The Story Teller (25 page)

Father John glanced at her again, meeting her eyes a moment. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

A sign rose on the highway ahead:
EADS.
He let up on the accelerator. In another moment they were gliding down the wide street with pickups and trucks in front of squat, flat-roofed stores and cafés. Down a side street, he glimpsed a stone building that looked like the libraries in small towns across the country. He swung around the block and parked in front.

Inside was a reading room with tables and chairs on either side and a counter jutting from the back wall. Except for an elderly man poring over a newspaper at one of the tables, the library was empty. They walked to the counter, and Father John tapped a little bell. It jangled into the quiet.

Almost at once a door behind the counter opened and a middle-aged man in a short-sleeved white shirt with a black bolo tie at the collar stepped out. “Didn’t hear you,” he said. His eyes fell on Vicky a moment—an appreciative gaze—then moved to Father John. “Visiting our fair town, are you?”

“We’re looking for a family that ranched in this area around the turn of the century.” Vicky clasped her hands on the counter. “The name was Smedden.”

The librarian picked up a pencil and gave his front teeth several taps. “Doesn’t ring any bells,” he said. Then: “Hold on.” He disappeared behind the door. In another moment he was back with a thick, green-bound book. He flipped it open. “This old county directory
might tell us something,” he said, pushing through the pages.

He stopped. An index finger ran down a page in the middle of the book. “Aha. J. J. Smedden ran a ranch out near the county line in 1900.” Another flip through the pages. “Still there the next year, and the next.”
Flip. Flip.
“Aha. Not listed in 1904.” He slammed the book shut. “There was a bad drought about that time. A lot of ranchers didn’t make it. Just picked up and left.”

“Where exactly was the ranch?” Father John asked.

The librarian motioned them to the right of the counter. He reached up and pulled on a cord. A large map rattled down over the shelves of books. “Kiowa County,” he said, sweeping one hand across the width of the map. “East county line over here.” He tapped a black line on the far right. “Ranch was probably about here.” Another tap halfway down the line.

“Who owns the ranch now?” Vicky asked, expectation and excitement in her voice.

“A corporation.” The librarian snapped the map back up into its holder. “Lot of ranches in that area are agribusiness. Tough for families to compete with corporations.”

Vicky whirled around and walked back to the counter. The air was thick with her disappointment and frustration. Suddenly she turned back. “Look,” she said, eyes flashing, “about two weeks ago a graduate student at CU-Denver came through here. He was talking to people, trying to find the sites of Indian battles and villages. Did he come to the library?”

Nodding slowly, the librarian moved back behind the counter. “Todd Harris,” he said. “I helped him many times. A fine young man. I could hardly believe the article in the paper about his murder. It’s getting so nobody’s safe anymore. Can’t walk down the street without getting killed.”

Father John was at Vicky’s side. “Can you tell us which research materials he was using?”

“Same as usual.” The man gave a little shrug. “Old county maps. He was rechecking data, I suppose. Said he was about to finish his thesis and had a job at a museum somewhere up in Wyoming. I wished him luck. Next thing I heard, he was dead.”

Father John was quiet, aware of Vicky leaning into the counter beside him. “Did he say anything about Sand Creek?” she asked in the same tone of hope.

The man raised his eyes to the ceiling—remembering. “He said he was going to run up to Sand Creek and take another look around.”

*   *   *   

Outside, the afternoon heat hung in the air like invisible smoke. Father John could feel the sun burning through the shoulders of his shirt as he followed Vicky to the Taurus nosed against the curb. “I’ve never been to Sand Creek,” she said, crawling into the passenger seat. “Would you drive?”

24

A
s they headed east Vicky kept her eyes on the narrow, dusty road ahead. What route had the soldiers followed, she wondered, as they rode through the ice-filled night, fortifying themselves with whiskey for the killing ahead? The bluffs, the Indian village below, Chief Niwot and the Arapahos camped in the big bend of the creek. The story was seared into her mind. She was immensely grateful that John O’Malley was here. “I’m not sure I could go alone,” she told him.

Father John nodded and gave her a quick glance. There was sympathy in his eyes. “We don’t have to go,” he said.

Vicky was quiet a moment. “Something at the site—maybe the site itself—led Todd to the ledger book.” It sounded crazy, but the man next to her was taking her there anyway, guiding the Taurus down the dusty, gullied road.

Ahead was a large sign, an intrusion on the plains. As the car slowed Vicky caught the block letters:
SAND CREEK BATTLEFIELD.
It amazed her that anyone would call the massacre a battle. They were heading north now, the sign behind them. After several miles—an interminable number of miles—they made a left past a small ranch house and slowed onto a bluff. Suddenly the car stopped.

Vicky let herself out into a pervasive stillness,
vaguely aware that Father John had started walking toward the ranch house. She moved to the edge of the bluff, feeling cold despite the sun on her face, the hot breeze rippling the air. Below lay the site of the village, the winding dry creek bed, the old cottonwoods, leaves shimmering in the sun. This was where the soldiers had halted their horses before the attack.

After a few moments Father John was back, and they started down the bank, sliding in the dry earth. She had to catch herself from falling into a clump of grass. He took her hand, steadying her until they reached the bottom. Together they started across the field, wild grasses crumpling beneath their steps. At the big bend in the creek bed, she stopped. “My people were here,” she said, sweeping out one arm. “They heard the gunshots and ran out of the tipis. They were running every which way; they didn’t know where to go. And Chief Niwot called out—run up the creek—while he walked forward to meet the soldiers. He held out his hands in peace.”

Vicky swung around and headed for the dry creek bed, a wide, flat indentation in the earth. Father John was beside her, walking north in the soft earth, the direction the people had taken that morning. Running, running from the soldiers galloping behind. Vicky started walking faster, sensing something behind her, a great malevolent force pushing her forward. And then she was running full out, a sharp stitch in her side, gulping in air, arms flailing, the sound of horses’ hooves beating like drums in her ears.

“Vicky! Stop, stop!” She felt John O’Malley’s arm around her, slowing her. She was stumbling, nearly falling, and he pulled her toward him and held her. Her heart was thumping; she fought for breath. Together they slumped down against the soft bank. She heard his voice again, steady and soothing. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” For an instant a sense came over her—a kind of
remembrance—that they had been in this place before. In that other time. Together.

“It’s only some men on horseback,” he said.

“What?” She turned toward him, trying to focus on what he was saying. And then she saw six or seven cowboys riding across the bluff. They nosed the horses down the bank and came across the field. Father John was already on his feet, pulling her upright, and they started retracing their steps, walking toward the riders.

“This is private land,” one of the men called as they rode up.

“Sorry,” Father John said, his eyes on the man who seemed to be in charge. “I stopped at the ranch house. Nobody was around.”

The man laid the reins lightly against the horse’s neck. “You’ll wanna be gettin’ on outta here.”

Vicky said, “A young man—a student—came here a couple of weeks ago. Did you happen to see him?”

“We throw people outta here every day,” one of the other riders said.

“He was looking for some of the old-timers around here,” Vicky persisted. “Do you know who he might have talked to?”

The first man shrugged. “Don’t know as I ran into him.”

“Hold on there.” The second man again. “I seen him wandering around here. Yeah, about two weeks ago it was. Indian fellow. Seemed harmless enough, but I tol’ him to clear on out.”

Father John took a step toward the man. “Did he say why he was here?”

“Well”—the second man shifted his weight in the saddle—“like the lady here says, he wanted to know if there was any families around that went all the way back to the battle. So I sent him down the road a piece to talk to some folks.”

“Smedden?” Vicky heard the hope in her tone.

“Lawler’s the name. Been around a hundred years, I guess. Nobody goes all the way back to the battle. Nothing but Indians around then.”

“Don’t forget the soldiers.” A man sitting a gray mare in the rear spoke up. There was a little guffaw from the others.

“Smedden,” the first man said, pushing up his cowboy hat and staring past them, as if he’d caught a glimpse of something in the distance. “Name has a mighty familiar ring. Ran a big ranch on east of here a long time ago. The old grandma that lives with the Lawlers is one of ’em, if I remember rightly.”

“Where can we find the ranch?” Father John asked.

“Keep on goin’ down the road,” the second cowboy said. “Ten miles or so. Big white place. You can’t miss it.”

*   *   *   

It took twenty minutes over back roads to reach the two-story ranch house shining in the sun on top of a rise, like a white whale beached on the plains. A gravel driveway ran along the house to a cluster of barns and sheds beyond. Father John parked close to the house and they walked up the steps to a porch that sprawled across the front. Vicky pushed a small button by the door. Somewhere inside, a bell jangled—the only sound except for the high whinny of a horse out back.

“Be here,” she whispered, then glanced up at Father John. She’d done a pretty good job today of convincing him she was nuts. Now she was talking to herself. He smiled at her—a reassuring smile—and she pressed the doorbell again.

Minutes passed. They were close now, she could feel it. This was where Todd had come. This was where he’d found out about the ledger book. Behind the door was someone who knew . . .

The door cracked opened and a fleshy-faced woman with a cap of gray hair peered around the edge. “Yes?” she said in a tentative tone.

Father John introduced himself, then Vicky, and the door widened. The woman stared at them, curiosity and incredulity in her expression: priest in a cowboy hat? Native American woman?

“A friend of ours, Todd Harris, came to see you about two weeks ago,” Vicky said.

“Todd Harris.” The door was wide open now. The woman ushered them inside. “I felt so bad when I read about what happened. Such a nice young man. I can’t believe the police think he might’ve been mixed up with drug dealers. What rubbish. If they’d ever met him, they’d know he wasn’t the type.”

They were standing in an large, sun-filled entry. The living room opened on the right, and a stairway angled upward on the left. Straight ahead was a hallway leading to the back of the house, where a TV was blaring—laughter and applause, a game show. “How can I help you?” the woman asked, closing the door behind them.

Vicky said, “We understand Todd spoke with your grandmother.”

“Yes. Yes. A nice long visit. Grandma was so pleased. We don’t get much company out here.”

“Could we meet her?” Father John’s voice was soft.

The woman led them down the hallway. “No guarantee she’s awake,” she said over one shoulder. “Spends most days dozing in front of the TV.”

They followed her into the large kitchen ringed with cabinets and counters on which an array of gadgets were lined up in neat order. On the other side of the kitchen was a little room where an old woman lay back in a recliner, white sneakers propped in front of a large-sized TV.

“Grandma, you got some more visitors.” The woman walked over and turned off the TV. Quiet fell across the room as the woman in the recliner seemed to snap herself awake and glanced sideways at them.