Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery Page 4

  “Let us offer our prayers,” he said, “for the soul of the rancher, Dennis Carey, who lived among us and died among us last night on Blue Sky Highway, where he was shot to death.” From the nodding heads and blinking eyes, Father John knew the news had spread. The moccasin telegraph never shut down, not even in the middle of the night. But he sensed something in the hands fidgeting with prayer books and rosaries, the worried looks shadowing the brown faces. Somewhere on the reservation was a shooter who had been taking random shots at pickups moving in the night down empty highways. Now a man was dead.

  He gave a short sermon on a part of Luke’s Gospel he had always liked: how Jesus had encouraged his disciples to place their trust in God and to live without anxiety. At the consecration, he lifted the bread and the grape juice that alcoholic priests could substitute for wine and repeated the words of Jesus: “This is my body; this is my blood.” Silently he prayed for the grace to trust in God for whatever the future might hold.

  After Mass, he stood outside and shook hands with the elders and grandmothers, another ritual that started the day, he thought, for them as well as for himself. Walks-On had wandered over, and the old people took turns patting his head, which, he suspected, was the way the dog liked to start his day.

  Miriam Many Horses waited until the others had set out for the pickups parked on Circle Drive before she stepped over. Usually she brought her father, Clifford, to Mass. This morning she was alone. She was in her fifties, but she looked older, with a tanned, weathered face and a red-and-blue scarf tied around sloped shoulders. “Dad wasn’t up to coming to Mass this morning.”

  Clifford Many Horses put up with a lot of afflictions, Father John knew. Diabetes, arthritis, and lungs that collapsed regularly into pneumonia, but the old man seldom missed daily Mass. Father John could think of only a few mornings when Clifford and his daughter hadn’t sat in the last pew. Clifford’s pew, he thought of it. “Is he okay?”

  “Ninety years old and getting worn out.” She smiled. “Otherwise he’s a tough old bird.”

  Father John nodded. Tough and determined, he thought. Nothing had kept Clifford from doing what he set his mind to. Ran away from the rez to join the army at age fifteen. Slogged through Africa and Italy and finally Germany. On his way to fight in the Far East when the United States dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the war ended. Back home on the rez with a purple heart for a bullet he had taken in his hip, he’d bought a couple of cows and a steer and started building a herd. Then he’d built a family. Miriam was the youngest of six children, the one who’d stayed close to the old man after her mother, Dorothy, died, took him to church, saw that he had a good meal every day.

  “My father would like to talk to you. How about lunch at noon?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  FATHER JOHN COULD hear Miriam’s pickup rumbling around Circle Drive and out through the cottonwoods as he went back into the church and made his way down the aisle, checking the pews for anything left behind. Odd the things he sometimes found. Cigarette packs, notepads, pencils, keys, eyeglasses. Small enough objects to have slipped silently out of pockets. The pews were empty this morning. He genuflected again at the altar, taking an extra minute to say another prayer for the dead man on the highway and the widow whose life had changed in a moment.

  Outside, Walks-On raced ahead across the grass and up the steps to the residence. Father John let him in the front door and followed him down the hall to the kitchen, where the dog stared at his empty bowl, then stared up at him.

  “How are you, my boy?” Bishop Harry sat at the round table hunched over the Gazette spread in front of him, working at a cup of coffee. A fringe of whitish gray hair wrapped around the old man’s pink scalp. His eyes were pale blue and lively, fired by the sunlight that filtered past the flimsy white curtain at the window. From the basement came the hum of the washing machine. “You must have had quite a night. I heard about the poor man who was shot.”

  Father John lifted the bag of dog food out of the cabinet and shook it into the bowl. Then he filled the dog’s water bowl and set it down. “Elena?” The moccasin telegraph usually reached the housekeeper before it reached the mission.

  “You are to help yourself to oatmeal.”

  From the basement came a lurching, halting noise before the washing machine settled into a normal rhythm. Something else at St. Francis that was old, outdated, and in need of replacement. Like the stove and refrigerator that he half expected to give out at any moment, the roofs on the old buildings that leaked in every rainstorm, the gutters that needed patching, the creaking doors, and the worn carpets. There was never enough money to keep the mission buildings running smoothly.

  “I went with Banner to notify the widow.” Father John spooned oatmeal into a bowl, poured in milk, and sat down across from the bishop.

  “Ah, yes. The hardest part of our job.” For a few seconds, it seemed, the bishop wasn’t an old man sent to St. Francis Mission to recover from two heart bypass surgeries; he was the bishop of Patna, India, overseeing thousands of Catholics, visiting the families of the sick and dying, consoling those who’d lost their loved ones, watching hope disappear in their eyes. Their brothers, sisters, cousins, fathers were with God now, at peace, he’d probably told them. It wouldn’t have made the task any easier.

  “I don’t have to ask how she took it.”

  “Her life changed last night. Nothing will ever be the same. Her name is Sheila Carey. Her husband was Dennis. They ran the Broken Buffalo Ranch off Trout Creek Road.”

  The bishop was nodding. “I trust she has family and friends.”

  “She seems alone, except for a couple of hands who work there. She asked me to bless her husband’s body. She wants him buried on the ranch.”

  “They’re Catholic?”

  “I don’t think so.” He took a bite of the hot, creamy oatmeal, surprised at how good it tasted, morning after morning.

  “Whatever comfort you can bring in this time will be welcome, I’m sure.”

  Father John could hear the slow, halting shush of footsteps on the basement stairs, a sense of determination and purpose in each step. He knew the effort it took for Elena to climb stairs now. The door opened into the kitchen, and she walked over and set a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

  He had to smile. So much solicitation about how he was feeling after last night! For an instant he was transported back to the kitchen in the little apartment on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston, Mom standing over him, worried about the boys he’d had to fight his way through on the way home from baseball practice and the black eye she kept trying to cover with an ice pack.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” he told the old woman. In her seventies at least, although she might have crossed into her eighties. Her age was her business, as she had reminded him on numerous occasions. She had kept house and cooked for a parade of Jesuits down the decades. She could remember every single one, all the odd habits. Father Jerome, the vegetarian; Father Lawrence with his leg brace; Father Michael, who’d talked to himself in Latin; Father Bruce, who’d lost himself in philosophy treatises and forgotten to come to dinner. Elena had related all the stories, and he suspected that when he was gone she would tell stories about him to the next priest.

  “Gives me the creeps,” she said, walking over to the sink and turning on the faucet. “Somebody out in the darkness shooting at cars like they was in a shooting gallery.”

  “Chief Banner thinks Carey knew his shooter. He had pulled over.”

  She seemed to take this in as she slid a stack of plates past the soapsuds into the sink. “Well, that don’t make sense. Who’s dumb enough to pull over and wait for somebody to shoot him? I’d say the same crazy shooter took a shot at him, and that’s why he pulled over.”

  Father John exchanged a glance with the bishop. He didn’t say anything. He had learned long ago no
t to argue with Elena. She had her own way of looking at the world, and it had amazed him, at times, how clearly she saw it.

  “Might be Arapaho,” she said.

  Father John finished the oatmeal, got up, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He carried the coffeepot to the table and refilled the bishop’s cup. The crazy shooter might be someone from the rez, either an Arapaho or a Shoshone. He leaned against the counter, sipped at his coffee, and waited to see if she had anything else, but she was caught up in washing, rinsing, and stacking dishes. “What makes you think so?” he said finally.

  “Raps don’t like that buffalo ranch.” She added a plate to the stack and, patting the suds on her hands with her apron, turned toward him. “Those white people never hired Indians. Only cowboys ever worked there are white. Outsiders. They come from all over, from what I hear. Only thing is, they don’t come from the rez.”

  The cowboy Carlos Mondregan was most likely Hispanic, Father John was thinking. The other cowboy with the pimply face was white. Neither was Arapaho or Shoshone. He wondered why a rancher in the middle of the reservation wouldn’t hire local Indians, who knew more about handling buffalo and horses than anybody else. He waited for Elena to continue, provide an explanation, but she turned back to the sink, plunged a hand into the soapy water, and dislodged the stopper. The water swished downward.

  “You know,” he said after enough seconds had passed to change the subject, “I’m pretty sure I could manage the laundry.”

  Elena gave a shout of laughter. She found another plate at the bottom of the sink, rinsed it under the faucet, and set it in the drainer before turning toward him. “And mess with my washing machine and dryer? They need special care. They don’t work for just anybody.”

  “You could teach me.” He pushed himself away from the counter and took another sip of coffee.

  “Ha! How long would that take? I could get ten loads of laundry done.”

  She would never relinquish the task, he was thinking. Laundry was part of taking care of the house, which she considered her house even though she lived a mile away with her daughter’s family. Her place, her work. Judging by the grin on the bishop’s face, the old man also knew that they were here at Elena’s forbearance.

  6

  “A MINUTE OF your time, Counselor.” Tom Glasgow, Fremont County prosecuting attorney, stood in the doorway on the other side of the high-ceilinged corridor. The courthouse was empty, the double doors to the court itself closed. From the bottom of the stairs, Vicky could hear the outside door opening and shutting and the quiet tread of footsteps on the vinyl floor.

  She stepped back from the courtroom doors and considered the prosecutor’s request. Another plea offer, no doubt, and she had already turned down one offer. Glasgow would offer her client, Arnie Walksfast, a plea of aggravated assault with the stipulation that Arnie would get two years in prison. She hadn’t said anything, just walked out of the prosecutor’s office. She had no intention of pleading Arnie guilty to a felony. Now she could see the mixture of eagerness and stress in the prosecutor’s face. He was tapping his knuckles against the door frame. Maybe Glasgow didn’t have the case he thought he had. Brimming with confidence the last time they had met, certain she would accept the plea bargain. We have Walksfast cold. Up to you how much time he gets.

  “Okay.”

  She crossed the corridor. Glasgow had already backed into the conference room. Two men seated at the long, shiny table stumbled to their feet. “You remember my assistants, George Reiner and Martin Lewis.”

  The men nodded in her direction as she took the chair Glasgow held for her. He dropped onto the chair at the top of the table and opened a file folder. “As you know, we have witnesses who were present when Mr. Walksfast assaulted Richard Tomlin in the parking lot at the O.K. Bar. They will testify to the brutal beating the defendant delivered to an innocent man.”

  “We are also prepared to call eyewitnesses.” Vicky placed both hands on the table. The two assistants shifted in their chairs. “Our witnesses will testify that Tomlin insulted, taunted, and finally assaulted my client because he is Arapaho, then followed him into the parking lot and assaulted him again. They will testify that my client was defending himself.”

  Vicky took hold of the armrests and started to lift herself out of the chair. Another waste of time. She was eager to get inside the court and have a few minutes alone with Arnie before the judge started the trial. Floating like a gnat in the air was the possibility of Arnie opening his mouth, saying something he shouldn’t say, and sending himself down to Rawlins without any help from the prosecuting attorney. She meant to caution him again to remain calm and answer only the direct questions.

  “Hold on,” Glasgow said. “We have an offer in the best interests of your client.” The heads of the two assistant prosecutors bobbed up and down.

  “Since when do you care about the best interests of my client?”

  “Look, Counselor. Your client pleads guilty . . .”

  “It will not happen.” Vicky was halfway to her feet.

  “Misdemeanor charge of reckless endangerment.” He rapped his fist against the table and hurried on. “One year in jail. Beats a felony conviction and ten years in Rawlins. You interested?”

  “Why would you do that?” She wasn’t sure Arnie would agree to plead guilty to anything. He insisted he was not guilty, that Rick Tomlin had thrown the first punch inside the bar, that he had the right to defend himself.

  “Interested or not?”

  “You haven’t answered my question.” Vicky glanced between the other two men, and in the way their eyes slid away from hers, she could sense the answer. “Let me guess. You’ve lost a witness. An important one, I’d say. Who is it? The so-called victim?”

  “It looks as if Rick Tomlin has left the area. My office has been trying to get ahold of him for two weeks. His boss out at the Broken Buffalo said he packed up his saddle and knapsack six weeks ago and drove off. Tomlin was so adamant about testifying against Walksfast, I was sure he’d be here today. No such luck.”

  Vicky was on her feet, heading toward the door. “I’m moving for a dismissal as soon as the jury is seated.” She turned back. “Once jeopardy attaches, you won’t be able to bring my client to trial on this charge again.”

  “Dismissal? I doubt the judge will go along,” Glasgow said. “You forget we have other witnesses willing to swear your client assaulted a man, knocked him down, beat his head against the asphalt, and might have killed him if they hadn’t jumped in. Your client is still looking at ten years.”

  “It’s a risk, Glasgow. Like trying a homicide case without a body. I have a stronger chance of getting the charges dismissed.”

  “Arnie Walksfast faced an assault charge last year and skated away. Won’t happen this time.”

  “He had asked for a lawyer, but the police continued to question him. Not smart to ignore a man’s rights.”

  “Say you get a dismissal with jeopardy attached, which is unlikely, but maybe the judge enjoyed his coffee and cinnamon roll this morning and is in a real good mood. The chances are slim. Say it happens, your client will be back here before we’ve filed the case away. You interested?”

  Vicky walked back and sat down. Arnie Walksfast was an alkie. He needed treatment. She had already gotten a substance abuse recommendation, hoping to persuade the judge to put Arnie into rehab if he was found guilty. “Reckless endangerment,” she said, “and time in rehab. No jail time and no fines.”

  Glasgow tapped out a rhythm on the file folder and sent the folder skidding across the table. One of the assistants bent forward and coughed into his fist. The other kept his eyes fixed on the folder. After a moment, Glasgow tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “I can go for one year in jail, suspended except for thirty days in rehab and completion of other terms of probation, such as staying out of trouble.”

  “Deal,”
Vicky said.

  * * *

  DISTRICT JUDGE GREGORY Hayword slumped behind the bench and peered through thick eyeglasses at the papers strung in front of him. He cleared his throat and readjusted the layout of the papers, as if he were unaware of anyone else in the courtroom. Vicky could hear the hush behind her, the handful of spectators holding their collective breath.

  The judge cleared his throat again, looked up over the top of his glasses and called out the case number. “Arnold C. Walksfast,” he said.

  Vicky stood and told the judge she was representing the defendant.

  Glasgow was also on his feet. “We have agreed to a disposition subject to the court’s approval,” he said. Then he laid out a guilty plea to reckless endangerment with any jail time suspended on condition that Arnie complete terms of probation and thirty days in rehab.

  ”Is this your understanding?” The judge was peering at Vicky.

  She nodded Arnie to his feet. It had taken a while to persuade him to agree to a guilty plea. Part of the reason, she suspected, was his aversion to entering rehab. If he didn’t take the plea, she had emphasized, he could face ten years in the state prison. He had been up on assault charges before, she had reminded him. Assault and public drunkenness and disorderliness, and had gotten off on a technicality. Did he really want to try the judge’s patience with another assault charge less than a year later? And there was Glasgow, willing to cut what was a very good deal. Charges reduced from a felony to a misdemeanor. She had half expected him to postpone the trial until Tomlin could be found. It was obvious Glasgow believed that Tomlin had left the area for good.