne:teyo'u'u:wu't
, a traditional, who lived in a tipi out in the foothills and wanted nothing to do with the modern way—“the white road,” he called it. What would he make of the fact a burglar had broken into the museum and stolen sacred artifacts that the Arapahos had trusted the museum to protect?

Gianelli walked over. “What I need from you, Lindy,” he said, using a firm, businesslike tone, “is an inventory of everything that's missing.”

The curator threw her head back and drew in a couple of ragged breaths. “Yes, of course,” she said. She stepped past him and headed toward the door on the right that led into the museum office.

Father John turned in the opposite direction. In the library, he dialed Vicky's one-woman law office in Lander and waited while her secretary put him through. What seemed like five minutes passed before the familiar voice came on the line: “John? What's up?”

He told her about the missing artifacts and the clever way the thief had gone about his job.

The line went quiet. For a moment, he thought they had been disconnected. Then Vicky said, “Sounds like Junior Tallman's back in business.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Wait a minute.” There was the noise of paper rustling. “Junior came to see me after he got out of prison. Gave me a big story about how he was going to change his life and follow the good red road. He said he'd started studying the Arapaho Way with one of the traditionals. Clint Old Bear, I think it was. Junior was so convincing, I believed him. Here it is.” Another rustling noise came over the line. “He's staying at the old cabin out on Trout Circle Road, about a mile past Driscoll Lane.”

“Thanks,” Father John said.

“You're going out there, aren't you?”

He didn't reply.

“Let the fed handle this, John. If Junior Tallman has plans to turn the artifacts into a lot of cash, he could be very dangerous.”

“Gianelli's waiting on fingerprints. By the time he arrests Junior, the artifacts will be gone. Maybe I can reason with the man and talk him out of selling his own heritage.”

“You don't know Junior, John.” Vicky paused a moment. Then she said, “I'll meet you out there.”

* * *

V
icky saw the black sedan rise out of the dust cloud and speed toward her down the center of Trout Circle Road. She swung the Bronco to the right, as close to the borrow ditch as she dared, and gripped the steering wheel to keep from slipping off the road. The sedan shot past. A man as small as a child was clutching the steering wheel, head thrust forward, dark cap pulled low over his forehead. The license plates were white and green. Colorado.

Vicky felt her muscles tense. What if John O'Malley was right and Junior Tallman had already sold the artifacts? She may have just passed the dealer who bought them! She considered turning around and following the sedan, but it had already disappeared from the rearview mirror. It had probably turned onto Highway 287 and could be heading north. Or south. How would she know which direction it had taken?

She pressed down on the accelerator and watched the dirt road unfurl ahead, trying to think rationally. What dealer would make the long drive from Colorado before he knew for certain that Junior had the artifacts? More than likely Junior was in the cabin now, calling contacts, making final arrangements.
I've got some good stuff
. She could almost hear the man's voice, unctuous and arrogant at the same time.

Set back about fifty feet from the road ahead was a cabin that resembled dozens of old cabins scattered across the reservation, constructed of peeling gray logs with a plank roof that ran to one side and a tilted wood stoop at the front door. Despite the brown pickup with a camper in the bed parked under a lone cottonwood tree a few feet away, the cabin had a used-up, deserted look. No sign of Father John's red Toyota pickup, but St. Francis Mission was a good forty-minute drive. It was only thirty minutes from Lander.

For a moment, Vicky thought about pulling over and waiting for the red pickup.
Junior could be dangerous,
she'd warned Father John. But she was Junior's lawyer; she'd defended the man.

She turned right into the dirt yard, parked a few feet from the stoop, and knocked on the front door. “Junior,” she called. “It's Vicky Holden. I have to talk to you.”

Silence. She knocked again and waited. The wind whistled through the cottonwood branches and cut little ripples over the dirt yard. She tried the doorknob. It turned in her hand, and she stepped inside. A thick smell, like that of wet leather, engulfed her. Sprawled on his back on the plank floor was Junior Tallman, half of his face gone, blood pooling around his shoulders and soaking into his denim shirt, and bloody, gray clumps of brain and scalp and hair spattered across a broken-down sofa and the shiny legs of a yellow Formica-topped table.

Vicky backed through the door and ran into the yard, doubled over, retching, grateful she'd been too rushed this morning for breakfast. She could picture what had taken place. The childlike man in the black sedan had quarreled with Junior over the price. Junior got angry, probably started shouting and making threats. The dealer panicked, pulled a gun, and fired.

Vicky made herself breathe deeply—one, two, three breaths—until the nausea dissipated. She pulled herself upright just as the red pickup turned into the yard and stopped. John O'Malley swung his long, jeans-clad legs out from behind the steering wheel. “Junior's dead.” Vicky heard the sound of her own voice, hollow and shaky in the wind, as she explained—she was babbling, she knew—that the killer had passed her on the road. The look in the priest's eyes reflected her own horror. He started for the cabin. A minute passed, then another. She knew he would pray over the body, ask the Creator to accept Junior Tallman and forgive whatever sins he may have had on his conscience. There were many, she thought. She dug into her black purse for her cell phone, tapped in 911, and told the dispatch officer what she'd found.

As she clicked off, she realized John O'Malley had come back outside and was examining the camper in the pickup. He opened the rear door, and she walked over. An Indian blanket covered the floor. Arranged neatly on top were parfleches, belts and head roaches, an eagle whistle, a bow and arrow. Deerskin dresses and shirts were carefully folded in tissue paper. She recognized her own astonishment in the way Father John gripped the edge of the door and stared wordlessly at the beautiful things. The dealer had shot Junior, then left the artifacts behind.

* * *

A
t the FBI office in Lander, the artifacts covered two conference tables. Father John reached out and touched the shaft of the arrow. “Everything seems to be in good condition,” he said in a tone edged with relief.

“Junior was clever.” Vicky moved slowly down the other side of the table, then stopped, her attention diverted for a moment to the eagle bone whistle tied with feathers that fanned over the polished wood tabletop like air. “Damaged artifacts don't bring as high a price.”