The Ghost Walker (22 page)

Thomas regarded his wife a moment before shifting
his gaze back to Father John. “Lots of folks got good memories. So if anybody asks ’em, they’re gonna say they want the mission here. Trouble is, this deal’s goin’ through before anybody asks ’em.”

Father John picked up his mug and took another sip of coffee. He said, “What about a general council, Grandfather?”

The old man was quiet a moment. “Lester says some folks’ll be agitatin’ for the recreation center ’cause they think it might mean somethin’ else down the road.”

“He’s got that bull by the horns,” Mardell said as she slid back into her chair. “Folks that go on the powwow highway up to South Dakota and down to Arizona and places like that see all them fancy casinos and a lot of Indians gettin’ rich. They come back here and say, ‘What are we, a bunch of dumb Indians ’cause we ain’t gettin’ rich?’”

Father John set his mug down hard. “What are you saying? The recreation center is the first step to a casino?” It was hard to believe. The business council had turned down plans for a casino two years ago, after the elders had called the people to Blue Sky Hall and Great Plains Hall and reminded them of the Arapaho Way. Casinos were not the Arapaho Way.

Sadness showed in the old man’s watery eyes. “There’s Indians been tryin’ to get gamblin’ here. So here come these outsiders. Say they’re gonna build this here recreation center. Promise all kinds of jobs, and the business council gives the okay. They put up a big building, just right for gamblin’ tables and slot machines, then they tell the business council: Our figuring must’ve been wrong. This here recreation center’s not gonna get enough business. If we want jobs, we gotta turn it into a casino and make us a lot of money to boot.”

Father John placed both elbows on the table, made a double fist, and blew into it. A new picture was coming into focus. Why St. Francis? he’d asked himself a hundred times. There was nothing but open space here, miles and miles of it. The recreation center could be built anywhere, but the Z Group had targeted the mission, and now he saw why. Sheldon and his bosses didn’t want just to operate a casino on an Indian reservation—a casino owned by the Arapahos. They wanted to own the casino. But reservation land couldn’t be purchased by non-Indians. Except for St. Francis Mission. It was the only land here already owned by outsiders, and it could be sold to outsiders.

Father John wanted to laugh. He’d give anything to see the faces of the Provincial and the bishop when they realized they’d traded St. Francis Mission for a casino. He didn’t laugh. The odds against the mission were escalating.

“There’s always the get-rich-quick people,” Thomas said. “They’re gonna show up at a general council and shout for a recreation center, thinkin’ someday it’ll be a casino.” The old man shook his head and exhaled a long breath. “I been out in the barn feedin’ the horses and runnin’ all this through my mind. The
Hinono eino
shouldn’t turn into a bunch of gamblers. Us old men gotta think about the children. We gotta take the chance and call a general council. We gotta try talkin’ sense to the people.”

Father John locked eyes with the old man a long moment. He knew Thomas was thinking the same thing he was thinking: The last thing Sheldon or Lightfoot wanted was a council where the elders could influence the people. They hadn’t come this far to be stopped by some old Indians. Still a general council was risky, and it could be dangerous.

25

D
owny snow sculptured the Lander streets and weighted down the branches of the box elders at the curbs. Father John peered through thin gray film deposited by the windshield wipers. The address Nick Sheldon had given him was on Martin Drive in a neighborhood of sprawling brick houses. He stopped in front of a two-story, red brick house with a portico that arched over the side driveway. Under the portico stood a white Cadillac.

Nick Sheldon opened the glass-paned front door and extended a fleshy hand. He had a strong grip. He was wearing navy sweatpants and matching shirt; the sleeves were pushed up around his forearms, which looked tan and muscular, like those of a man who knew how to relax and work hard at the same time. What passed for a smile crossed his face.

“Good to see you again,” Sheldon said, leading Father John into the living room. Its decor gave it the soulless feeling of a department store: plump white sofa, black easy chairs, ornate wood desk pushed against the far wall, a couple of small wood tables with polished tops. The air smelled of some kind of chemical and stale cigarette smoke. And whiskey. He could have identified that in a field of sage.

Sheldon said, “Apologies for last night, all those TV people descending upon you. I had no idea Channel 7 was on to the story.”

Father John nodded noncommittally. Sheldon was lying. The television news announcement had been perfectly planned. Enough time before next week’s business council meeting to rally supporters behind the recreation center, but not enough time for much opposition to develop. Sheldon and the Z Group had hit a homer and were rounding the bases before the outfielders even saw the ball.

Sheldon had started toward the L-shaped dining area that extended off the living room, and Father John followed. “Take a look at this beauty,” the lawyer said, placing one palm on a large Plexiglas case that sat on the oblong dining table.

Just yesterday Eden Lightfoot had assured him the plans weren’t final, but here, in miniature, crawling over the grounds of St. Francis Mission, was the recreation center. The contour of the land, the open spaces and arroyos, the knoll that held the cemetery, the Little Wind River winding along the southern edge, and the cottonwood trees on the riverbank where Chief Black Night had brought his people a hundred years ago were all captured in the model.

The mission buildings were gone. St. Francis Church, the administration building, the school, Eagle Hall, the guest house and priests’ residence, even the old school, were all replaced by an enormous building that crept across Circle Drive.
The perfect casino
, Father John thought. He said, “Bowling alleys, movie theaters, gyms, restaurants, and everything else in one building?”

“Efficiency.” Sheldon slapped the top of the Plexiglas case. It made a hollow sound. “Mom bowls while Dad
works out and the kids play miniature golf in the same building. No sweating in the summer or freezing to death in the winter going from place to place.” He stopped and drew in a long breath. “A boon to everybody in the whole area, but, of course, the Arapahos will benefit most. The center will provide jobs and good, clean family fun. It will help to ameliorate some of the problems here, problems I understand, you’re personally familiar with. Why, I heard you brought some poor drugged-out Indian girl to the hospital just yesterday.”

Father John allowed the comment to float in the air, but it bothered him. How did this outsider know about Susan? He let the question drift away. He’d been here long enough not to underestimate the random wires of the moccasin telegraph system.

“I don’t believe the Arapahos want this,” Father John said.

“Don’t want jobs? You must be joking.”

“Now that the news is out, the people will want a say in the matter.”

Sheldon smiled indulgently. “Ah, yes. Eden Lightfoot has informed me of your hopes for a general council. He assures me he has already spoken with some of the elders. They only wish to maintain the traditional Arapaho beliefs. They have no interest or, may I say, understanding of modern economics. Eden has assured me they will leave this matter in the hands of the business council, unless of course someone like you should insist they become involved. That would be unfortunate. Of course, any opposition on the part of the elders would eventually be overcome. But naturally the Z Group is anxious to avoid costly delays.”

“I can’t tell the elders what to do,” Father John said, starting into the living room.

“Father O’Malley.” The lawyer’s voice behind him sounded calm, friendly. Surprised, Father John turned back. Sheldon had folded his suntanned arms and was rocking on his heels. “We’re both men of the world here, even though you happen to be a priest. Let me be candid. In what way might the Z Group make your life more comfortable? Perhaps an extended vacation? A sabbatical, isn’t that what you Jesuits call it? Relax on a warm, sunny beach somewhere. I know a great spot in Antigua. Stay as long as you like. And you could certainly use decent wheels for your next assignment. Maybe a little sporty job. I’m sure you’ve seen the Lexus SE 400 coupe? Beautiful.”

Father John thrust his hands into the pockets of his parka. “And what do you want for all this bounty, Sheldon?”

“Well, of course, it would be nice if you could support the recreation center. But I respect you, Father O’Malley. I realize that isn’t possible. We will content ourselves with the support of the Jesuit Provincial. All I ask of you is—how shall I put it—your noninvolvement. You simply do nothing.”

“All of that to do nothing?” Father John smiled. “It’s not enough, Sheldon.”

Just as Father John was about to let himself out the front door, the lawyer said, “Let me emphasize something, Father O’Malley.” A lawyer’s tone now, taut, precise. “It would be most unwise of you to encourage the elders to interrupt the normal processes of this matter. Do I make myself clear?”

Outside, the cold air slapped at Father John’s face. He brought the brim of his cowboy hat forward as he
cut across the snowy front yard to the Toyota. There was a lot of money riding on this deal, probably more than he had realized. The Z Group didn’t want any interference, and Sheldon’s job was to ensure there wouldn’t be any.

He’d been warned. He didn’t like warnings.

26

T
hree men stood on the cement bay in front of Big Phil’s Backcountry Wheels. Shoulders hunched, hands jammed into the pockets of tweed overcoats, the salesmen exuded the confidence of those who work for a thriving dealership located at the busiest intersection in town. As Father John slipped out of his Toyota, another salesman wheeled alongside him in a large blue van with
BIG PHIL
’
S
splashed in red letters across the side.