The Thunder Keeper(6)

The smells of fresh coffee and fried bread permeated the air. In the far corner was the food table, and Father John caught sight of his assistant, Father Don, chatting with several Arapahos, tilting his head sideways—that way of his when he was listening—sipping from a Styrofoam cup, then throwing his head back and laughing. Other Indians started crowding around. The man seemed completely at ease, as if this was home. Elena could be wrong. Father John hoped so. People here liked the new assistant, and he liked them. The man was good with people.

Father John started along the tables, stopping to chat with the Arapahos seated on folding chairs on the other side. Old people, kids, men and women in their twenties and thirties—the artists and craftspeople who had beaded the jewelry and vests, painted the shirts and dresses and small drums, sewn the Arapaho star quilts, and fashioned the bows and arrows and coup sticks, just as their grandparents had done in the Old Time.

On one table were several oil paintings that captured the beauty and loneliness of the plains and the hidden valleys of the Wind River mountains. As beautiful as any paintings of the area he’d seen. He gave a thumbs-up to Stone Yellowman, the young man watching him from the other side of the table, and the brown face broke into a wide, reassured grin.

He turned toward the next table, then stopped. For an instant he’d thought Vicky Holden was across the hall: the slim figure and shoulder-length black hair, the finely sculptured brown face, the shining, intelligent black eyes. A woman who resembled her, that was all, and he realized he’d been half expecting to see Vicky here. She wouldn’t have missed the arts-and-crafts fair if she still lived in the area.

He shook away the sense of loss that came over him at the most unexpected moments. Vicky Holden had gone back to work at her old law firm in Denver five months ago. It was the way it should be. Still, he missed their friendship, missed working with her—lawyer and priest: they’d been a good team—missed being able to pick up the phone and run something by her, test some far-fetched theory against the toughness of her mind. He could have talked to her about a missing Indian.

“Father John, over here.”

He swung around. Louise Little Horse was getting to her feet, beckoning him toward her table.

“How are you, Grandmother?” he said, walking over.

The old woman picked up a bolo tie and held it out in her small pink palm. The round disk was covered with tightly woven white beads. In the center—it might have been soaring through the clouds—was the blue-beaded figure of a thunderbird, the symbol of thunder, the guardian of the atmosphere. Radiating out from the bird figure were red lines, symbolizing the sun and life.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

“I made it for you.” She looked up at him, the narrow, dark eyes shining in the furrowed face.

“Please let me pay you for it,” he said, fishing in his jeans pocket for some bills.

“Oh, no.” An aggrieved look came into the dark face. She reached out, took his hand, and folded his fingers around the tie, and he thought of what the elders always said: accept the gifts offered you and be grateful.

“Thank you, Grandmother.” He slipped the beaded rope around his neck and pulled the disk up under the collar of his shirt. “I’ll wear it with pride,” he told her.

“It’ll protect you,” she said. Then: “You look real Arapaho now. Only you gotta grow black hair.”

“I hear there’s other ways.”

“I hear shoe polish works.”

He laughed.

“What’s worrying you, Father?” The old woman leaned across the table.

“It shows?”

She nodded.

“Tell me, Grandmother,” he began. “Any news on the moccasin telegraph that the pastor at St. Francis hasn’t heard yet?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. The brown face crinkled into the lines that fanned from her eyes and mouth. “Oh, I’d say there’s always something that folks’d just as soon the pastor didn’t know about.”

“Have you heard that anybody’s missing?”

She nodded.

He remained still. The pounding drums, the hum of voices receded around them. Finally she said, “Warriors went out today looking for somebody. Ben Holden . . .”

“Ben Holden.” He repeated the name, almost to himself. First the face in the crowd, now the mention of Vicky’s ex-husband. The reminders brought little stabs of pain that he tried to push away.

“. . . called my grandson real early. Five A.M. Woke up the whole house. Said somebody got lost up at Bear Lake. My grandson took off. They was gonna start lookin’ soon’s it got light.”