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Authors: Margaret Coel
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talkin’ about. I heard he went away to become a professor in some university. Maybe they understood him there.” She reached out and grabbed Vicky’s hand. “He had a good heart, Vicky. Used to drive all over the res, just like Father John, checkin’ on people, seeing who might need help. Soon’s he come back, he went out visitin’ people, just like before.”
Vicky exhaled a long breath and nodded toward the phone on the counter. “What have you heard?”
Aunt Rose shook her head again. “Moccasin telegraph’s so loaded, it’s likely to fall down. But nobody knows anything. Nobody can figure it out. An old man like that. Who’d want to kill him?”
Exactly
, Vicky thought, withdrawing her hand and starting to circle the kitchen again. The cold knot of fear tightened within her. It wasn’t Father Joseph the murderer was after. She swung around and faced the older woman. “Maybe it was Sonny Red Wolf who tried to kill Father John,” she said.
“What makes you think so?”
Vicky stared at the older woman.
She hadn’t disagreed.
“Sonny wants whites off the reservation. St.Francis Mission has been here more than a hundred years. It’s a symbol of white presence. Father John is a symbol. Last summer Sonny blockaded the mission. Banner had to run him off. That must’ve made him angry—the Arapaho police chief helping the white mission.” She smiled to herself at the irony.
Aunt Rose got to her feet, picked up the teakettle, and filled both of their cups. Little curls of steam rose in the air. After setting the kettle back on the stove, she pulled two tea bags from a box on the counter and dropped them into the cups. Sliding back onto her chair, she said, “Sonny Red Wolf don’t speak for folks around here. He had his way, we’d all be livin’ in the Old Time, out huntin’ buffalo. Well, I don’t wanna spend all day butcherin’ buffalo meat and tannin’ hides, thank you very much. I like my modern-day comforts.” She tilted her head toward the television noise in the living room. “Besides, there ain’t enough buffalo left.”
Vicky felt the conversation lurching into small talk. “Have you heard any talk about Sonny?” she asked.
“Talk? Sure. There’s always talk about Sonny. He’s so full of hate, only natural his name comes up.”
“Tell me what you’ve heard.”
The older woman studied the steaming liquid in her cup. “Somebody might’ve seen Sonny’s white truck ridin’ up in the air on those big, fat tires out on Thunder Lane this afternoon.”
“Who, Aunt? Who saw the truck?” Vicky felt her heart turn over. The demonstration last spring, the truck in the vicinity of the murder. It was adding up to what Gianelli liked to call a preponderance of evidence.
“Don’t know any names. Just somebody lives outthat way.” The older woman raised her eyes; there was fear in them. “Sonny Red Wolf’s real mean, Vicky. He killed a man once. You gotta stay out of this.”
Vicky drew in a long breath, fighting back the panic rising inside her. “Whoever saw the truck is probably scared. The only witness could disappear.”
“You gotta get hold of yourself, Vicky.” Aunt Rose fixed her with a stern gaze. “You got yourself so worked up about Father John, you’re half-sick. You got that peaked look about you, like white blood was flowing in your veins. You gotta put that man out of your mind. He’s a priest.”
Vicky took her eyes away. It was true, all true. She still felt limp from the waves of pain that had crashed over her when she thought he was dead. She had seen the people streaming into the mission that afternoon, the grief and fear in their faces mirroring her own. How many had come, as she had, believing John O’Malley had been killed? He belonged to them; he was their pastor.
Suddenly the phone screeched, like an alien presence in the kitchen. Aunt Rose turned toward the counter and lifted the receiver. “Hello,” she snapped. Then: “Vicky’s here now.
Vicky exhaled a long breath and nodded toward the phone on the counter. “What have you heard?”
Aunt Rose shook her head again. “Moccasin telegraph’s so loaded, it’s likely to fall down. But nobody knows anything. Nobody can figure it out. An old man like that. Who’d want to kill him?”
Exactly
, Vicky thought, withdrawing her hand and starting to circle the kitchen again. The cold knot of fear tightened within her. It wasn’t Father Joseph the murderer was after. She swung around and faced the older woman. “Maybe it was Sonny Red Wolf who tried to kill Father John,” she said.
“What makes you think so?”
Vicky stared at the older woman.
She hadn’t disagreed.
“Sonny wants whites off the reservation. St.Francis Mission has been here more than a hundred years. It’s a symbol of white presence. Father John is a symbol. Last summer Sonny blockaded the mission. Banner had to run him off. That must’ve made him angry—the Arapaho police chief helping the white mission.” She smiled to herself at the irony.
Aunt Rose got to her feet, picked up the teakettle, and filled both of their cups. Little curls of steam rose in the air. After setting the kettle back on the stove, she pulled two tea bags from a box on the counter and dropped them into the cups. Sliding back onto her chair, she said, “Sonny Red Wolf don’t speak for folks around here. He had his way, we’d all be livin’ in the Old Time, out huntin’ buffalo. Well, I don’t wanna spend all day butcherin’ buffalo meat and tannin’ hides, thank you very much. I like my modern-day comforts.” She tilted her head toward the television noise in the living room. “Besides, there ain’t enough buffalo left.”
Vicky felt the conversation lurching into small talk. “Have you heard any talk about Sonny?” she asked.
“Talk? Sure. There’s always talk about Sonny. He’s so full of hate, only natural his name comes up.”
“Tell me what you’ve heard.”
The older woman studied the steaming liquid in her cup. “Somebody might’ve seen Sonny’s white truck ridin’ up in the air on those big, fat tires out on Thunder Lane this afternoon.”
“Who, Aunt? Who saw the truck?” Vicky felt her heart turn over. The demonstration last spring, the truck in the vicinity of the murder. It was adding up to what Gianelli liked to call a preponderance of evidence.
“Don’t know any names. Just somebody lives outthat way.” The older woman raised her eyes; there was fear in them. “Sonny Red Wolf’s real mean, Vicky. He killed a man once. You gotta stay out of this.”
Vicky drew in a long breath, fighting back the panic rising inside her. “Whoever saw the truck is probably scared. The only witness could disappear.”
“You gotta get hold of yourself, Vicky.” Aunt Rose fixed her with a stern gaze. “You got yourself so worked up about Father John, you’re half-sick. You got that peaked look about you, like white blood was flowing in your veins. You gotta put that man out of your mind. He’s a priest.”
Vicky took her eyes away. It was true, all true. She still felt limp from the waves of pain that had crashed over her when she thought he was dead. She had seen the people streaming into the mission that afternoon, the grief and fear in their faces mirroring her own. How many had come, as she had, believing John O’Malley had been killed? He belonged to them; he was their pastor.
Suddenly the phone screeched, like an alien presence in the kitchen. Aunt Rose turned toward the counter and lifted the receiver. “Hello,” she snapped. Then: “Vicky’s here now.
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