Killing Custer (24 page)

35

SOME THINGS HE
couldn't remember.

He couldn't remember what he had been doing in the moment before the darkness.

He couldn't remember the medics, sheriff's deputies, and state patrol officers swarming the ranch, although he learned later that had been the case.

He couldn't remember the ambulance trip to Riverton Memorial.

He decided they weren't important. He remembered Vicky's face, blurred and wavy, swimming toward him out of the darkness, finally solidifying, becoming real. “How do you feel?” she had asked, and he had tried to assure her he was okay. What he knew was that he was alive.

That was three days ago. He had spent the night in the hospital. For observation, the doctors told him. He'd taken quite a blow from the bumper of the speeding pickup. Slight concussion. Chipped rib and a bruise that ran from his shoulder to his hip and had already started to fade at the edges from black to shades of purple and yellow. His muscles felt as hard and stiff as rocks. The next morning Vicky had appeared at the hospital and driven him to the mission. She told him Skip Burrows was dead. The state patrol had picked up Deborah Boynton before she reached the outskirts of Riverton, and she had spent a night in jail. No charges would be brought against her. She had acted in the defense of others. She had saved their lives.

Vicky had brought the bishop, who rescued the old Toyota pickup from the hospital parking lot and drove it home. A cavalcade, he had thought, as they rolled through town and out onto the highway. Everything had looked vivid and alive in the hot June morning. The wild grasses in the open fields, bending in the sun, the cottonwood leaves swaying against the glass-clear blue sky.

They had driven in silence except for a few perfunctory remarks. Was he sure he was okay? He was fine. He should take it easy. So the doctor said. But he wouldn't, would he? No, he probably wouldn't. He could have been killed. She had thought he was dead. And she told him she didn't know what she would have done if that had been the case, how she would
be.

He had turned away from the anguish in her voice and stared at the scrub brush passing outside, grateful they were both alive.

In the residence, he had managed to get up the stairs to his bedroom, the bishop trailing behind as if he might catch him should Father John tumble backwards, and that would have been a sight—the frail, white-haired man trying to hold him up with nothing but an indomitable spirit and determination. Bishop Harry had insisted upon saying the early Mass the last two mornings, visiting parishioners, counseling people who wandered into the administration building. Father John should rest. An old man recovering from heart surgery was taking charge. It was as if the bishop and he had exchanged places.

He had gotten to the office early this morning. There was only so much resting he could stand, and there were always things that needed attention. He had spent a couple hours working on the budget for the summer.
Cosi fan tutte
played on the CD. Tourists meant the Sunday collections might be larger than usual, but he could never count on that. Better to try to adjust the expenditures to the average amount of money that came in. As if the budget at St. Francis Mission could ever be balanced. He tried to stop the laugh that rumbled through him and knocked about the sore places. Then he pushed himself to his feet and walked down the corridor.

Bishop Harry was curled over a book opened flat on the desk. The ceiling light glowed in the pink bald spot on top of his head. He glanced up, and Father John told him he was going out for a while. He gave what he thought was a friendly wave and headed back down the corridor before the bishop could voice the objections that flashed in his blue eyes.

Ten minutes later, Father John was back at Riverton Memorial, turning into the parking lot, and driving for the empty spot marked by the sign that said Clergy. Lou had called yesterday and said that Colin had regained consciousness. He was going to be okay. The mixture of relief and gladness in the old man's voice had been like the bass undercurrent in an aria. The boy would like to see him, Lou had said.

He made his way across the asphalt lot and let himself through the double glass doors, trying to ignore the stiffness and the bullets of pain that shot through him as he walked. A gray-haired woman with glasses that hung against her chest from a string of beads directed him to Colin Morningside's room. Third floor. Elevators straight ahead. He knew that. He thanked her and headed down the corridor.

Colin lay under a white blanket, blanched looking, thin, like a shadow of himself, eyes closed, eyelids trembling as if he were dreaming. A hose ran from beneath the blankets into a blue bag attached to the edge of the bed frame. Father John waited, not wanting to disturb whatever dream Colin was having. He felt a sense of the relief and gladness he had heard in Lou's voice. Colin was alive!

“Hey, Father.” The lids shot up, and Colin Morningside was looking at him out of eyes as black and opaque as river stones. “Thanks for coming.”

Father John set a hand on the young man's shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.” Father John could hear the same bravado in Colin's voice that he knew had leached into his own. “I been thinking about that dog of yours.”

“Walks-On?”

“Keeps going on three legs. I'm gonna have to figure out how to keep going with only one kidney.” Colin gave a little shrug. “Doc says it's all I need. Guess I shouldn't have taken off when the cops pulled me and Mike over. All I could think was how close we were to the border. We could've run into South Dakota and kept running to Pine Ridge. I seen an arroyo the other side of the highway, and I thought, If I can get there . . . Almost made it.”

Colin drew in a long breath that lifted the blanket over his chest. “When I seen them coming at me with handcuffs, I guess I went crazy.”

“It doesn't matter. You're alive and you're going to be okay.”

“Crazy Horse didn't get so lucky.” Colin turned his head and stared up at him a moment. “I knew Skip Burrows was no good. I tried to tell Angela. He was cheating on her with that Realtor in Riverton, but I couldn't get Angela to believe it. She was crazy about him. He was like meth or something that she couldn't get enough of. Couldn't get off it.” Colin blinked against the moisture filling his black eyes. “I loved that girl. That's what made me crazy, the cops thinking I murdered her. I felt”—he hesitated—“hopeless.”

Colin took a moment before he went on. “At least Mike's out of jail. He must've been crazy locked up behind bars. Kid never did anything to deserve that. County attorney dropped all charges against me and Mike. Even that busybody landlady at Angela's place decided she couldn't identify the man looking into Angela's windows. It was me, but when I left, Angela was alive. She looked good, sitting on that little sofa, like she had some peace, like she knew what was best for her.” He stopped and dabbed a finger at the corners of his eyes. “A lot of people must be surprised that it wasn't Indians who killed Garrett and . . .” He paused. Finally he said, “Angela. You could've been the one that got killed going after that bastard. Mike and I owe you and Vicky.”

“You don't owe us anything. Just go on with your lives.”

“I'm always going to miss her.”

Father John patted the young man's arm. “I understand,” he said. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”

* * *

HIS MUSCLES FELT
rigid, locking themselves down, Father John thought, as he drove back to the mission. He hated the waves of weakness that came over him. Rest. Rest. Rest. He could hear Bishop Harry echoing what the doctor had said. He didn't want to rest.

He made a left turn in front of the billboard that loomed over Seventeen-Mile Road with St. Francis Mission in white letters against a blue background of sky and mountains, and drove through the cottonwoods. The branches scraped the top of the pickup. As he swung onto Circle Drive, he saw Vicky's Ford, black hair above the steering wheel, hand pressing a cell against her ear, shoulders rounded into whatever conversation she was having. She glanced over as he pulled in beside her. It took him a moment to convince his muscles to lift him out of the pickup. She was already at his door, reaching out a hand to help him. Dear Lord, he was an invalid.

“I thought you were supposed to stay home,” she said.

“I went to see Colin.”

Vicky nodded. She knew him, he was thinking. He walked alongside her across the gravel, up the stairs, and through the heavy wooden door that, he realized, she was holding for him. He told her that Colin was going to be okay. He'd probably be in the hospital for a while.

She didn't say anything, and he figured she'd already had the news. The moccasin telegraph had been in overdrive the last three days. He motioned her to one of the side chairs and dropped down beside her. “Coffee?” he said. “I can make some.”

She laughed. “I doubt you could get up. I'll make it.”

Father John watched her go over to the little table behind the door, spoon coffee grounds into the container, and carry the glass pot into the corridor. Her heels made a tap tap sound on the old wood floor. The sound of running water filtered through the walls, then she was back. Setting the pot in place, pushing a button. By the time she sat down, a thin smell of brewing coffee had worked around them.

“The Montana state patrol arrested Osborne and Veraggi yesterday,” she said. “They were in the RV, on the way to the site of the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Planning to take part in the reenactment, as if they hadn't killed a man. The police found the murder weapon in the RV. A twenty-two Ruger LCR. I understand Veraggi was drunk. After he sobered up he claimed Osborne had pulled the trigger and killed Garrett. He had tried to ride close in to give him cover. Funny, Osborne says Veraggi pulled the trigger. They'll both face charges of homicide and conspiracy to commit homicide. They'll be brought back to Wyoming today. How did you know they were the killers?”

Father John told her what had happened at the Washita, how part of Custer's command, led by Joel Elliott, had been surrounded and killed by hostile Indians, and how Custer, even though he knew about the attack, had refused to go to their aid. Benteen and Reno had been friends with Elliott. They hated Custer for what he had failed to do. “When I talked to Garrett's widow, she was dressed like Libbie Custer. She told me how Osborne and Veraggi hated her husband. She said they were jealous of him and blamed him for things that had happened. I thought she was talking about Benteen and Reno. It wasn't until Skip showed up at the ranch that I realized she had been talking about Osborne and Veraggi and about something that happened in Kuwait. How is she doing?”

“She's in Montana getting ready for the reenactment. Calls three times a day about the money. She isn't the only one trying to be repaid from the Granite Group. It will take the probate judge months to figure out where Skip stashed the money, liquidate what's left, and pay the investors. I suspect they will get pennies on the dollar.”

Vicky jumped to her feet, poured two mugs of coffee, and handed him one. “I do have some good news,” she said, dropping onto the chair again. The coffee was hot and strong, the way he liked it, but she knew that.

“Darleen Longshot called me after the Riverton police found her rig in the trailer park across the highway. They arrested her and turned her over to the tribal police. She's been charged with attempted assault on an officer. Fortunately, the incident occurred on the rez. More than likely, the tribal judge will consider the extenuating circumstances, the fact she was distraught over the possibility of her son being charged with murders he didn't commit. I suspect the judge will give her a suspended sentence, require some community service, and warn her to stay out of trouble. Won't be hard. Darleen has never been in trouble.”

“How's Mike?”

“Traumatized, but he'll be okay. He's finding his way. He's the best horseman on the rez, and now everybody knows.” Vicky lifted her mug and took a long drink. “The dare ride shouldn't have ended in murder, but what the warriors did was something, and Mike was the one who taught them how to do it.” She drained her mug, stood up, and set the mug on the table. Then moved toward the door, streams of sunlight floating through the corridor behind her.

He had a sinking feeling, another wave of weakness coming on. He tried to look away, but he couldn't take his eyes from her. He would not see her like this again for a long while, just the two of them. Maybe he would spot her on the other side of the powwow grounds, a group of Arapahos watching the dancers, Vicky in the center of the group. Walking down Main Street in Lander, Adam Lone Eagle walking on the curbside. He would hear how she had convinced the tribal judge to show mercy on Darleen Longshot, or managed to get the charges reduced for some Arapaho who had gotten drunk and wrecked a pickup, or handled the final adoption decree for grandparents caring for grandkids whose parents had left. A hundred different cases. She would never stop.

He realized she had paused at the door and was slowly turning back. “I can't help thinking about Angela,” Vicky said. “How she wanted to get away from the rez, and yet she couldn't. Not really. She kept being drawn back. She was trying to find her way between two worlds.” He knew she was speaking of herself. “Moving across borders, trying to find her own place.” She lifted both hands. “Longing to be home and, at the same time, longing to be away.”

“Maybe that is in all of us.”

“Not in you,” she said. “I don't think it is in you.” She smiled, and he was reminded of the way her black eyes lit up when she smiled. “I should get back to the office.”

“I'll walk you out,” he said as she started to move into the corridor.

She glanced back. “Please don't. I want to think of you here.”