The Dream Stalker (18 page)

“Alberta runs the ranch,” Sheila shouted over her shoulder. “I come here to regroup in between husbands.”

Father John said nothing. He didn’t think she expected a reply. She seemed so brittle and self-enclosed, so unlike Vicky. And the grandmothers called Vicky a white woman—he had to stifle a laugh. They hadn’t met any white women like Sheila Cavanaugh.

On top of the ridge, the woman stopped in the shade, closed her eyes, and raised her face to the cool breeze. Father John reined in beside her. Sprawled below were the geometric squares of Lander, the peaked roofs, the leafing trees. The Wind River Reservation crept northward, brown earth and arroyos, isolated houses in the cottonwoods bunched along the river beds. This sacred space, Vicky called it.

On the other side of the ridge lay an open meadow, surrounded by mountains that shouldered into the sky. A herd of cattle rolled through the meadow, cowboys riding at the edges. He looked back at the woman. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?” She opened her eyes and gazed at him, blankness in her expression.

“That you seem so unhappy.”

“Father O’Malley.” She brought her chin down, her eyes leveled on his. “At this very moment, my husband is on a sailboat in the Virgin Islands fucking his secretary. What would a priest know about that, if somebody didn’t tell you?”

The hissing of the wind in the ponderosas filled the space around them. Finally Father John said, “It’s got to be very tough.”

“You’re damned right,” she said. “And you know what’s the toughest? She’s such a scrawny, washed-out bitch.” The woman tossed her head toward the meadow. “You’ll find my stepmother down there. I’ve decided I don’t feel like helping out after all. I’ll wait for you here.”

18

F
ather John leaned forward and squeezed with his legs to get Beauty turned away from the gelding to begin picking her way down the steep path toward the meadow. Once there, he urged the mare into a gallop. One of the riders had turned from the herd and was riding toward him. “Help you?” a woman called over the thud of the hooves.

Father John reined in and waited until the rider drew alongside. She was dressed like every other working cowboy—boots and jeans smudged with mud, jeans jacket snapped to the collar, a brown felt cowboy hat pulled low over her forehead. He guessed she was close to sixty, with the leathery skin of a woman who had spent her life outdoors, the eyes and cheekbones of the Arapaho.

“John O’Malley,” he introduced himself. “The pastor at St. Francis Mission. Your stepdaughter said I’d find you here.” He glanced back to the ridge where the younger woman still sat on the sorrel.

“Gabriel.” The word came like an exhalation. “This is about Gabriel.”

“You knew him, then.”

“He was my brother.” The woman looked away, her expression unchanged.

“I’m very sorry,” Father John said. A part of him felt the same relief he’d felt earlier, knowing now for certain
the cowboy had not been alone. The meadow stillness was broken by the sound of mooing cattle, hooves pounding the earth, a cowboy shouting.

The woman brought her gaze back to him. “What happened?”

“Your brother was shot.” He kept his voice low—the voice of hospital corridors and waiting rooms. It never got easier, telling this kind of truth.

“I saw the article in the
Gazette,”
Alberta said, straightening her shoulders. “Some old Indian, no ID, found shot to death out on Johnstown Road. I knew . . .” She gulped in air. “I knew it was Gabriel. You’re the priest that found him, right?”

Father John gave a little nod. “He called me. Said he had something he wanted to tell me. Do you have any idea what it was?”

“Father O’Malley,” she began, lifting herself slightly so the saddle, and settling back, “until last Sunday, I hadn’t seen my brother in thirty years. All of a sudden he was riding across the meadow on Beauty, like a ghost out of the past.” She glanced around, as if expecting to see him yet. “When you rode up here, well, for a minute I thought he’d come back.”

“What brought him to the reservation?”

“Some old business.” The woman shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me. Said it was best I didn’t know. I told him he could stay on the ranch—I could use a top hand. Gabriel was a good cowboy, the best. He said he’d like that a lot, except for one thing.” She glanced away again. “He was dyin’. Lung cancer. The doctors only gave him a few months. Looks like he didn’t even get that.”

Father John leaned over the pommel, his eyes on the cattle moving farther up the meadow. So this was it, he thought, all he was ever likely to learn about the man with his face shot off on Johnstown Road. “I’d like to see him have a proper funeral,” he said.

“Just bury him. Put him in the cemetery there at St. Francis. Send the bills to me.”

“I’ll let you know when . . .”

“Don’t bother.” She flicked the reins and turned her horse, which started trotting back toward the herd. Glancing around, she called, “My brother’s been dead for thirty years.”

Father John watched the woman ride through the meadow a moment, wondering about the ways that love dies. He allowed Beauty to turn and start back toward the ridge. Sheila Cavanaugh was no longer there. He kept the reins tight as the mare started after the stallion, hooves clacking against the rocks. Around an outcropping, Father John caught sight of the red hair and yellow bandanna.

And then the sorrel was galloping across the meadow below, the woman bent low along the gelding’s neck. Beauty picked up speed, leaving the path in a burst of energy, and broke into a gallop. He let the horse have its head as it raced across the damp grass. He felt exhilarated and free, as if, for a moment, his feelings of loss and failure had fallen away.

By the time the mare trotted into the yard, Sheila Cavanaugh had dismounted and was handing the reins to a cowboy. “Todd will take care of the horses,” she said as Father John dismounted. “Maybe I’ll even give him a hand. What else do I have to do today?”

“Thanks for your help,” Father John said as he started across the yard. He hoisted himself over the fence and dropped to the other side.

“Wait,” Sheila called, walking to the fence. She laid both arms over the top rail, the ruffles of her blouse folding over the wood. “This is about Alberta’s brother, isn’t it? What happened? Did the old guy die?”

“He was murdered.” Father John stepped back to the fence.

The woman flinched. “Bar fight?”

“He was shot in a deserted cabin on the reservation. Did you know him?”

She emitted a small laugh. “I didn’t even know Alberta had a brother until an old Indian showed up in the rain Sunday morning, reeking of alcohol. Looked like he’d climbed out of a ditch. Said he was Alberta’s brother. Well, you know, when your family marries up with the Indians, you’re in for one surprise after another. Alberta was in the upper pasture. Rain never bothers her. Anyway, he said he’d find the way. I let him take Beauty.”

“Look, Sheila,” Father John began, “I’d like to know more about the man. Did he say why he’d come back?”

She was staring, as if he were some kind of a puzzle she couldn’t quite fit together. “I didn’t ask,” she said finally. “I’m not in a particular hurry to get to know my extended family. But . . .” She glanced toward the barn a moment. “After he rode back from the pasture, he asked me to take care of Beauty. He seemed in a hurry. Said he had to get to Ethete to see some old friends. I think he said he was meeting them at Betty’s Place.”

Father John drew in a long breath. He’d gone to Betty’s Place to call 911 after he’d found the cowboy’s body. “How was he getting around?”

“Hitchhiking.” Sheila shrugged. “That’s why he was in a hurry. He probably figured it would take a while to catch a ride, the way he looked. And I didn’t offer to give him a ride. I was glad to see him go.”

He was about to turn away when she said, “I’ve been thinking, Father.” She moved along the fence until she was directly across from him. “I could really use some counseling right now. My life is, well, pretty messed up.”

He smiled at her. “I can give you the names of the best counselors in the area.”

“Would John O’Malley be among them?”

“Among the best? I’m afraid not.” He rattled off the names of three counselors in Lander, another in Riverton. “They’re all good at helping people through transitions,” he said.

“Transitions? Is that what this is?”

“A good question for your counselor,” he said, starting down the driveway, aware of the soft shush of her footsteps as she kept pace along the other side of the fence.

“How about dinner, then? Sunday evening? Alberta will be here, so you would certainly be safe.”

Sunday evening. Ted Gianelli had invited him to dinner. “Sorry, I have an invitation.” He glanced sideways at her and smiled, relieved he didn’t have to lie.

19

O
n the outskirts of Lander, Father John spotted the orange ball floating overhead and wheeled the Toyota onto the cement apron of the gas station. The gauge registered close to empty—an approximation, he knew, of the gas in the tank. With a little luck, he could make it to the reservation. He preferred to give his business to the Arapahos. He parked next to the telephone mounted on the brick wall and swung out, leaving the engine running, the voice of Pavarotti rising out of the cassette player like an invisible cloud.

After a quick check in the thin directory, he pushed a quarter into the slot and dialed Gianelli’s office. The fed would want to know Gabriel Many Horses had a sister.

“Sorry, Father.” It was the receptionist. “Mr. Gianelli left for the reservation first thing this morning. He hasn’t returned yet.” He thanked her, pressed the little metal bar, inserted another quarter, and dialed the BIA police department. The operator repeated nearly the same message: Chief Banner had been called out this morning and hadn’t returned, but she would tell him. . . . He set the receiver on the hook.

Inside the cab, he turned down the volume on
Don Giovanni,
twisted off the plastic cup of the thermos, and poured out some coffee, considering. Something must have happened—something important enough to
demand the attention of both the FBI and the BIA police chief. The steam licked at his hand as he took a draw of the warm, black liquid. He felt a growing sense of unease. The riot last night at Blue Sky Hall, the threats against Vicky, an emergency this morning—what was going on? The nuclear waste facility had set the whole reservation on edge: Indians against Indians, Indians against whites. Sooner or later, somebody else might end up like the poor cowboy. He hoped it hadn’t already happened.