Wife of Moon (24 page)

Then Stands-Alone walked back and Jesse handed him the saddle bag. “I can make other photographs,” he said.

“Yes, in time you will do so. Now we must hide this evidence. It must stay hidden until the time is right for the truth.”

“The white man will come with the soldiers.” Thomas was looking over at the porch. The woman had set down the child, and the other children had closed her within their circle, laughing and cooing, patting at the black head that bobbed among them. “He will say we stole his child. She is not worth the danger to us. We should have taken back the land.”

Stands-Alone moved close to his son. “Do not be a fool. You must
think like white men if you are to keep ahead of them. The white man has what he wants. He does not want the half-breed girl. If he comes with the soldiers, he knows that we will show them the evidence. He cannot take the chance that an officer would not believe the evidence.” Stands-Alone paused. “Do you understand now? It is over.”

ST. FRANCIS CEMETERY SPRAWLED
across the top of a rise between the mission and Seventeen-Mile Road. It was a short walk up the bulge in the earth, but most of the people who had filled the church for the funeral Mass had piled into pickups and sedans and made the loop out of the mission and back into the cemetery. The vehicles were parked on the narrow dirt road that wound around the perimeter, and the crowd gathered together in a circle around the two coffins poised on gray straps over the open gravesites.

Last night, the people had filled Blue Sky Hall for the wake, crowding into the rows of folding metal chairs, standing along the walls, blocking the doors, and flowing outside into the parking lot. They had come from across the reservation, from Lander and Riverton—whites along with Arapahos—to pay respect to the councilman who had stood up to Senator Evans in the methane gas controversy. Even if they hadn't agreed with T.J. Painted Horse, they'd
admired his courage. The courage that had gotten both the councilman and his wife killed.

Father John had led the prayers of the rosary, voices murmuring the responses in waves of sorrow flowing over the hall. Afterward, Max Oldman had blessed Denise's and T.J.'s bodies in the caskets. He placed the sacred red paint on their foreheads, cheeks, and hands.
“Go with the ancestors,”
he'd prayed.
“They will welcome you to the sky world. But we know that your spirits will always be with your people to help us.”

Then Max had lifted the pan with the smoldering cottonwood chips and cedar and walked down the center aisle, allowing the smoke to waft across the hall, touching the faces turned toward him. Father John had felt the sense of peace that had moved through the hall.

Now he stood at the head of T.J.'s coffin, Father Damien beside him at the head of Denise's. They waited until the last knots of people had worked their way around the mounds of other graves and flowed into the rest of the crowd. The wind blew cold and sharp across the cemetery, flapping at the yellow, red, and purple plastic flowers that rose around the white wooden crosses on the dirt mounds. People shuffled about, moving in closer, tightening the circle around the coffins.

Father John opened the prayer book and began reciting the burial prayers:
“God, by Whose mercy rest is given to the souls of the faithful, in your kindness, bless these graves.”
As he read, the other priest began sprinkling holy water over the coffins: first for Denise, then for T.J.

Father John glanced around the circle of brown faces pressing toward him, then went on: “Almighty and merciful God, take pity upon your people who carry a heavy burden of sorrow. Remove the anger and despair from our hearts, and let us not be consumed by grief and sorrow, as those who have no hope. Let us believe in You and in Your love for us.”

Closing the prayer book, Father John turned to Max Oldman, standing gray-haired and stoop-shouldered beside Denise's coffin. The elder nodded, then made a slow circle, letting his gaze fall over the crowd. He cleared his throat and began speaking in Arapaho. Father John recognized the tone: formal and declaratory, the tone the chiefs had used in the Old Time to address the village. He closed his eyes and let the words roll over him. How many times had he heard the elders speak? How many funerals? He understood a few words, a phrase here and there. He knew what Max was saying.

“Jevaneatha nethaunainau. God is with us. Jevaneatha Dawathaw henechauchaunane nanadehe vedaw nau ichjeva. His spirit fills everywhere on earth and above us. Jevaneatha nenenadonee naideed. He has lived always. Jevaneatha nenaideed detjanee. He will live forever. Ha, adnauhawanau Jevaneatha ichjeva ith ithinauauk. Yes, those who are good will be with God in heaven.”

The elder paused. No one moved. An air of expectation engulfed the crowd as he nodded to the musicians seated around the drum near the foot of the graves. The drumming and singing began, the high-pitched voices mingling with the sound of a truck out on Seventeen-Mile Road. When the song ended, the elder cleared his throat and let his eyes roam over the faces turned to him. “We ask the Creator and the ancestors to welcome our sister and brother, Denise and T.J. Painted Horse,” he said, his voice piercing the air like an arrow. “In the name of Jesus Christ.
Iesous Christos.

He motioned to two men who stepped forward and stooped over the wheels that controlled the gray straps. There was a squealing noise as the coffins began to descend, and someone in the crowd let out a sob. In a moment the coffins were out of sight. Nothing remained but the two oblong holes gaping in the earth. Immediately, three Arapaho men began shoveling the dirt piled a few feet away into the holes.

Max stretched out his arm, and Father John clasped the elder's hand in his own. In the firm grip, he could sense the strength and
determination passed down through the generations, like the old stories. “We appreciate what you've been doing for the people,” Max said. Then he turned to Father Damien and shook his hand. After the graves had been filled, the elder motioned to the crowd still fixed in place. Little by little people started forward, dropping flowers onto the mounds until they were covered with pink wild roses and yellow tansies and white asters. Then the people began peeling away. Bunched into little groups, they trudged around the other graves toward the parked vehicles.

Father John went to the family, still hovering about, reluctance etched in their faces. Denise's people first, shaking hands, patting shoulders. Then Vera, dabbing wads of tissue against her mouth, her eyes fixed on the rectangle of flowers that lay over her brother's grave. Father John told her again how sorry he was and promised to stop by for a visit soon.

Out on the road, the line of vehicles had started moving around the cemetery in a jerky, stop-and-go motion, plunging one by one out onto Seventeen-Mile Road. There was the sound of engines straining, and puffs of black smoke belched out of tailpipes. Still little groups of people lingered near the gravesites. Max Oldman was on the other side of the cemetery, bent over one of the other graves.

Father Damien stepped away from several members of T.J.'s family and walked over. “Looks like Senator Evans has decided against running for president after all,” he said. “Too many things he'd have to explain, I guess. The senate's going to investigate his campaign anyway. Saw him on TV last night. He looks like a beaten man.”

“He'll go on,” Father John said, remembering what Vicky had said. He clasped the other priest's shoulder. “Don't worry, Damien. We always seem to get enough donations to keep the mission running. The little miracles keep happening.”

Damien shook his head, the shadow of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Then he turned and hurried toward the line of people still making their way to the vehicles.

“Did you find the photographs?” Vicky's voice behind him. He'd spotted her earlier at the outside edge of the crowd with Adam Lone Eagle, and he'd had to look away. He hadn't seen her walk over.

He turned toward her now. It surprised him, how much he wanted to tell her what he'd worked out in the last few days, to take her into his confidence. They'd worked together on how many cases? Lawyer. Priest. They'd made a good partnership, and he'd always looked forward to holding up a hypothesis to the bright light of her mind. But things were different now, and he felt himself pulling inward. It was like crawling into a cave and pulling a blanket around himself against the cold.

He glanced across the cemetery at Max Oldman, who was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring down at a white cross trimmed with plastic flowers. And beyond, near the Jeep, Adam Lone Eagle. Waiting.

Finally, he said, “Not yet.”

She looked out in the direction of the Jeep. “I have a new law partner. Adam and I are forming a firm together. We'll be moving into a larger office. I'll be busy . . .”

“I hope it works out for you, Vicky,” he said hurriedly, aware that her gaze had shifted in the direction of Max Oldman, and in that instant, he realized that she had also worked it out.

They started off together, threading their way around the mounds, not saying anything. There was no need for words. Max had stopped at another grave when they walked up. Vicky moved to one side of the elder, and Father John took the other side. “Are you all right, grandfather?” he asked.

The elder studied him a moment. His light-colored eyes were suffused in sadness. Then he turned to Vicky. “You did right, granddaughter, sticking up for T.J. The fed could've railroaded that Indian right into prison, if you wasn't there protecting his rights. Maybe T.J. didn't do right by Denise, but he wasn't no murderer.”

“Thank you, grandfather,” Vicky said, her gaze on the ground a
moment, respectful. But in the slope of her shoulders and the way that she finally raised her eyes to the sky, Father John could almost feel the invisible weight lifting from her.

“It was them damn photographs that killed both of 'em,” Max said, pivoting about and heading down the row of graves. “This way,” he called over his shoulder.

Vicky started after the elder, and Father John fell into step behind. A three-person cortege, he was thinking, reverent and silent, heads bowed, stepping between the mounds topped by wooden crosses and tangled garlands of plastic flowers. They had gone about fifty feet when Max stopped, his head bent toward another white cross. Chiseled into the horizontal bar were the words
ELLEN OLDMAN
,
BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER
.
GRANDDAUGHTER OF CHIEF SHARP NOSE
.
DIED OCTOBER
10, 1965.

“She was my mother. She was the daughter of Bashful Woman.” Max took in a gulp of air. “Bashful Woman and Carston Evans. A little half-breed girl that Stands-Alone raised up with his own kids. He had ten, you know, so people sort of lost track. He treated them all the same.”

The elder squared his shoulders and tilted his chin toward the sky for a long moment, and Father John had the sense that the old man was praying. Finally Max said, “Bashful Woman was where the deaths started.”

Father John caught Vicky's eye for a moment before Max set off again, and they fell into line behind. Right turn, left turn, zigzagging around the mounds until Max found the one he wanted. Etched on the cross were the words:
THOMAS BRAVE WOLF
.
SEPTEMBER
2, 1890–
JUNE
6, 1921.

“One of Stands-Alone's boys,” Max ran the back of his hand over his mouth. “He was next to die. Thought he was smarter than his father. Didn't stop there, the deaths.” He was walking again, this time Vicky stayed on his right and Father John moved in on the elder's left, bending his head to catch the old man's words. “Twelve years ago,
Thomas's grandson, Lester, got himself shot. Found him down by the Wind River with a bullet in the back of his head, like he'd been executed. The FBI agents said he must've gotten mixed up with a bad crowd. They never got the killer.”

Max halted next to another grave. On the crossbar, the words
LESTER BRAVE WOLF
,
AUGUST
6, 1948–
JULY
1, 1992.” In the silence engulfing them, Father John again had the sense that the elder was saying another silent prayer. He offered a silent prayer of his own: “Dear God, have mercy on the souls of the people here. Grant them peace.”

A few moments passed before Vicky said: “Please tell us about the deaths, grandfather.” Her voice was low and respectful.

Max sucked in his breath and nodded toward her. “They was after justice,” he said. “They wanted what was ours. They knew they wasn't ever gonna get the ranch back, so they wanted some compensation. They had proof of how Carston Evans got hold of Arapaho land.”

“The Curtis photographs,” Vicky said.

“Three photographs and the glass plates they come from. They showed what happened, how Evans shot her, cold-blooded, not a thought about the beautiful life he was taking. Just wanting the land, that's all. It was all there in the pictures, the story of grandmother's death. First Thomas, then Lester thought all they had to do was show the Evans family the proof and they'd give us something of what belonged to us.” Max gave a snort of laughter. “Stands-Alone was the one with sense. He said, ‘We ain't never getting the land. We got what's important. We got the child. Let it be.' ”

“The child,” Father John said, almost to himself. He glanced at Vicky, and in her eyes—the brown, knowing eyes of her people—he could almost see what must have happened, and he understood why Bashful's family hadn't taken revenge on Carston Evans. Stands-Alone had made a deal with the man. He could keep the ranch. Stands-Alone would take his sister's child, because the child belonged with the people.

“Long as Stands-Alone stayed alive, nothing happened,” Max went on. “Soon as he was gone, his first son, Thomas, paid a visit on the Evans people. Next thing you know, somebody found Thomas out in his field shot in the head. After that, the rest of the clan said, ‘We gotta let it be, like Stands-Alone told us.' So that's what happened, till Lester got to thinking he was smarter than everybody else. Evans was running for senator, Lester said, and no way was he gonna want people to know the truth about his grandfather and the ranch. Evans was gonna give us some money now, Lester said. I told him, don't be a hothead. Nothing good's gonna come from this. Next thing I hear, Lester's body is down on the riverbank.”